8
The evening sun slanted level and gold across the outlying halfling suburb of Ferenzia. A large orc in urban combats, forage cap jammed between his pointed ears, regarded the round, brightly painted doorholes, the thronging hairy-footed population, and the fly-posters stuck up on all the vast oak tree boles that dotted the market square, with sour distaste. The posters all, without exception, read, “Vote for the Light!”
“Only four days to the election, sir,” Barashkukor reminded his commanding orc. “Surely She’ll let us fight the Bugs after that, sir?”
The general of the orc marines glanced down at him. Barashkukor’s chest swelled with pride in his smartly pressed green DPM combats. His polished cyborg-hand and -leg gleamed. His cyborg-eye whirred.
“It still isn’t the true Way of the Orc! All this voting and peaceful campaigning. It just isn’t orcish. We should be out fighting Bugs!” Marine Commissar Razitshakra took off her steel-rimmed spectacles, polished them, and put them back on her snout.
The three orcs in green DPM camouflage combats stood in the main street of the halfling district, pistols firmly holstered, assault rifles slung over hulking shoulders. The street was jammed with wagons and pony-and-traps piled high with halfling refugees from the Bug advances into the eastern kingdoms.
“Begging the general’s pardon.” Barashkukor stood even more smartly to attention. “The commissar’s right, sir. Don’t know when my marines last had a real mission, sir.”
Ashnak’s bass baritone voice grated, “Are you questioning my judgement, Lieutenant?”
The small orc paled several shades. “Sir, no sir! Wouldn’t dream of it. Just wish you’d send us out on combat missions. Those orcs out fighting in Thyrion and Gyzrathrani and Shazmanar, they can’t hold the Bugs back forever. They need us, sir!”
“What we’re going to do,” the large orc general growled, “is win this election as fast as possible.”
“How can we do that, sir?”
Ashnak’s eyes glinted. “I may just have a dangerous mission for you personally, Major. Volunteers only. I can trust you to volunteer?”
“Erm…” Barashkukor swallowed audibly. “Yessir! You can rely on me. Erm. How dangerous exactly, sir?”
Razitshakra nodded her head judiciously. “Ah, the true orcish spirit. I only wish I could join you, Major Barashkukor, but my political duties keep me from the battle.”
Barashkukor looked up at his general. The large orc’s craggy face creased into an evil grin. Barashkukor snickered.
“Alternatively,” Ashnak said, laying an extremely heavy hand on Commissar Razitshakra’s shoulder, “I may just have a mission for you. Barashkukor, where’s that halfling?”
“Over here, sir.” The small orc walked back to the APC parked between a covered wagon and a halfling delivery cart. Ragged halflings whose belongings were scattered, abandoned, on every road from the east and south of Ferenzia, moved aside to avoid him. Tiny spurts of steam hissed from the knee-joint of his artificial leg, and a whirr-click! sound followed him across the road.
He heard Ashnak, behind him, remarking, “I think you’ll find that this mission accords with your political duties, Commissar. Since it’s a matter of ideology.”
“I’m your orc, sir!” Razitshakra snapped to attention, eyes gleaming behind her spectacles. “Trust me, sir, I have a firm grasp of orcish ideology. If that’s what this mission requires, I can do it! I can promote the Way of the Orc—”
“You certainly can,” Ashnak sighed.
Barashkukor clicked his way back across the dusty road, his steel hand clamped firmly on the shoulder of a fat, hairy-footed halfling. The halfling wiped sweat-plastered curls from his wet forehead.
“Just remember,” Major Barashkukor jerked his free orcthumb back at the APC, “that the rest of your spawn, er, family, stays in there until your return. Their health is dependent on your good conduct.”
“Don’t ’urt me, sir,” the halfling pleaded. His brown eyes sought the orc general’s forbidding face. “I’s always been a secret supporter of the Dark, honest, governor.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” The big orc frowned. “You may not be useful to us after all. Major Barashkukor, warn the cook to prepare a garlic and herb sauce tonight, for basted halfling.”
“I means, I pretended to be for the Dark,” the halfling gasped. “Really I’m a solid Light voter. No one stauncher.”
“Then now’s your chance to prove it.” General Ashnak nodded at the town hall, some blocks down the street. Most of the thronging halfling population, swelled by the influx of refugees, had vanished inside. A straggling line of shaggy ponies and rickety carts parked outside gave the clue that a town meeting was in progress. “The major has told you the message you have to deliver?”
“Oh, yes, governor.” The halfling puffed out his chest, pulling his food-stained jerkin awry. “You can rely on Alfred Meadowsweet. I goes in to the town meeting, and I tells them, ‘This here’s from the Halfling Popular Front.’ Then I shouts, ‘Long live Amarynth Firehand!’ and I leaves. Must say I think it’s good of you to deliver packages for the Light, what with you being on the other side and all, sir.”
“Think nothing of it. We may be sworn to Evil,” the orc general said righteously, “but that doesn’t mean we’re not honourable. In our own way. Commissar Razitshakra, you will act as escort for Master Meadowsweet to the town hall. I think what he has to deliver is a little heavy for a halfling.”
Razitshakra’s heels clicked together. She scowled at the general of the orc marines. “Yessir! Of course, sir. Sir, what are we doing helping the Light’s election campaign?”
The large orc tightened his talons on the commissar’s shoulder.
“Isn’t there something in the Way of the Orc about questioning the decisions of one’s general?” he purred. “Because if there isn’t, marine, I suggest you write it in. Now!”
Razitshakra’s pointed ears flattened back against her skull. She straightened her peaked cap. “Sir, yes sir!”
Barashkukor whirred and clicked his way to the APC, pausing only to hit his steel knee with a hammer that he extracted for the purpose from a pouch on his web-belt. He staggered back again, skinny legs bowing under the weight of an ammunition box. He set it down heavily, raised his head, and looked for his general.
From the far side of the street, Ashnak called, “You may remove the package now, Major. Commissar Razitshakra, carry it for Master Meadowsweet.”
Razitshakra’s “Yessir!” echoed across the street as Barashkukor joined Ashnak.
The large and the small orc marched smartly towards their APC. Barashkukor’s cyborg-eye whirred, extended itself on a jointed steel arm, and gave him a view back down the street. Halfling officials at the town hall door were talking to the orc marine commissar and Alfred Meadowsweet. Barashkukor retracted his eye, quickened his pace, and scrambled adeptly up and into the APC after Ashnak. He showed his fangs at the female halfling and four brats cowering in one corner.
“Shall I order that herb and garlic sauce anyway, sir?”
The large orc looked shocked. “Of course not. What are you thinking of, Major?”
“Sorry, sir.” Barashkukor’s shoulders slumped. He raised a contrite face to his general. “I should have remembered—for young halfling meat, it’s chili pepper and rock salt.”