Grak_Orc on Vacation

by Joseph J. Bailey

  Fluxcoil grinned. “Most certainly. We will make sure the vessel meets your specifications while also providing something of interest to the demon.”

  Great! I could use the ship to go on vacation whenever and wherever I wanted!

  If I survived my first one.

  And now to the crux of the matter. I looked at the fiasco that was Fluxcoil’s guise. Not that the scraps I generally wore were much better. “Who will be designing my outfit?”

  This could be bad.

  Very bad indeed.

  Between my Abstract and the Paratechnologists, I might be the best-dressed fool at the intergalactic rejects convention.

  “Why, we will, of course.”

  “Deal’s off,” I said flatly.

  I did, after all, have my dignity.

  Or at least I had at one point.

  Wringing his hands together eagerly, his negotiations far from over, Fluxcoil countered, “You will have right of refusal on any garments. If they are not to your liking, we will change them. In fact, we will gladly design them with you.

  “And the clothing will be able to change designs as you see fit.”

  Now, this was sounding better!

  I could get a new wardrobe, a ship, some handy weapons, save some lives, and visit the greatest spectacle in the known universe just by choking a demon?

  This was starting to sound like a win-win-win situation.

  Plus, I had always fancied the opportunity to design my own clothing.

  An orc had to dream, after all.

  12

  “When do I start?”

  Fluxcoil’s smile was as bright as his shirt. “Great! You will leave when all is in order. This will give you plenty of time to ply the interdimensional spaceways to attract the demon and still have time to make the Wizarding tournament.

  “We will share all the information, deductions, and extrapolations we have on the disappearing crews and ships. This information will be made available directly through your new Abstract. As more information arises, we will keep you updated.

  “We can begin designing your garments immediately. Prototypes will be awaiting you upon your arrival home.

  “You have me at your disposal for any questions or concerns you may have.

  “This should be fun!”

  Yes, because the definition of ‘fun’ is preparing yourself to be eaten by a demon.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I said flatly, not sharing Fluxcoil’s fervor, and broke off the connection.

  The three-dimensional representation of Fluxcoil faded as the King’s Crown reasserted itself around me.

  My berry blast infusion was waiting desultorily for me on the bar.

  I was no longer thirsty.

  Sensing my mood, Orthanq warbled, “Anything the matter?”

  I gave a casual shrug. “I’ve been asked to help root out a big nasty in the void by the Paratechnologists.

  “Seems they think the best way to get rid of it is for the thing to eat me.”

  Orthanq laughed.

  I cannot begin to express the pleasure of listening to the laughter of a greater demon. If you have hair, it stands on end. If you have bowels, they want to release. Some things go up. Other things go down. It is a joy like none other.

  I try not to make Orthanq laugh.

  But I often fail.

  While I am a bit more used to that terrifying sound than most, the gut reaction of many mortals to this chuckle is a bit like that of listening to fingernails scratching the chalkboard of your soul.

  “You get all the best jobs.” Orthanq was actually wiping tears, or the demonic equivalent thereof, from his myriad eyes. I noted that the bar top was steaming where a few droplets had landed.

  Although I might be one of his best customers—I had just saved his bar—my not coming back would save Orthanq quite a bit of money. So, while I was a friend, my being sent off on another ridiculous mission had to bring him just a bit of pleasure.

  He is, after all, a demon.

  “Anything I can help with?” Orthanq managed to laugh, cry, continue to serve all his thirsty patrons, and ask me questions at the same time.

  I was duly impressed.

  “Once I’ve learned a bit more about the nature of the trouble, I may have a few questions to ask you, given your intrinsic expertise.”

  Being a demon, or something very much like one, Orthanq knew quite a bit more about these things than I did. He also served demons, monsters, and their ilk in his bar all the time.

  If he had not actually met a particular monster, chances were that he had heard of it.

  So, I had it on good authority that he would be able to help me look at the situation from a different perspective, once I knew a little more.

  I knocked back the smoothie not because I wanted it, but because I did not want Orthanq’s generosity to go to waste.

  “Thanks, Orthanq.”

  I stood up from the bar and headed home.

  The gods and demons only knew what would await me upon my arrival.

  13

  I arrived home to a nightmare of gnomish proportions.

  I really had no idea what kind of vacations gnomes went on.

  Perhaps their clothing was intended to help search and rescue parties find them if they got lost in unfamiliar or dangerous locations, ready emergency beacons that eliminated the need for flares or signals.

  Whatever the reason, gnomes had absolutely no fashion sense.

  And that was saying something, from an orc who often dressed in tatters.

  To make matters worse, the Abstract, or at least my Abstract, coming fresh off some artificial intelligence assembly line, had yet to shed its gnomish predilections and fly free of their poor taste.

  The combination of a new synthetic intelligence and gnomish sensibilities was like taking awful and clueless and mixing them in a bowl in the hopes that something desirable would come out.

  Something did come out, and it was awfully clueless.

  If I wore what was on offer, children would leave school to taunt me. I would beat myself up to save bullies the trouble.

  Arrayed in what I could only assume was meant to be a sophisticated ensemble, clothes made of random scraps of fabric that might have appeared attractive to a blind troll tripping on magic mushrooms were folded and stacked neatly on my couch bed.

  “In the name of all the dark gods below, get this trash out of my house!

  “I’m losing years of my life just by looking at this offal!

  “I will go blind if this garbage is not cleared out immediately!”

  All the designs wavered and disappeared, leaving the room strangely empty.

  I heard a sniffle.

  I looked around, bewildered.

  Another.

  What was going on?

  Then it struck me.

  I had made my Abstract cry.

  I had just screamed at an entity that had been sharing my space for less than a day, that perhaps had known independent reasoning for but hours.

  And I was yelling at it.

  Rudely.

  I felt terrible.

  So much for putting my foot down.

  I had only managed to put it in my mouth.

  I cleared my throat.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I paused for a bit and took a deep breath.

  “Let’s start over.”

  I walked out of the flat, shut the door, turned around, and reopened it. Then I walked calmly inside.

  “This is…not exactly what I am looking for.” I did my best to sound composed and reasonable, not at all like the anger beast that had just started to scream at someone’s hard work.

  “Perhaps we could go with something slightly more understated?

  “With flowers?”

  That would be nice: a subdued floral print shirt with complementary casual pants. A look that positively breathed vacation. Something that would fit in perfectly lounging around a beach, someplace warm, tropical, and full of
bars with mixed drinks.

  Or a desolate wasteland like Halus 7.

  Yes, a floral print shirt would do nicely.

  “Why don’t you call up some designs, and we can modify what you’ve made?”

  The sniffles stopped.

  There was the sound of a blowing nose, even though there was no nose to blow.

  A shirt appeared in the air. It was a riot of so many vines and flowers that the jungle might reach out and grab me at any moment.

  I maintained my composure, trying to be considerate. “Think of it like this. Your design volume goes from one to ten. The shirt you just showed me is a twenty-seven.

  “Could you tone it down to a five?”

  I hoped that helped.

  The jungle slowly receded.

  A groundskeeper must have taken over, one who had a plan and an astute fashion sense to go with an enormous set of pruning shears. The shirt, while still covered in flowers, appeared tasteful—a small garden just blooming in the early light of morning.

  I did not fear that monsters would emerge from the bushes and eat me at any moment.

  That was for the demon, later.

  “Much better!” I clapped my hands like an excited schoolboy.

  Who knew clothes could make an oversized orc happy?

  “Why don’t you try a few more along these lines? Change the background color and modify the prints slightly.

  “In this case, less is more, more or less.”

  I smiled at my own wit.

  The Abstract wasn’t laughing.

  But it wasn’t crying, either.

  “How about this?”

  The room filled with a kaleidoscope of floral print shirts ranging from woven braids of flowers to individual blooms artfully repeated.

  “These look great! I would never guess you were designed by a gnome!”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  I could tell the Aspect was pleased.

  “Could you make a few with similar relaxing, beach-related patterns? Maybe some waves, boats, trees, and the like?”

  A wide variety of ocean- and island-themed clothing representations appeared in the air.

  “Are there any pieces you like more than others?” asked the Abstract.

  I pursed my lips in thought. There were, truth be told, too many choices.

  Finally, I pointed to a vivid teal-green shirt with vertical rows of rainbow-colored birds of paradise, a deep vibrant blue shirt with stylized white- and pink-tipped flowers that could have been inspired by roses or gardenias, a shirt covered in a repeating pattern of interlocked complementary crashing waves, a black shirt embossed with shimmering abstract patterns and large swimming koi, a dark gray shirt with stylistic dragons flying in clouds, and a red shirt with rows of tropical birds perched on foliage.

  “I like these. They are bright, happy, and tasteful. Perfect for demon food. And, most importantly, I can see myself wearing them.”

  “Excellent, sir! I will pass these designs, along with your measurements, on to Fluxcoil so that the Paratechnologists can manufacture the finished garments.”

  “Thanks! And make sure there are no embellishments! I don’t need the clothes showing up the day I am supposed to leave, only to find them unwearable.”

  “Certainly, sir! You will not be disappointed.”

  I hoped it was right.

  “One more thing.” I looked around conspiratorially and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Can you have one made fairy dragon size?”

  14

  I sat down on my couch to think, or prepare to think.

  “Abstract, can you call up the information Fluxcoil sent on the attacked ships and fueling station?”

  This just would not do.

  I could not share my home with someone who did not have a name. Whether they were someone or not.

  My Abstract deserved more than to be called Abstract.

  “While you’re working, I have a more important question for you.”

  “Sir? I am done working. All the data is here. You can access it in any of your preferred modalities, whether that is through your interactive data book, through an immersive experience, or just by talking.”

  “That is not my question.”

  “How may I help?”

  “You can help by letting me know what you would like to be called.

  “So, what’s your name? If you don’t have a name, would you like to take one?”

  There was a moment’s pause. In artificial intelligence terms, this was probably a period long enough for the Abstract to count the length of time since the creation of the macroverse backward from the present.

  In fractions of seconds.

  “I do not know, sir, at least in the sense you mean. I have a designation, a number, if you will. But I do not have a given name of any personal or ontological significance or one that you could easily use as a referrant.”

  There was another equally long pause.

  A period long enough for the Abstract to count the length of time forward from the beginning of the multiverse to the present.

  By imaginary numbers.

  “Would you give me a name?”

  Whoa.

  I was unprepared for this.

  Giving a name was a big responsibility.

  How does one choose a name for a manufactured intelligence whose intellect exceeds one’s own by orders of magnitude?

  Easy.

  Just like any other.

  But I still wanted to choose something it would like.

  “Why don’t I give you a few options, and we can decide together? Or you can make suggestions? Like with the shirts. That way, you’ll be comfortable with whatever we decide.”

  “That sounds great, sir!”

  I scratched my chin.

  What did I know about the Abstract?

  It was incredibly intelligent, had a great attitude, and was always willing to help.

  What name captured all that, the essence of its being?

  “How about George?”

  15

  “Before we get started, could you see if Kordeun and Yoctoerg are available?”

  “One moment, sir.”

  “If I am going to call you George, or whatever you would like to be called, then you need to call me Grak.

  “That’s the deal.

  “Take it or leave it.”

  George laughed. “I will take it, Grak.”

  “Glad to hear!”

  “One moment. Yoctoerg is coming through. Kordeun will be on in a moment.”

  Yoctoerg’s face popped up in the air before me, a prototypical gnome with a handsomely bulbous nose balanced on his face by a sweeping eyebrow line that did little to detract from the nimbus of gizmos floating in his near-head orbit. If Yocto had been a planet, his gravitational attraction would pull in inventions and spare parts, particularly the unidentifiable kinds.

  “Howdy, Grak! Glad to see you’re back on your feet even when you’re sitting down!”

  I snorted from where I was sitting on the bed. “I’d rather be sleeping than either.

  “Once Kordeun joins us, I have a proposition for you.”

  “Oooh, I like being propositioned.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “Only you, Yocto, only you.”

  “What’s with tha long face?” Kordeun’s gruff voice chimed in as he, too, joined us on the conference call. Kordeun’s great dwarven beard seemed to fill most of the room as he regarded us intently.

  “Grak’s face is anything but long, Kord. More accurately, it’s smashed nice and flat.”

  “Looks more like a slightly tumbled boulder, if ya ask me,” Kordeun offered helpfully.

  Yoctoerg nodded. “In need of a bit of shaping.”

  “No one’s asking or shaping!” I snapped with a half-smile. “At least not about that.

  “What I am asking is if either or both of you might be interested in attending the Macroversal Wizarding Championships.”

  Kordeun positively jumped up an
d down, raising his thick arms overhead as his kazzak-bedecked beard flew left and right with his frantic exertions.

  “I’m in! I’m in!” he chanted.

  “What’s the catch?” asked Yoctoerg, knowing something was afoot.

  “Fluxcoil has offered me tickets to the Wizarding Championships if I can help solve a minor problem for him.”

  Kordeun sat back down. Or stood still. Or whatever he was doing.

  “What’s it gonna take ta get those tickets, Grak? They come about as easy as a dragon donatin’ its hoard ta charity.”

  “Well…” I began, knowing it was probably for the best if my friends did not come on the trip, for, like me, they would be at grave risk.

  But going to the Macroversal Wizarding Championships was a once in a lifetime opportunity not to be missed.

  “Don’t ‘well’ us. Give it ta us straight, and we’ll return tha favor in kind.” Kordeun did not mince words.

  I smiled, appreciating Kordeun’s frank bluntness. “The crews of ships journeying to and from Alyon are being eaten by a demon or demons along their flight path. A refueling station has been decimated. If I can stop the demonic attacks, I’ll get to go to the Wizarding tournament. And possibly take a friend or two.”

  “Possibly?” asked Kordeun, his beard bristling.

  “If it can be arranged,” I replied.

  “How are the attacks happening?” asked Yocto, turning back to business, trying to make an informed decision.

  “I’m about to look into that. Fluxcoil has sent over his data. You’re welcome to join me to see what you think.

  “I’ll give you free food for your time.” Considering that almost all food was free at homes in Alyon since the majority was summoned, it was not much of an offer, but my heart was in the right place.

  “I’ll be right over,” Kordeun gushed enthusiastically, running out of the room he was in, not even bothering to end the call.

  I knew he wasn’t in a rush for the food.

  I watched Kordeun run down the hall away from the bedroom he had called from before his Abstract ended the conversation.

  Yocto and I both laughed. Kordeun was so eager to be here and learn how he could go to the tournament that he would probably forget to put on his boots in his haste.