Mary Gentle - Grunts

“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.

“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 bulging 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.”