“As you know,” George said—I really didn’t know, but he humored me—“the extradimensional region we occupy, the pocket dimension that makes up the interior of the ship, is tethered to the vessel but not constrained by it. Most likely, given the observed data and our simulations, the demon will not be able to target or sense us here.
“Before or after our next jump—your choice—you will need to enter the ship’s physical manifestation on the primary material plane.”
Right. I would leave the extradimensional ship to go into the physical ship.
Not that both weren’t physical, but only one was directly a part of the larger outside universe.
“Do I need to paint a big target on myself, or do the straps crossing my chest from the bandolier and chainsaw harness work?”
George was having none of my sarcasm.
“They will suffice.
“We may be in for a long wait after we jump. In order for you to be at your best, I would recommend only staying on the ship after you have rested and eaten.
“If you need to take a break, sleep, or eat, return to the pocket dimension until you are ready to go back out.”
I sighed. Being eaten by a demon was starting to sound like hard work.
Especially if the demon didn’t cooperate.
I couldn’t say I was looking forward to being eaten.
But I was not looking forward to waiting to be eaten, either.
“Don’t worry, George. As much as I want to be engulfed by ship-devouring hellspawn, I want it to be on my own terms. I won’t leave myself in a worse predicament than I’m already in—or will soon be.”
“I am glad to hear it, sir. You will need your full faculties, limited as those may be, to survive.”
“Very funny, George. Look at you trying to jest. If we survive this, I am going to ask Fluxcoil to give you a body so you can see what it feels like to put yourself at risk.
“Perhaps then you’ll take this a bit more seriously.”
Said the orc who was joking when he was being serious.
“I am merely trying to lighten the mood and help you feel ready by teasing you, sir. You engage in this behavior all the time with your friends.”
“Fair enough, George. Tell you what: all jokes aside, I’d like for you to have a body. Just an option now, nothing you have to commit to. Not so you understand what it means to risk yourself, but so that I can have you as a partner in full. Because I consider you a friend.”
“That’s most thoughtful and kind of you, sir.”
“Think nothing of it,” I laughed.
George was quiet for some time before he finally replied, “You are quite possibly the nicest orcanda in the macroverse, Grak. Background research confirms this.”
I snorted with laughter again. “Well, that’s not sayin’ much, George. The nicest orc in the universe could still be meaner than a starving, tortured ogre fed a strict meatless diet of uncooked root vegetables.”
“I have set my jokes aside as well, sir.”
“Well, if we’re gonna set all our cards on the table, you’re the nicest Abstract I’ve ever known.”
I didn’t tell George he was just about the only Abstract I’d ever known.
Some cards, you do not set on the table.
“Anything else, George, before we jump?”
“If these are our last moments together, I would like you to know that I have enjoyed our time together and that you have helped me become the entity I am today.”
What could I say to that?
Although my first inclination was to say something snippy, I decided to keep it simple. “Thank you, George.”
I could tell he positively beamed.
“But, as far as orcs go, getting all mushy before you put your life on the line is generally not the best way to get psyched up for combat.
“So, next time we’re about to do something stupid, let’s try to light something on fire, pound our chests, and paint ourselves in blood. That will set the tone.”
“Understood, sir.”
I smiled, revealing the full set of my jagged teeth. “But thanks anyway.”
Somehow, George beamed even brighter.
37
“Step through this door, and you will enter the original ship.”
I stood in front of a nondescript door inset beside the torture area clearly mislabeled as an exercise room. George assured me that all I had to do was walk through and I would arrive in a cleverly disguised section of the ship. I could wait there or move elsewhere as I saw fit.
Although I knew the door would not port me to another ANGST lair, my palms broke out in a cold sweat nonetheless in anticipation of a joyous surprise waiting on the other side of the door.
I did love surprises.
Particularly the life-threatening kind.
“When you are in position, I will initiate the jump to the Lucaesian Quadrant. Once we are there, I will do my best to let you know if I detect any anomalies that may be associated with the demon.
“We will arrive near the space station, since it has seen the highest concentration of demonic activity. This should increase our chances that the demon will take note of you.
“We will also broadcast across several transmission vectors in order to draw attention to ourselves.
“Are you ready?”
Could I say no?
If I did, could I still go to the Wizarding tournament?
“I’m ready to be done hearing instructions!
“I’m ready to smash some faces!”
Or the demonic equivalent.
I knew I should be more psyched up for this, especially after my earlier admonitions, but I really was not all that excited about being living bait for an infernal from the nether realms.
I was, however, amped about the prospect of smashing faces even if there were no faces to be smashed.
In truth, I was an equal opportunity smasher.
After a quick gear check, I walked through the door.
Blinking, my eyes watering from the blinding flash of light that had awaited me as I stepped forward, my hands groping outward to steady myself, I took a moment to orient myself.
I could feel walls all around.
There were shelves.
Lots of shelves.
And many objects lining them.
My eyes slowly cleared.
“Really?
“Are you serious, George?”
I was standing in a cleaning closet. Unlike the weapons cache, the closet was not the size of a warehouse. There was barely enough room for me to stand. Standing, in fact, was complicated by the buckets, mops, brooms, bottles, brushes, and other assorted cleaning and maintenance items located on the floor or stacked on the cabinets lining the walls.
“No one would suspect a portal leading to the ship to be in a closet filled with cleaning supplies, sir!
“If anything, anyone onboard the ship with nefarious purposes would know you would never enter such a place, so all interest would be diverted from the closet allowing ship access.”
I turned over a bucket and sat down, being careful not to get the chainsaw caught on the mop hanging behind me.
No one would suspect a cleaning closet on an orc’s ship, either.
“What does that matter, George? No one other than us is here, right?”
“True.” George’s answer was a bit reluctant but came eventually.
“And you can control where and when to give access to the rest of the ship, correct?”
“Yes.” George’s tone quieted.
“And to whom you give access?”
“That is correct.” George’s voice approached a whisper.
“And you are intelligent enough to know when to use discretion?”
There was a long pause. “Yes…”
“Then, why did you not use it now, George?”
“I thought it might be funny…”
“To put me in a cleaning closet we don’t even need or use?” My
voice rose as I spoke. “To risk me blowing myself and the ship up by putting me in a confined space cluttered with junk when I am armed more heavily than a dwarven Dreadnaught?”
“A bit…”
“To risk our mission on a juvenile prank?”
George gulped.
I laughed, turning the tables. “Well, it was pretty funny. Ill-timed, but funny—which makes it funnier.”
I heard an audible sigh of relief.
“Now, if you would be kind enough to open the door, George, I can’t see how to get out of here without crashing through the walls.”
The wall behind me popped open.
“Thanks.”
The room outside the supply closet looked like the inside of an old, rusty, dented trash can. Trash was not exactly absent, but I had the feeling more had been around recently.
In abundance.
The closet itself, as it turned out, was an even bigger joke than putting me in it. As I looked around the room, it was obvious that nothing in that supply closet had ever been seriously used on this ship.
A giant viewscreen curved across the wall opposite the supply closet. The screen was broken and had holes in numerous places. Spiderweb cracks played prominently across its surface. There were two padded chairs bolted forlornly to the floor facing the viewscreen. These chairs were obviously intended to strap criminals in for questioning, because no one would want to use them to pilot the ship or to sit on for an extended period.
Aside from the door to the supply closet, other portals led away from the command deck.
I had little interest in exploring the rooms further, knowing they would be as exciting as the junk heap I now found myself in.
On the whole, the ship was perfect.
In fact, it was an orc’s dream.
There was junk, there were places to sit uncomfortably to complain, and there was no need to take care of any of it. The only things lacking were objects to smash, but the ship seemed to serve that purpose nicely, as shown by the dented walls and smashed viewscreen.
Anyone boarding this portion of the ship would have little doubt that it belonged to an orc.
Fluxcoil and crew had done an excellent job.
“Feels like home already,” I said, kicking away some spare debris on the floor as I walked over to one of the command chairs. Stuffing had been torn out of one, and the other looked like its interior supports had collapsed. Both chairs looked so inviting, I could hardly choose between them.
Yes, much griping and hatemongering could be done here.
I felt more orcish already.
I plopped down on the chair that looked like it had been shredded by a bear-sized wildcat and kicked my feet out, resting my heels on a convenient crushed can.
“What can you tell me, George? How’s it look out there?”
George did not rely on the dilapidated viewscreen. Instead, an immersive image of the region surrounded me, completely blocking out the room’s worn peripheral display.
If it hadn’t been for the junk on the floor and the ratty chairs, I might think I was in a nice vessel.
A region of diffuse light with bright, irregular filaments played across the imagery.
Then this field went away, and I was left seeing only emptiness unobscured by the haze.
I turned and looked around and could see the space station behind us, a large mass of irregular projections, angles, and linked components. The station reminded me of a compromise: it was made up of many things people wanted, but no one was happy with how everything came together. I could have made a nicer-looking space station with the spare parts floating around the floor of my ship.
I could not see any other vessels nearby, but space was large and we were not. George would be able to do a show and tell if needed.
“What am I seeing, George?”
“We are in a diffuse cloud that the space station harvested for fuel until fairly recently. The initial colors you saw are a visualization of this region’s gases.”
A few small blips appeared, scattered over the screen, indicating nearby ships. Names and imagery appeared above each ship: Dorcus, Aline, 48935.2wxZ, Gunta, and others, along with some craft having abstract symbols, weird phantasmagorias, and swaths of dancing color for designations, all dependent upon the species and naming conventions.
“In addition to the station, these are ships that the demon has attacked.”
There were more vessels than I had expected. In addition to failed rescue vehicles, other ships had been coming to the region not only to refuel or harvest fuel but to salvage derelict ships.
The demon had been busy.
“Should we investiga—”
A wash of darkness engulfed me, and I said no more.
38
Knives stabbed me everywhere.
Cruel grinding jaws tore from all sides.
Seething tendrils surged and corded—twisting, tangling, pulling, and crushing from every direction.
The darkness was alive with pain.
I roared in outrage and defiance, tearing myself free even as more unseen appendages roped me in, rending and tearing.
I jerked my right hand to my waist and felt frantically along the cool metal of my chain belt, groping with enlivened fingers and the entirety of my awareness, all my concentration dwelling in my hands, willing them forward against the pull of the slashing bindings.
Straining with all my might, I reached the powersaw’s handle with my fingertips and grasped it with everything I had, then flicked the weapon loose from my belt.
The darkness bloomed with fractured blades of segmented light.
Twirling and whipping violently like the demon I was in, I lashed furiously back and forth with the powersaw, the blade’s silent edge racing in tandem with the adrenaline-pumping thrill of my surging heart, cutting my way free of the ravenous bindings.
With my left hand temporarily freed, I snapped the helmet’s visor in place, and detail blossomed full and terrible, a seething nightmare of visceral hunger. Thrown left and right by violent undulating movements of the massive demon that had swallowed me, I struggled to stand inside the demon’s titanic gullet. Instead of teeth, the entire inside of the infernal’s maw was lined with thrashing, slicing, serrated-toothed feeding tubes, each more vicious than an undersea snake and ugly enough to fill lampreys with revulsion.
The demon’s esophagus was huge, a heaving cavern alive with wave upon wave of filamentous-toothed craws extending voraciously toward me.
Anything unfortunate enough to end up in this thing’s mouth would be torn to shreds in a tentacular feeding frenzy.
Anything that was not lucky enough to have an ALOHA shirt and pants protecting it.
I was breathing now, thanks to the shirt, for the collar had drawn up over my mouth even as I struggled to get free of the feeding tentacles. In my haste to cut through all the blood-crazed-toothed tubeworms, I had forgotten to put on the respirator. Though I was battered and bruised, the ALOHA apparel had also saved me from being torn to shreds.
I leapt and spun, sweeping the shimmering powersaw before me. Masses of severed twitching appendages gasped, gulped, and thrashed like caught fish, squelching beneath my feet and flying through the air as I cut them to limp shreds. The spongy floor of the demon’s throat was thick with the oozing ichor of the eviscerated viscera.
Despite the fury of my blade, the hellish tendrils kept coming, stretching elastically from every angle. Relentless, the powersaw chewed through all comers, splattering me with stinking slime and demonic effluent. With my left hand, still sawing as more tendrils extended toward me, I pulled the grenade-laden bandolier over my head. Holding the belt in hand, using my teeth as best I could through the ALOHA fabric, I finally managed to pull the pin of one of the grenades.
With a roar of triumph, I hurled the bandolier as far as I could into the undulating darkness.
The darkness was not dark for long.
A mighty concussive blast threw me off my feet as the v
isor darkened protectively, blocking my view of the explosive destruction.
As I hurtled through the air, then smashed into the squishy floor in the thick of as-yet-unmowed appendages, a terrible psychic scream reverberated through my mind, burning like the fires I could now see coruscating through the lightening visor. Thankfully, I was already down, or I would have been knocked down again.
One half of the demon had been blown away from the other.
The other half—the one I was lucky enough not to be inside—was raging like a house afire, falling away into the surrounding darkness as it burned to extinction.
Groggy, my mind thick from the demon’s scream after the lethal array of Paratechnological bombs had blown it apart, I struggled to work my arm with the powersaw to keep the tendrils at bay.
I was only partially successful.
Screaming in indescribable pain, the demonic cilia caught me once more. This time, the ALOHA provided little protection, for the tentacles were now ethereal, out of phase with the physical. Their tooth-filled, circular orifices passed directly through the ALOHA and were tearing into me, whipping and writhing frenetically in a feeding frenzy.
Except the orc-eating cilia were not biting into me; they were cutting into some part of me that was equally insubstantial, sapping vitality from me with each bite.
And it hurt like nothing I had ever experienced.
Despite their insubstantiality, the powersaw still cut the frenzied cilia down like diseased crops ready to be razed.
I sliced on.
Hell-bent on destruction, through the mounting waves of pain and enervating weakness, I came to an understanding.
I had been such an idiot.
Even more so than usual.
If I had had a free hand, I would have smacked myself.
Silly.
Getting consumed by a demon while lounging in a not-so-comfy chair will do that to an orc.
Being enveloped in ghostly, life-leaching tentacles will further cloud an orc’s judgment.
Struggling mightily to stand, slicing my way to my feet with far more difficulty than I had expected, I engaged the sentry drone, underarm assault rifle, and shoulder-mounted cannon.
Grak_Orc on Vacation Page 14
