Grak_Orc on Vacation

by Joseph J. Bailey

  I could no longer think of ways to exact my revenge on George because I was too busy worrying about all the ways I could die.

  With an unholy rush of air and a mind-numbing jolt, Noenun’s cave whooshed by, and I was propelled into the air—Unea’s first surface-to-air orc rocket. I could see Alyon in the distance and willed with all my heart that I would reach it.

  Safely.

  Jaunts across town by Cretus were starting to look good.

  If I survived the trip to the skyship, in lieu of whatever arrangements home George had made, I was just going to jump off the island and fall to the earth.

  It would probably be much safer.

  As I rocketed through the air, passing commuters leisurely banking through the sky on winged airfoils and passengers luxuriating within the cabins of sleek airships, I bemoaned the empty wastelands that were their comfortable, protected lives.

  Their dearth, and my near death, was my gain.

  I was certain they envied my daredevil spirit and the exuberance with which I embraced life.

  They most certainly were not laughing at me or recording my flight for humorous posts in the dataverse.

  At least I tried to look on the bright side.

  With the wind rushing by so quickly, it was hard to look at all.

  If I somehow survived the impact with the rocky bedrock underpinning Alyon or the shield protecting her, I would have George suggest to Noenun that he give his passengers goggles.

  That way, they could see their approaching deaths as they hurtled through the sky with nothing between them and the ground except an ungodly amount of momentum.

  As it turned out, I did not die. In fact, before long, just as I reached the apex of my flight, to be exact, the soothing voice of the Construct spoke to me. “Citizen Grak, you are approaching your desired landing vector. Prepare for arrival.”

  What did I desire about this vector?

  The only thing I desired was for this vector to end.

  “You will arrive at the Alyon docks in moments. Is there anything you need upon arrival?”

  I did not bother replying, not that I could anyway.

  “We hope you enjoyed your flight!”

  We?

  The Construct was in on this too?

  My Abstract and the city’s governing intelligence?

  Was this some kind of test to see if I could survive being eaten by an interdimensional demon?

  Right now, being eaten was sounding pretty good.

  Where was Cretus when I needed him?

  If I could have gotten Cretus and the ship-eating demon together with me on this little joyride, all my dreams would have come true.

  Sadly, those dreams were deferred to another day.

  “Grak, prepare for landing.”

  I would have offered a few choice words for the Construct, too, but demonic spidersilk makes a surprisingly effective gag.

  22

  I was pulled onto the docks ignominiously by an invisible field of force.

  If I had to guess, it was a field of concentrated humiliation.

  However, there was really no shame in being trussed up and launched through the sky against my will. It happens to packages all the time.

  As a cloud of sentry drones deftly cut the fibrous bindings off me, I summoned my inner parcel nature and remained calm and at peace with the ways of shipping.

  Embarking on a—perhaps justified—rampage would only get me shipped off somewhere else…with a ride equally enjoyable.

  While I dusted myself off, not because I needed to—the drones had done an amazingly thorough job—but because I felt that I needed to have something to do until the Citizens who had watched my unwrapping finally dispersed, I took stock of where I was on Alyon’s docks.

  The great curving sweep of the docks rolled away from me to either side. Downward led to yet more docks and Alyon’s substratum, numerous defenses, and many stores. Upward led to the empyrean city itself with its many sparkling avenues, transdimensional parks and districts, and Alldrassil, the city’s overarching celestial tree and heart.

  I wanted none of either.

  I wanted to find Fluxcoil and then be home, where I could mope in my cave in peace.

  “George, you misfire in your father’s processing arrays, how do I get to Fluxcoil from here?

  “And, why, for that matter, should I not deactivate you now and send you back to the Construct for repurposing?”

  “You really had a bad time on your trip?” George sounded a bit hurt and confused.

  I growled, “If you call getting spun up in a demonic spider’s web and launched across the sky with no guidance, control, or restraint fun, then I had a blast.

  “If you call it as insane as I am for trusting your good judgment, then I would have been just as well off trusting my fate to Cretus.”

  “My deepest apologies, Grak.”

  “You may call me ‘sir’, Abstract. Otherwise, do not call.

  “I will find Fluxcoil myself.”

  If George responded, I did not bother to listen.

  There. I felt much better. Acting like a total jerk, especially when justified, is a great way to feel better.

  For a time.

  Usually, a very short one.

  Until your conscience, if you are unlucky enough to have one, kicks in and lets you know the unnecessary damage you have done to someone when things could have been handled much more positively.

  Forget that no faces were smashed, merely feelings.

  But smashing feelings can hurt more than smashing faces.

  I know, because I have done quite a bit of both.

  While I let my pride cool down and gave a bit of time for my ego to settle enough to apologize, I asked the nearest person, a multi-limbed lizardman, which way led to the Customs House.

  I could have just as easily asked the Construct, but I didn’t want anything to do with it right now, either.

  The lizardman hissed something unintelligible that I interpreted to mean ‘down’. Taking his indecipherable gestures as the answer to my question, I followed his suggestion and went down.

  Besides, going down would give me a shorter fall back to the ground when I jumped.

  23

  I wove through the throngs of visitors, merchants, crews unloading cargo, officials on official and unofficial business, tourists, adventurers, seekers, and people looking almost as lost as I did as I meandered slowly down and around Alyon’s elegant docks.

  On one side, the great rock wall of Alyon soared upward, bedecked by a crowning wall and lush vegetation. Openings within the wall hinted at undefined interior spaces, docking bays, and defensive arrangements.

  On the other side, past the sculpted stone of the docks, open sky leapt away to a distant blue horizon, one filled with milling ships from across the multiverse.

  Any of those ships could be the one set to take me into the void to meet the demon terrorizing the interdimensional spaceways.

  Between me and the ships hovering or flying through the air, other vessels were tethered to the docks themselves. No two were alike. This diversity in shape and form always amazed me, for this represented the diversity of species—and views—present on Alyon.

  I tried to guess which ship might be mine, mostly by deciding which one looked the least voidworthy, as I walked. By the time the Customs House finally came into view, I had narrowed my options down to a ship I could only describe as a floating bathtub encased in a semi-opaque shower curtain of force and one that looked like a ball of yarn made from random bits of fuzzy, rainbow-colored fibers.

  Either one looked worthy of sacrifice to a demon and unsafe enough for Paratechnologists to entrust my life in as I hurtled through space.

  Both would be tops on the list of choices of vessels for synthetic intelligences eager to gauge the range of my reactions to horrendously dangerous flights.

  If either was offered, unless its features were unexpectedly remarkable, I would turn it down on the spot.
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  “I have alerted Fluxcoil to your arrival, Grak.” The Construct’s warm voice filled a space only I could hear.

  “And after the way you and George treated me on my trip here, I am of a mind to alert you that I am going home.”

  I didn’t know how frequently people spoke their minds to the Construct, in part because few could lay much blame at its virtual feet, but I had no qualms expressing my anger or disappointment.

  “I understand your frustrations and apologize. I believe the accommodations we have made will help allay some of your concerns. If not, you have but to discuss your needs with me further.

  “We are very grateful to have you as part of our august city, Grak, and are thankful you give so much to her protection.”

  The Construct’s sincere thanks went quite a long way to reduce my ire.

  Having one’s ego cossetted will work wonders in getting rid of hard feelings.

  Or so I hear.

  “Enough with the cheese, already. You’re laying it on thick. I’ll hang around.”

  The Construct laughed, and I laughed with it.

  I needed to tease our city’s governing superintelligence more often.

  “Where’s Fluxcoil?”

  “He is on his way. Until next time, Grak, be well and blessed by the Light.”

  Not about to be outdone, I replied, “May your datastreams be deep and your processing pure.”

  The Construct laughed again.

  My grin was still on my face when Fluxcoil emerged from the Customs House.

  “Howdy, Grak!”

  Fluxcoil waved his arms, signaling me like some wild tropical bird trying to get the attention of a potential suitor. Of course, he made most any tropical bird look decidedly understated in their plumage, for Fluxcoil’s was out of this world, literally.

  Today, Fluxcoil had gone nova.

  And by nova, I mean he had dressed in a miniature star that had been contained around him after going nova.

  Or something like it.

  Fluxcoil stood surrounded by a halo of superheated plasma, filamentous whorls of light, and an orbiting army of drones bedecked like planets and asteroids.

  Strangely enough, the superheated explosion of his core had done nothing to burn off his forehead-spanning eyebrows.

  Perhaps they were solar flares erupting from the star suspended within the nova’s core.

  “Glad to see you!”

  “Glad I survived the journey here,” I grumbled.

  “Rough trip?” Fluxcoil’s concern reached his eyebrows, which risked getting caught up in some of the jettisoned star stuff floating around him as he lifted his brows.

  “If it’s not Cretus, it’s something else.”

  “Really?” Fluxcoil’s smile told me he knew more than he was letting on.

  My flights around the city were, and are, the stuff of legend.

  And humor.

  They are, in fact, part of my fame and add to my universal appeal.

  In fact, recordings of my epic crashes, escapades, and embarrassments have circulated far and wide throughout the macroverse.

  I have even been invited to other worlds to give reenactments of some of my most spectacular impacts.

  Others have offered me the opportunity to travel the multiverse on a one-orc crashing tour.

  I have politely turned them all down.

  But that did not, apparently, stop my Abstract and others from setting me up to perform new acts of aerial self-destruction.

  For everyone’s amusement but mine.

  Stardom is its own reward.

  “Yes. Really.

  “If I were not a reformed orc, this might be the time for a city-wide face-smashing rampage.”

  “We are all most appreciative of your reformation, Grak, and all the face-smashing you have done on the city’s behalf.

  “Why don’t we go inside to discuss more face-smashing?”

  I smiled.

  Any time was a good time to talk about face-smashing.

  In a city full of interdimensional trade, the Customs House is a trade hub. This is not exactly obvious going inside, because the interior resembles the dome of heaven more than a place of business, but I cannot fault the Paratechnologists in their interior design. I enjoy walking inside and feeling like I have stepped outside.

  We strolled through the clouds to a spot that appeared much like any other—suspended high above the city below, with nothing between us and the earth but our view down.

  “Have a seat, Grak.”

  The air coalesced behind me in the form of a chair as Fluxcoil summoned a dome of iridescent seclusion around us.

  “I have a few choice items for your journey with me. Others are on the ship for you to discover.

  “Regardless of the outcome of the trip ahead, these items will all be yours to keep and dispose of how you will.”

  I liked the thought of that. A proper disposal, such as one accompanied by explosions, was often as enjoyable as the initial acquiring.

  I grunted in reply. Fluxcoil had goods to show, and I was not about to get in his way with conversation.

  Besides, a choice grunt with the proper intonation could be far more eloquent than any words.

  “Brace yourself and prepare to be amazed!”

  I liked a good show and appreciated Flux’s direction here.

  He had my attention.

  Reaching into one of many pockets I knew were hidden by the stellar ejecta, he withdrew a shirt and pants along with some sandals.

  They were just clothes.

  Nothing special.

  Fluxcoil must have seen the disappointment on my face, for he said, “Do not fret, Grak, for I give you the ALOHA shirt and pants!”

  He waved his hand over the clothes briefly, like a stage magician preparing for some trick. The shirt changed color, going from a drab tan to a lustrous blue bedecked with stylized flowers, exactly like one of the designs we had passed on initially.

  “The ALOHA shirt and the accompanying trousers are allomorphic lightweight omnifunctional high-efficiency armor. They adapt to your needs, going from resort casual to formal with but a thought.”

  That would certainly be handy on a vacation.

  I wouldn’t even need to pack.

  “Better yet, they will adapt to your setting as needed, protecting you from the elements and hostile environments.”

  No need for a rain jacket, either.

  Even better.

  “You will look good and be safe, whether undersea or in the void of space.”

  The clothes could go with me wherever I wanted to vacation.

  “The nanocomposite of the fabric will repair itself if damaged and can even facilitate ongoing communications with your Abstract.”

  No need for a sewing kit.

  “In combat, it will help protect you from cuts, impacts, explosions, and other potentially damaging forces.”

  They must be wrinkle-free as well, so there was no need for an iron.

  I would probably only need to take a toothbrush.

  I wouldn’t even need a suitcase!

  “There are additional features as well that I will leave to you to discover.”

  There must be a few secret traveler pockets to store foreign currency.

  Handy, indeed.

  “Here you go, Grak.” Fluxcoil passed the folded clothes to me.

  “Thanks!” I said, taking the proffered bundle.

  “I have something else for you as well.”

  I raised my eyebrows in expectation.

  Fluxcoil retrieved a shiny metallic band from within a hidden pocket on his nebulous sleeve. “This is your return band. Wear it on your wrist. When activated, it will teleport you either home or to your ship, depending on your need.

  “Be forewarned. Since magic tends not to work very well when cast directly on you, the band may bring back a small area around you, with you at the center inside. So, whatever is within a little over arm’s length could return with you.


  “Just let the band know you’re ready to come home or to the ship, and that’s where you will go.”

  “Thanks, Flux!” I said excitedly as I put the proffered band on my wrist. It was cool to the touch and surprisingly flexible.

  For metal.

  “But wait, there’s more!”

  I felt like Fluxcoil was selling me something when I had no need to buy.

  I did not want to ruin his fun, so I played along.

  “Yoctoerg and Kordeun both thought you might need this or something like it, especially if you have to fight or cut your way out of the demon.

  “Kordeun said, and I quote, ‘He won’t be able ta bite and claw his way outta everythin’. ’Sides, his chain doesn’t cut.’”

  Fluxcoil smiled proudly and handed me what looked like a shimmering hollow rectangle. It was about the size of my fist and had a space my fingers could easily fit through. “Attach it to one of the carabiners on your chain belt. If you need to use it, just grab it with your hand and squeeze. It will conform to your grip. It is also attuned to you, so no one else can use it.”

  “What is it? A stress gripper?”

  I had no idea what this thing was, other than the handle to something.

  “Just squeeze, and you’ll see. Squeeze again when you’re done.

  “But squeeze away from me.”

  I squeezed.

  The handle…unfolded.

  Planes of light reordered themselves, lambent origami bending and rearranging of their own volition.

  Brum-brum-brum-brum-brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

  The sound of chainsaws danced gloriously in my mind.

  A frackin’ powersaw!

  I’d only heard stories about these beauties.

  These things were like chainsaws hyped up on demonic steroids.

  “I modified Kordeun’s design a bit. Can’t have you lugging a giant chainsaw everywhere, but your powersaw will cut through most anything dumb enough to get in your way.

  “Including demonhide.”

  I needed to offer to get eaten by demons more often!

  And I had thought my chain belt was cool.

  A powersaw was the coolest weapon in the macroverse!

  Fear the saw, demon!

  My grin was so wide, my teeth smiled. “Now, this is a weapon!”