Mary Gentle - Grunts

Yowls of agreement echoed from the Opticon’s dome. Ashnak snarled, brass-capped tusks flashing. He stood up, great-shouldered and powerful, the sun gleaming from his insignia of rank. “Asshole halflings!”

“I am,” Will Brandiman said, “a reasonable halfling. So are we all—elves and Men, kobolds and Undead—so are we all reasonable beings. Gentlemen, ladies, we’re a Parliament . It’s our job to debate, to discuss, to agree, to compromise. Am I right?”

Two or three voices dissented, the rest murmured agreement.

“We’re civilised people,” Will continued, striding to stand on the edge of the marble dais, a move that still didn’t put him on a level with Ashnak. The great orc glared and fingered his pistol.

“We’ve civilized people, and the days of warfare are over. Commerce needs to continue, trade needs to flourish, harvests need to be—er—harvested,” the Graagryk prince said. “I suggest we delegate the post of Regent to a compromise candidate who shall be acceptable to us all.”

A much-battered dwarf elbowed his way out of a crowd of Undead. Zhazba-darabat drew himself up and with dignity remarked, “President.”

“Pardon?” Will said.

“Not ‘Regent,’ sir. President.”

“A compromise President ,” the halfling reiterated, “whom we can all find acceptable.”

“I’m going to make you eat your own testicles!” Ashnak snarled.

“I knew you’d come round to my way of thinking.” Will Brandiman’s eyes flickered to the gallery.

Ashnak’s command officers went into a huddle behind the Throne. The phrase “not the Way of the Orc!” drifted out of the group. A fist went up, and came down on the commissar’s head.

“Behold!” Will shouted.

Another figure appeared in the Opticon’s doorway, silhouetted against the light.

Will bellowed, “I suggest for Ruler—President—of the World, one whose allegiances are to both the Dark and the Light. People of the South and North, give your support to the one best able to preside over a World Parliament and a Federation of All Races.”

The figure became a short-haired halfling in a smart dovecoloured executive suit and gloves, high heels tapping as she walked down between the rows of benches.

Ned Brandiman cried from the gallery, “Magdelene of Graagryk!”

Ashnak strode out to the centre of the floor, furiously chewing his cigar, and glaring down at Magda Brandiman.

“See!” the female halfling cried, before Ashnak could speak. “Ashnak the Great Peacemaker concedes to the forces of democracy!”

There was a silence. The Dark delegates looked at each other, and then at the Light delegates. The Light delegates looked at High King Magorian, and then at each other. They all looked at Ashnak.

“Long live President Magda!” Albert van der Klump, shop steward, took off his top hat and unhooked his thumb from the armhole of his waistcoat, and waved his fat cigar enthusiastically. Cornelius Scroop, Chancellor-Mage of Graagryk, and Militia Captain Simone Vanderghast pounded the backs of the seats in front, starting a roar of applause that spread rapidly across the Parliament.

Scanning the benches, Ashnak began to count the many, many faces who had at one time or another been customers of Magda Brandiman Enterprizes, Ltd.

“Well, my love.” The female halfling held up her pipe-weed holder for him to light her thin cigar. “That was the longest twenty minutes of my life…”

His pointed ears ringing with the cheers reverberating through the Opticon, Ashnak stared through the many hats tossed into the air. The gallery was empty now.

“Just to get your attention, my love,” Magda apologised sadly. “No one will ever accept the rule of an orc. You know that. Prejudice is stronger than guns.”

“But—!”

The great orc’s shoulders fell very slightly.

He nodded to his edgy troops to stand down.

As delegates across the Opticon sat down, or recovered their chairs and benches and sat down, Magda Brandiman turned to the House.

“I don’t look on this as a position of power,” she said, her rich voice echoing. “I’m thinking of it as a business opportunity. Factories, industrial bases— all the kingdoms can be as rich as Graagryk! Everyone can share the economic boom!”

Magda drew on her pipe-weed and expelled a plume of smoke.

“And pleasure is my business, too. If we work at it, we can make this land the pleasure capital of the world! There are whole territories in the Black East and the Drowned Lands of the West to be opened up. We can build a city worthy of the name, and we can all share in its riches! And no more of this antiquated Dark and Light nonsense—it’s bad for investment.”

“MAGDA! MAGDA! We want Magda! WE WANT MAGDA!”

Will swept the velvet cap from his greying curls, leading the cheers that rang out until they shook the dust from the Opticon’s bookshelves. Magda went into the crowd, shaking hands and smiling professionally.

“Shee-it!” Ashnak reached up and wrenched his jacket collar open. Buttons spanged off and lost themselves on the marble tiles.

The High Wizard Oderic hitched up his long white robes and sat down on a corner of the dais beside Ashnak. Dispiritedly he conjured a pipe, pipe-weed, and a match.

“That does it! I’m— hkk! hakkk! hk! —I’m retiring.” The High Wizard glared up at the orc. “I’ve had enough. Going to write my book. Always said I would; now I will.”

Ashnak fingered one hairy nostril. “What book’s that, then?”

“The history of an Age,” Oderic said, puffing smoke-rings that lurched, lopsided, into the air. “I’m going to tell the real story about halflings, orcs, the Dark Lord, and the final victory. The halflings are going to be cheery and moral and know their place; the orcs will be cowardly, and they’ll lose; there won’t be any mention of arms trading, and at the end of it the Dark Lord will be male, and very, very dead!”

The great orc suddenly snorted. “Nahhh.”

The white wizard coughed, and finally smiled. “But you see, master orc, Good is triumphant. In a somewhat unorthodox manner, I grant you, but nonetheless—Order is restored.”

“Bah!” Ashnak stomped away across the Opticon.

“…But it’s disgraceful,” Political Commissar Razitshakra protested, pointing at the orcs who, with assault rifles slung across their shoulders, were happily mingling with the parliamentary delegates. “The grunts don’t seem to mind peace at all!”

“Hey, m’man.” Lieutenant-Colonel Dakashnit’s rich tones echoed under the domed roof. “Soldiering’s much more fun when no one’s shooting at you.”

“Supreme Commander, sir!” Lugashaldim saluted skeletally. “Sir, Madam President Magdelene has asked if myself and Commissar Razitshakra can be seconded to her, sir, on temporary duties. She wants us to head her secret police.”

“Police?” Ashnak exclaimed.

“Uniformed officers of visible integrity who keep the government in power,” Razitshakra explained. “She’s not having any of them, sir. Just secret police. That’s the same as regular police, but without the uniforms and the integrity.”

The great orc sighed gloomily.

“Got some news, man.” Dakashnit saluted lazily. “Seems as how not all of the Bugs have left with the starship. But no need to worry, S.C. It’s Hive Commander Kah-Sissh and his squad who’ve stayed. They want training.”

“They want our training?” Ashnak asked.

“Yes sir! Well—that and the tea. Permission to turn ’em into Bug marines, S.C.?”

Ashnak growled, “Hell, why not? What does it matter now?”

He tugged at the crotch of his combats. Then he reached across, removed Major-General Barashkukor’s braid-encrusted peaked cap, and tapped his cigar ashes into it.