by Mary Gentle
“Ah, the Sssssea…” Hive Commander Kah-Sissh sighed. He was peripherally aware of the small orc major’s refilling his tea bowl. He lowered his mandibles and drank, finally lifting his shining head to survey the orc Supreme Commander.
“Your ssseas are too deep,” Kah-Sissh explained, careful with a speech that seemed to contain entirely too many sibilants. “And your lakess are too cold. We need a ssufficiently ssshallow, warm, and large body of water.”
All the orcs gathered behind their commander, the squat female peering through her wire-rimmed lenses, the skinny technician and the small major gazing wide-eyed at the Jassik.
“What in the name of the Dark do you need a sea for?” the orc commander demanded.
Expansive in the admiration of his new friends, Kah-Sissh waved a claw and elaborated.
“This is a cold world, Commander, and I find it ssuch a trial to be continually breathing oxygen! Had our starship not broken up in your star’s gravitational field, we should not have ssset claw upon your pathetic little world. But we fell in our escape pods as our great ship broke up and burned…”
The skinny orc leaped from foot to foot and bent to whisper something in Supreme Commander Ashnak’s pointed ear. Kah-Sissh hummed pleasurably to himself. The Battlemaster slumped against his chitinous shoulder, half-full tea bowl slopping from her claw as she buzzed in deep slumber.
“So why,” the orc persisted, “head for the Inland Sea?”
Kah-Sissh shrugged. “It is most suitable for incubating a ship-egg.”
“A ship-egg?” the orc said. “A ship-egg?”
“A starship-egg.”
“Yo!” The skinny orc technician slavered in an almost civilised fashion. “They can grow weapons! They can grow star-travelling ships! Wonderful!”
“There is the difficult matter of finding a beast large enough to serve as host.” Kah-Sissh inhaled again the warm, pungent smell of the orc bipeds. “Then it is merely a matter of subduing this paltry planet while we wait for the ship to grow, then off again to the stars and further worlds to conquer for the Hive!”
A low buzzing sounded from the other side of the inn room. Kah-Sissh looked across the expanse of overturned chairs and broken window glass. The Flightmaster, audibly asleep, had curled up under a table with the four-footed furry quadruped sleeping on her thorax.
Hive Commander Kah-Sissh took a coldly oxygen-scented breath, compressed his thorax-plates, and began to wail a Jassik drinking medley.
“Hive Commander—I say, Hive Commander!” The big orc stood, glaring up into Kah-Sissh’s mandibles as the Jassik beat time with one waving claw. “Now don’t you fade out on me, boy!”
A dose of cold air shocked Kah-Sissh back into coordination. He rattled his mandibles sulkily at orc Major Barashkukor, who had opened a window.
“We ssshall not perform the Immolation of Disgrace,” Kah-Sissh remarked, his tone petulant. “It would be wasted on such savages. We are the Jassik, proud and noble warriors!”
The orc major and technician simultaneously muttered something that sounded to Kah-Sissh very like, “Psychopathic mindless alien killing-machines!”
“So tell me,” the orc commander demanded, “if all you needed to do was get from your crash-sites to the Inland Sea, why butcher your way through from there to here?”
Hive Commander Kah-Sissh, hurt, protested, “We like killing things.”
Supreme Commander Ashnak and Major Barashkukor exchanged glances.
“I can identify with that, sir,” the small orc remarked.
The big orc sat down at the table and put his head in his hands, sitting up only when the Man landlord emerged from the kitchens with a bowl of burned muscle-tissue, steaming odourously.
“Pony stew?” Supreme Commander Ashnak offered.
Kah-Sissh hissed a nauseous moan. In order to bring dignity to the proceedings the Jassik Hive Commander rose onto his hind limbs, clicked his claws, and began the delicate movements of the Dance of Lesser Victory Concealed in Overwhelming Defeat. The Battlemaster fell over, snoring. Kah-Sissh caught his foot in one of the drinkers at the bar (halfling and tray going flying) and sat down in a clatter of living-metal weaponry. He raised his great head to find himself surrounded and covered by the dead-metal implements of the orc marine guard.
“About our deal,” the seated orc commander, Ashnak, said through a mouthful of dead, cooked flesh.
Hive Commander Kah-Sissh’s faceted eyes glimmered. “Our Swarm Master perished, but there are other Hive Commanders such as myself, and they, be assured, will dance the Immolation of Disgrace and burn your paltry continent down to the bedrock!”
“Nerve gas,” the orc reminded him. “We can dust off every one of your divisions, son.”
Kah-Sissh froze.
The orc smiled. “I like a Bug that’s susceptible to rational argument.”
“Peasants—Qweep!” Hive Commander Kah-Sissh gathered the remnants of his dignity and rose from the floor, folding his exoskeletal limbs so that he seated himself again before the negotiating table. “Rest assured, we ssshall not live to be your ssslaves.”
“Now who said anything about slavery?” The orc’s beetling brows raised affably. He leaned both elbows on the table and smiled toothily up at the Jassik warrior. “Access to the Inland Sea could be one of the terms of your surrender. If you want to grow your ‘ship-egg’ and get your Bug asses off my world, then I sure as hell won’t object.”
“In return,” Kah-Sissh said sharply, “for what?”
“Ah. Yes. Believe it or not,” the big orc purred, “there is something that you Bugs can do for me and the lads…”
The G-type star declined as the planet turned. Shadows lengthened.
Outside, Jassik warriors waiting at attention accepted with comradely gratitude the beverages offered by the local military life-forms.
Before long, Jassik warrior songs hissed up to the stars.
Under them sounded the deep rumble of armoured divisions pulling back, of infantry regrouping, of air support patrolling the neutral ground between the two waiting armies, and of the occasional interchange of friendly fire.
12
“Hard a-starboard!” Supreme Commander Ashnak bellowed. “Hard a-port! Lower the jib! Man the tops’l! Pull, ye lubbers, pull!”
The quinquireme S.S. Gibbet and Spigot out of Graagryk heeled into the wind. Massed ranks of orc rowers in DPM battledress trousers and steel helmets heaved on the oars, sweating under the cloudless, windless blue sky.
Ashnak paced up and down the central walkway of the ship, cracking his oiled leather whip. “You’re meant to be marines, aren’t you? Pull!”
He strode aft, past the glistening muscled backs of orcs stripped down to combat trousers and boots. The galley’s drummer kept a rhythmic oar-stroke, to which Ashnak had been attempting to encourage the marines to sing sea-shanties. As a result, the portside grunts were giving a spirited rendition of “How Much Is That Shoggoth in the Window?”, loudly challenged by the starboard-side rowers chorusing “Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Balrog.” The quinquireme wavered on a somewhat indirect course across the limpid waters of the Inland Sea.
The waves glowed pearl-blue under a blazing sky. Ashnak lifted his binoculars, spotting the wheeling pegasi of the valkyrie marines some klicks to the north and the vast shadow of the stealth dragon on the waves to the east. Twelve more galleys and sixteen sailing ships kept a parallel course to the Gibbet and Spigot. There was no sign of land.
Ashnak loped up onto the poop deck. “Steady as she goes, pilot!”
Lieutenant-Colonel Dakashnit (a battlefield promotion) leaned on the vast spoked wheel of the galley, swinging it with one muscular black arm. She grinned and touched her GI pot. “You got it, m’man!”
Major-General Barashkukor also saluted his commanding orc. “Sir, flagship of the Graagryk Navy proceeding as you ordered, sir. We are entering deep waters now, sir…”
The small orc’s features paled. He fixed Ashnak with bulgi
ng eyes, abruptly about-faced, and leaned over the back of the poop deck. Ashnak regarded his heaving shoulders. Ignoring the retching sounds, he slapped Barashkukor on the back. “Well done, son!”
The patter of small but heavy feet warned him. Ashnak turned in time to catch a half-orc halfling as it hurled itself at his leg. He scooped the child up, threw it up into the air, and (after a split second’s hesitation) caught it again. With its tiny taloned hand in his, Supreme Commander Ashnak crossed the poop deck.
“Pepin, sweetheart, don’t annoy your father while he’s working.” Honorary Colonel-in-Chief Magdelene of Graagryk absently patted the curly-footed tot’s head, avoiding its milk-fangs with practised ease. “Go and play with your brothers and sisters.”
Magda Brandiman reclined at her ease in a long, cushion-padded chair resting on the deck. An orc stood behind her with a parasol, shading the honorary colonel from the sun, and Magda leaned back, the wind whipping her hair, and sipped from a tall glass full of alcohol and fruit. Her infants sat at her feet, playing “Hang-orc.” Her mirrored Ray·Bans reflected Ashnak as she turned her head.
Ashnak gallantly kissed her free hand. “We’ve been at sea for five hours, my love…”
“Trust me.” Magda hitched down her mirrorshades and gazed at her orc over the rims. “Would I lie to you? Just keep on this course.”
The quinquireme wheeled again. Dozens of orc marines swarmed up the rigging, letting out the meagre sails to assist the rowers. Ashnak watched them swinging one-handed from ropes, rifles still slung across their backs. It became apparent that the port-side orc sailors were setting up an assault course through the lines and sheets.
“Splice the mainbrace!” Ashnak bellowed happily. “Ship ahoy! Yo ho ho!”
The spate of orders had little or no effect on the ship’s crew. The colour of the water under the Gibbet and Spigot changed to royal blue, and white foam flecked the waves. A line of orc marine rowers, their oars abandoned, leaned over the ship’s side, vomiting. Ashnak noted those who threw up over the windward side for possible demotion.
“Sssupreme Commander…”
Ashnak turned at the hissed sibilants. The midday sun gleamed from the blue-black carapace and black metal harness of the Jassik Hive Commander. The Bug had wedged its long body and exoskeletal hind legs into the corner of the poop deck, claw-hands gripping the rails.
“When…” Kah-Sissh lowered his shining head. “When will this ssstorm abate, Commander?”
“That’s ‘Admiral of the Fleet’ to you, Kah-Sissh,” Ashnak said, cheerfully slapping the Bug on the back. He winced and blew on his palm. “Storm? What storm? This is good sailing weather, this is!”
The Bug’s faceted eyes dulled. Kah-Sissh’s head slumped onto the rail, dribbling a thin trail of slime from extensible jaws.
“Our guest isn’t well,” the big orc observed. “Probably time for another meal. Barashkukor! Send down to the cook for some fat pork and poached eggs—and the remains of the jellyfish, if there’s any left.”
“You’re a cruel orc, my love,” Magda Brandiman observed.
“Nothing of the sort.” Ashnak held Major-General Barashkukor over the side by one leg to avoid having the vomiting orc spray him, and grinned toothily. “Can I help it if I’m a good sailor? I’m a marine!”
Ashnak dropped Barashkukor back on the deck and drew a deep, satisfying breath. Under the smell of orc sweat and vomit, his hairy nostrils caught the scent of sun-hot wood and rope, of spices from the Gibbet and Spigot’s last commercial voyage, and the alien tang of the Jassik’s bodily fluids. A whiff of pipe-weed made him look round.
“Man, you better come up with something soon, sir.” Pilot Dakashnit, now smoking a cigar, lazily spun the wheel. “Them Bugs don’t do at all well on water, but we still got six divisions of them sitting out there in the neutral zone, and patience is something they ain’t got, sir.”
Ashnak donned his cocked hat, planted his bowed legs widely apart, and put his hands behind his back, gazing forward. “Trust me, soldier, I’m an orc.”
“Stealth dragon to flagship, stealth dragon to flagship, over.”
Admiral Ashnak stuck one hand into his naval topcoat. He removed it, holding a radio handset. “Flagship receiving.”
“I say, sir, wonderful view of you from up here! Life on the ocean wave, eh, what?”
Ashnak stared up at the empty sky. “Are you sure you’re happy in your work, marine?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Tophole! Well, you know what they say, sir. Life’s a bitch, and then you fly…”
Ashnak growled.
“We may have just what you need,” Wing Commander Chahkamnit’s voice crackled hurriedly. “Bearing zero nine three relative, sir. Distance five miles.”
“Course change to zero nine three degrees!” Ashnak whooped.
The three grunts manning the tiller put their heads together, muttering. The largest counted on his fingers, pointed decisively, and declared, “That way!”
The quinquireme wallowed, orc marines scurrying, no more than half a dozen falling overboard. The galley’s bow bit deep into the waves. The oars rose and dipped furiously. A marine with flags semaphored wildly to the rest of the fleet, and the other ships began to wheel about and follow the S.S. Gibbet and Spigot’s wake.
“Man the guns!” Ashnak bellowed. Crews scurried towards the galley’s ballistas, rail-mounted crossbows, and six-inch naval artillery.
Magda Brandiman put down her empty glass. The halfling rose from her chair, smoothing her white sun-dress, and walked elegantly across the deck to stand beside Ashnak, her head level with his belt-buckle. She put one hand to her sun-hat in the stiff breeze.
“I’m going forward,” she announced.
Ashnak strode down the central walkway behind the female halfling. A number of the orc marine rowers whistled and cheered, which the Colonel-Duchess of Graagryk acknowledged with a wave, never missing her footing. Ashnak loped up behind her into the bow.
“THAR SHE BLOWS!”
Ashnak fingered his ringing ear. He then wiped his talon down his naval jacket and glared at Tech-Colonel Ugarit. The skinny green orc hung over the rail, bow-wave intermittently soaking his white lab coat, pointing and yelling.
“Thar she—”
Ashnak seized one of the skinny orc’s legs and lifted. Ugarit vanished over the ship’s side.
“—heeaaarg gh!”
“I heard you the first time,” Ashnak growled.
The big orc leaned on the rail. Some yards below, Tech-Colonel Ugarit (having landed on the upper tier of oars) was clambering back up towards the ship’s side. Ahead, there was nothing but the open sea. White waves flecked the deeps.
“Not seen, sir!” the elven lieutenant Gilmuriel reported to Ashnak. His golden eyes appeared to be slightly crossed. Ashnak looked at the elf marines, their dogtags removed, who clustered round the enormous retrofitted harpoon launcher that occupied all of the galley’s bow-space. Most of the elf marines were leaning over the side of the ship.
“Sorry, sir,” Gilmuriel added, wiping at a stain on his woodland camouflage. “You really need the Sea Elves for this, sir—blehh!”
Ashnak sidestepped smartly.
“Do I have to do everything myself?” The great orc leaned precariously over the rail, staring ahead through rubber-armoured binoculars. A sibilant hiss and Magda Brandiman’s gracious greeting told him they had been joined by Hive Commander Kah-Sissh.
“There, sir.” Major-General Barashkukor tugged his commanding orc’s sleeve. “Sir, there, sir!”
“Where?”
“There!”
“I said—oh, fuck it!” Ashnak picked the orc major-general up by the back of his collar. “Point, dammit!”
Ashnak followed the direction of the small orc’s quivering finger. He narrowed his beetle-browed eyes.
At first the orc saw nothing. The Graagryk Navy appeared to be passing through a shallower part of the Inland Sea, brownish weed floating some distance under the
surface. Ashnak narrowed his eyes against the sun flashing off the waves. Salt crusted his nostrils as they flared to scent the air.
“Nothing!” he swore. “Magda, woman, you told me the Kraken had been sighted here in the Inland Sea—well, where is it?”
Major-General Barashkukor continued to point, his skinny fingers shaking. The small orc made a mewling sound, dangling from Ashnak’s fist, and a thin trickle of liquid spattered down onto the deck. Ashnak dropped him and leaped up to stand on the Gibbet and Spigot’s prow.
“There,” Magda Brandiman said.
From high on the prow, Ashnak looked across the waves to the fleet’s smaller galleys and sailing ships. A pearl mist dulled the sun. The mass of shallow-water weed stretched out around the fleet to the horizon.
The brown weed’s tendrils waved, thick as redwood trunks.
The brown weed opened one lazy golden eye and stared up at Ashnak.
Ashnak stared down at the vast, sea-encompassing coils of the Great Kraken.
“Yo!” The orc beamed and sprang down onto the deck. Ashnak strode over to Hive Commander Kah-Sissh, who stood on the quinquireme’s deck, towering over the diminutive female halfling. He grinned up at the exoskeletal Bug.
“Your egg needs its host living.” Ashnak jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “New marine-issue harpoon system. Visible College magic, sleep-inducing weapons, guaranteed to put out anything.”
Tech-Colonel Ugarit, having regained the deck, dripped and muttered something about “field-tests” and “prototype models.”
Ashnak slapped Lieutenant Gilmuriel on the back, seized the elf marine’s collar to prevent him from ricocheting overboard, and bellowed, “Load up and fire! Barashkukor! Signal all ships to fire at will! Go, go, go!”
Two hundred orc rowers dug their heels into the boards, backing oars. Rashes of signal flags broke out on the lines. The orc marine crew of the S.S. Gibbet and Spigot hurtled to their stations, unearthing from the cargo hold league upon league of fine, magic-wove netting.
