Grunts

by Mary Gentle

“Good!” the big orc grunted.

  “That is no way to speak of your stepchildren, Ashnak! I want us all to be one big happy family.”

  The orc seated himself on the turf, tucking one BDU combat-trousered leg under the other. He reached out and drew Magda into a powerful embrace. The pungent musk of orc filled her nostrils. The duchess squeaked. Eventually, seated in his lap as he leaned against a lime tree trunk, she heard him say:

  “That was your news at the Orcball game? The Dark Lord’s return?”

  “I wished to prepare you for any possible meeting. Little passes in Graagryk that isn’t my business—my contacts brought me word of His return. Why has He come to my city?”

  “Why?” Ashnak’s voice vibrated through their flesh where she leaned against him. “Because He’s gone absolutely bugfuck, that’s why! He’s out of his fucking tree!”

  The orc marine rested his elbows on the scuffed knees of his urban camouflage combat trousers and leaned his heavy jaw against her neck. Watching Lugashaldim do his best to discipline the Graagryk HQ, the orc said, “Have you ever heard of a thing called an election?”

  The Duchess Magda, whose experience spanned several continents and a number of species, frowned. The crow’s-feet deepened around her eyes. “No. What manner of beast is it?”

  Ashnak coughed. If he had not been the General of the Orc Marines, she might have thought him embarrassed.

  “The Sable Eminence explained it to me. Apparently it’s a method of ruling a kingdom. You give everyone what they call a vote. Then, when you have commands, the people cast these votes to decide whether they’ll obey. The Lord of Night and Terror says they also get to cast these votes to decide who’ll be the kingdom’s ruler. And that’s called an election.”

  Magdelene Amaryllis Judith Brechie van Nassau thought about it. “‘Casting’ votes. A vote will be a kind of stone, then? Certainly a missile of some sort…”

  She abruptly stood up, removing herself from Ashnak’s embrace, and began to brush down her dress. Cheeks heated, she snapped, “The whole thing’s ridiculous! Think about it, you dumb orc. Give everyone one of these votes, and where are you? With every dirty peasant thinking she has as great a right as me to decide what is best for Graagryk! It’s…it’s immoral! Why—why, a duchess might even lose an election!”

  She paced up and down rapidly, heels indenting the leaf-scattered turf. Over the noise and bustle of the orc HQ making itself minimally tidy, she said, “His Sable Eminence’s mind must have snapped completely! Samhain was such a blow, it’s driven Him into sanity! This is no way to bring about the Dark Domination!”

  “The information is classified,” Ashnak said gloomily. “I’m not telling the marines about votes. It will only give them ideas.”

  The halfling and the orc stared at each other for some minutes. A sergeant major bawled orders across the compound and squads of marines doubled in all directions, parking the APCs in straight lines and removing the bodies from the assault course. Sunset coloured the sky above the Inland Sea salmon-pink and violet. Evening lizards called.

  Magda narrowed her eyes against the levelling light.

  “Orcs,” she said. Ashnak raised his head, teeth and eyes gleaming.

  Magda continued, “Orcs are tolerated in the Southern Kingdoms only on sufferance. My dear, yours is a very small company, and its presence here is totally dependent on your ability to run an arms industry. Come to think of it, His Nightmare Excellence may be a very good person to have on our side.”

  The orc marine got to his feet, belts of ammunition shifting with his muscles. He removed the pipe-weed cigar from his mouth, looked at it, and threw it away. He removed his cap and scratched at his bald, leathery skull.

  “He’s going to the capital of the south to talk to the Light Council—about elections.” The orc bared brass-capped fangs incredulously. “Why He thinks they won’t call down every battery of Light magic they’ve got on His head beats me.”

  For the first time, Ashnak’s bass-baritone voice altered.

  “I don’t consider disobeying the Dark Lord an acceptable level of risk. He could wipe out every orc in the marines just by snapping His fingers…His orders are, I’m to bring a platoon and escort Him to the capital, Ferenzia. We leave tomorrow.”

  Magda stepped forward and threw her arms around Ashnak’s hips, burying her face against his web-belt and hard-muscled gut. Taloned hands gently stroked her fur-short hair.

  She heard footsteps approaching and did not move. A creaking, deathly voice spoke.

  “General Ashnak, sir. Satellite communications are back online. Sir, I really think you ought to listen to the situation reports that are coming in.”

  4

  The fort sweltered under the equatorial sun.

  “Excuse me, sir.” A polite orcish voice spoke in Barashkukor’s ear. “The second recon patrol’s overdue, sir. What shall we do?”

  Patrols are nothing more than habit on peacetime trips. Especially with a squad of sales-orcs. The major rested his skinny elbows on the deserted fort’s parapet and gazed out at rock and sand. Even though he was wearing Ray·Bans, the gusting yellow and white sand of the Endless Desert reflected the light back painfully. Hot now, and only an hour after dawn.

  “Get back to HQ on the radio. Post them officially missing.”

  The marine first class saluted Barashkukor with a hand upon which the talons were trimmed. Her uniform showed signs of being ironed, her combat boots shone, her tusks were polished. Of her M16, however, there was no sign. Barashkukor regarded his squad of twelve sales-orcs with despair.

  “Sir,” she added, “Corporal Uzkaddit didn’t come back either. What are we going to do, sir?”

  Under any other circumstances Barashkukor would have said, Act like an orc! Appreciating that it might be futile in this case, he refrained. Having only two combat veterans in his sales-force, it might have been an error to send them both out on recce…

  “We’re not even fighting anyone,” the large orc Arakingu whimpered. “Sir, we aren’t at war here, sir, are we? We’re here to sell things—”

  Patience expired. Major Barashkukor climbed up onto the step of the parapet, drew back his black-gloved fist, and punched the orc squarely in the face. When she got to her feet, combat fatigues dusty, there was a glint of red in her eyes.

  “You’re a marine, orc! I don’t care if you’re support services, you’re a marine!”

  “Sir, yes sir!”

  The rear echelon marine retired to the other end of the parapet to tinker with radio equipment, muttering something about a slur on a fine body of orcs. Major Barashkukor, adjusting his black Stetson, strode bandy-legged down into the compound and went around his orcs at the walls’ murderholes, checking weapons and boosting morale. The fort, little more than a square of walls around a tiny courtyard and well, was small enough that Barashkukor could cross it in five strides.

  “Sir.” The MFC, Arakingu, appeared at his elbow. “Sorry, sir, satellite link’s down again.”

  “That does it. Get Graagryk back,” the small orc major said fiercely. “I don’t care how you do it, but contact them. Tell them we’ve got trouble here, and we’re understrength. Either we get reinforcements or they pull us out—I want an airlift, and I want it today!”

  At the same moment a marine called from the walls, “Sir—it’s out there again, sir!”

  “Give me distance and direction, you snivelling ball of orc-dung!” Major Barashkukor loped over to the walls, black cowboy boots kicking up sand. He squinted through the slit in the masonry. “Where is it?”

  Dredging up some memory of basic training, the grunt muttered, “Those rocks at two o’clock, sir. Movement. Number of hostiles unknown.”

  “Well done, Luzdrak.” Barashkukor shoved up the brim of his Stetson and wiped sweat from his leathery forehead. His long, thin ears wavered, drooping in the heat. “Remember, orcs, we have the demo ammunition from the trucks. We outgun everything for miles. Keep your heads and we�
�ll dogmeat this sucker! Are we marines?”

  The marine major pointed up at the striped-and-starred marine flag, with the Horde’s raven superimposed, flying bravely from the ruined fort’s flagpole. The dozen sales-orcs grinned, showing tusks and fangs, and rumbled, “We are marines!” with a certain bloodthirsty gleam in their deep-set eyes.

  “It doesn’t matter if there are hundreds of Desert Riders out there!” Major Barashkukor enthused. “We have the firepower. More important, we are trained and disciplined soldiers.”

  “Oh, my god!” Luzdrak shrieked, clutching his superior officer. “It’s horrible! It’s out there! It’s coming for us!”

  Barashkukor shoved the orc bodily out of the way and crouched down at the wall-slit. A hot wind blew. Squinting into the eastern light, he made out movement in the rocks a hundred yards away.

  “Shit….” Luzdrak crooned. “Oh, shit, man, we are some unhappy mothers! What is that thing?”

  “Don’t worry, marine. I am completely familiar with the native indigenous life-forms of the desert terrain…” Barashkukor’s voice trailed off.

  Segments of chitin hauled themselves up over the rocks on jointed black legs—and then it stood upright. Desert sunlight shone on a black carapace.

  Barashkukor registered a shiny, elongated Man-like body, with clawed hind limbs, half as tall again as an orc. A scorpion-like tail curved up and hung above its long, domed chitinous skull. Spines lined the clawed forelimbs. Soft clusters of rubbery black objects hung on its underbelly.

  The orc stared. “Man, that fucker’s big!”

  Arakingu called, “Sir, I’m through to Graagryk!”

  “Call in air support. Now!” Barashkukor showed small fangs in a satisfied smile. “That’s got to be the mother who took the recce patrols. Marine, I want you to put one aimed round into that piece of shit—encourage it to lose our trail!”

  Luzdrak raised his AK47 assault rifle and settled the wooden stock into his brawny shoulder. One tilted eye squeezed almost shut. Barashkukor caught the moment when the orc marine held his breath. The trigger pulled. The muzzle jerked fire.

  FOOM!

  Tensed against the noise, like a hammer banging steel an inch from his ear, Barashkukor peered through binoculars at the rocks. The insectoid beast shambled up into the open on jointed hind legs, claws jutting from its shiny, hard forelimbs. It jerked. A spray of black substance punched out from the soft underside of its body and spattered the rocks.

  Beside him, orc marines cheered.

  “Let’s see if it’s got sense enough to run from that.” Barashkukor held the binoculars steady. “Holy shit.”

  Seven more of the creatures appeared. The first insectoid monstrosity hesitated, shiny black against the white rocks and sand, its sectioned tubular body shimmering in heat distortion. Segmented claws dipped down behind the rock. When they came into sight again, a green and dripping mess hung between them.

  The orc’s body leaked blood darkly onto the sand. His head and body had a curiously chewed appearance. Both arms and one leg had been bitten off. His jaw, wrenched loose from its sockets, flapped as the insect brandished the body high in the hot desert air. A scent of carrion travelled on the wind. The cloth of combat fatigues, belts of bullets, and twisted metal that might have been an M16 assault rifle, were embedded in the ribcage of the dead orc marine.

  “That’s Corporal Uzkaddit…” Barashkukor breathed. “Right! Fireteam one, hold your position. Fireteam two, withdraw to the trucks. Luzdrak, when you hear the engines, pull out. Use mortars. We’re going to make a fighting withdrawal. Arakingu, give HQ our position, let ’em bomb the fuck out of here as soon as we’re gone.”

  “Yessir.” Luzdrak blanched a very pale grey. “Sir, what are those things, sir?”

  “I’ve told you. Just native wildlife,” Major Barashkukor said firmly. “Okay, marines, let’s bug out. Move it!”

  The silent desert echoed to the shouts of orc marines. Barashkukor led the run for the trucks, the Corns marine Arakingu at his heels, an M16 a comfortable weight in his arms. Hitting cover behind the Bedford vans, he ducked down as the remaining two orcs in his team jumped for the cabins and ferociously gunned the engines.

  “In!” the small orc snarled.

  Clinging to the truck door, Barashkukor glanced back towards the tiny fort.

  The first insectoid horror, outdistancing the rest, galloped over rock on segmented, clawed legs. It held two limbs outstretched before it. The thin tail jutted high over its head, spike or sting catching the sun. Metallic flashes shone from the body-segment. A thin whistling jetted from the clashing mandibles that dripped a black substance on the desert sand.

  “Yo!” Luzdrak’s team broke for the trucks at the sound of engines.

  “Fire at will!” Barashkukor leaned from one window of the lead truck with Arakingu, firing, the metal of the gun hot against his leathery hands. Rounds impacted on the insect’s chitinous shell and ricocheted off, leaving only silver metal smears: no damage apparent. He wrenched a taloned finger off the trigger, pulled a grenade, and hurled it towards the insect-monsters—that close? that large?—and ducked his head.

  At the fort, mortars coughed.

  FOOOOM!

  Fragments of black carapace bowled along the rocks, end over end. Soft tissue spattered the truck. Barashkukor raised his head and glimpsed the insectoid thing rearing over the back of the truck, one forelimb missing, mandibles slavering.

  The forelimb, even as it twitched, began to re-form. To grow. Fast.

  “Hit it!” Barashkukor yelled at the orc marine driver. “Go, go, go!”

  The truck’s wheels dug deep into sand, hit rock, and the vehicle lurched forward and away. Screams echoed from the morning behind them. The engine growled and roared.

  “Sir!” Arakingu shook him by his black uniform collar. “Sir, what about Luzdrak and the rest!”

  Barashkukor cuffed her across the side of her head, skinning his knuckles on her kevlar helmet. “Get through to HQ, marine! That’s your job.”

  The small orc clung to the open window of the truck as it dipped and weaved across the desert. No mortar fire now. Sunlight flashed from shiny black shells. The hammer of automatic fire rang out across the desert. The second truck had not moved. Stalled.

  “One thing they teach you in officer training.” Barashkukor looked at his radio operator, eyes hard, haunted, sad. “It doesn’t matter if none of the grunts get out, so long as the officer does. I’m command and control. I have to make it back out and report. Marine, get into the back of the truck and start slinging crates out; I want us lightened for speed!”

  Barashkukor stared back. The heavy-shouldered forms of orc marines ran and scattered across the desert, going into cover behind rocks, firing. The hollow, unimpressive whuck! of grenades sounded. From the rear of the stalled truck, flame jetted. The shoulder-fired antitank missile impacted on one of the insectoids.

  BOOOMM!

  “Sales Force Alpha to Graagryk Headquarters!” He shoved the headset on and yelled over the engine’s roar, spraying automatic fire back towards the racing giant insects. The truck jounced wildly. “HQ, are you receiving? Acknowledge! We got us a fucking bug-hunt here, man! Are you—”

  The front of the truck rose up at an angle of forty-five degrees.

  The orc had one glimpse through the shattering windscreen of a rearing black carapace, frothing mandibles, and faceted eyes.

  The truck flipped.

  Barashkukor opened his eyes to see a truncated orc foot. All green with blood, the boot still on it, black leather covered in dust. It rested on rock a yard from his face. He rolled over, skin stinging from the sun. A stink of oil and petrol made him gag. There was the smell of feces. He looked down at his ragged, green-bloodstained, filthy combats. Shock chilled him; he could not feel what his eyes saw. A chunk of muscle tissue blown out of his thigh, large enough to put a fist through, and bone gleaming in the depths. And the foot was obviously his, too.

  “M
arine Arakingu…?”

  The truck’s wheels still spun. Something hissed.

  The bug loomed over him, black against the bright blue of the desert sky. Its segmented body convulsed, twitching, and the clawed forelimbs went under its body, into the clusters of rubbery black organs that hung down between the powerful hind legs. Barashkukor registered that some of the shine about its body-segments was black metal, not chitin. Devices, not organs.

  Between him and the fort, nothing else moved but bugs.

  A cold sensation flooded his back. The orc raised his head again. A Kalashnikov lay beside him, magazine still in place. Blood covered the bolt, wet and sticky. Arakingu lay on her back two yards away, helmet fallen from her bald head, her brains hanging out in a green glob. Barashkukor began to reach for the rifle.

  The hissing came from the headset, still jammed into his long spindly ears.

  The bug’s shadow fell across him.

  “This is…Major Barashkukor…calling Graagryk. Over.”

  “Graagryk receiving. Your signal’s breaking up, Major. What’s the situation on the ground? Over.”

  The insectoid thing’s clawed forelimbs rummaged in the rubbery organs under its body. They came out clasping an angular, long shape. Barashkukor squinted sand-blasted eyes. Stock, receiver, barrel…

  The insectoid being stood over him, a chitin-and-metal replica of an M16 held in its claws. The orc in shocked amazement gazed up at alien organs that might replicate weapons, his small, heavy jaw hanging open. Dizzily, he thought, But I suppose they had Corporal Uzkaddit to copy from.

  It raised its forelimbs and pointed the organic weapon into the desert, pulling the replica trigger.

  FOOM!

  Shrapnel ricocheted.

  “Graagryk calling Barashkukor! Major, give me a sit rep, now!”

  A different voice. Ashnak’s familiar bass rumble, fading with the satellite’s struggle to keep the link open. Barashkukor’s mouth widened and he showed small fangs in a tired grin.

  “General, I am receiving you…Foreign hostiles; eight seen; no mage-power; chameleon technology possible…” He breathed harshly. “Some kind of giant bugs, General. They followed us last night, took the patrols this morning. We couldn’t pull out…Man, we just got our asses kicked…!”