Grak_Orc on Vacation

by Joseph J. Bailey

  “Morning, sir! Are you ready to port down now, or do you require refreshment?”

  “I’ll eat something first, George, so I can get right to the first match. If I need anything else, I’ll pick it up on the way.”

  “Fluxcoil has reminded me to inform you that any expenses you incur will be paid for by the Paratechnologists of Alyon. All transactions are tied to your genetic markers, so you need not worry about carrying any methods of payment.”

  This was getting better and better.

  I really wanted a few commemorative shirts.

  What orc worth his axe wouldn’t?

  Except I could just have my ALOHA shirt copy them for later enjoyment without needing to buy anything.

  Kordeun and Yocto, however, would need some shirts.

  Lots of shirts.

  “I’ll have whatever I pick up delivered to the ship, George.”

  Ooohhh…what if they had replicas of the MWC trophy for sale?

  I could proudly display one or two on my mantle, if my new place had a mantle.

  Or player medallions?

  I could get a few player medallions to wear proudly around my neck.

  I would be the envy of monsters all over the Undercity.

  “I can see by the glazed look in your eyes, sir, that you are considering something less than worthwhile.”

  “What could be wrong with getting a few champion medallions to wear or trophies to display?”

  “That depends, sir, on whether you would like any more business once we return to Alyon.”

  “Very funny, George. There’s nothing wrong with a grown orc wearing a Wizarding medallion.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  I sighed.

  Leave it to my Abstract to try to take away the fun of getting stuff.

  Regardless of what George said, stuff would be gotten.

  “How’s the breakfast coming along?” I sat down on one of the couches located near where I had collapsed on the floor.

  “I will have it out shortly, sir.”

  “Is there anything you would like, George?” Although he spent his time in the dataverse, George was not entirely disconnected from physical reality, after all.

  Although it was hard, I tried to be a thoughtful orc.

  “I wouldn’t mind a medallion or trophy to decorate the walls of the ship, sir,” George replied softly.

  Ah.

  “I’ll see what I can do, George! Would you like me to show it to you via communicator, if those are allowed, or would you prefer a surprise?”

  “Surprise me, sir.”

  “You’ve got it!”

  I was full of surprises.

  “Are you ready to port groundside?”

  I had taken a few moments to get cleaned up in the ship’s facilities after breakfast, which basically entailed my standing in place for a moment while I was cleaned technomagically.

  I really couldn’t tell the difference, but I am easy to please.

  After getting cleaned, I returned to the couch to relax in preparation for a busy day sitting down to watch Wizarding matches.

  “Absolutely!” I answered.

  I jumped up but then sat back down, unsure of what I needed to do.

  “Do I need to do anything, George?”

  “Nothing unusual, sir. Just speak into your return band when you would like me to bring you back.”

  “This thing is a communicator?”

  “Among other things, yes.”

  I really needed to ask more questions.

  “Is there anything else I need to know about?” I asked.

  “Not right now, sir. Have a great time!”

  Before I could ask, “What’s that supposed to mean?” the ship disappeared and a barren wasteland took its place.

  After too much non-vacation, I was finally vacationing on Halus 7!

  I found myself milling in a vast throng of similarly bewildered individuals getting their bearings after arriving on the scorching surface of Halus 7.

  My ALOHA shirt collar quickly shifted to a balaclava that covered the lower half of my head. This covering allowed me to breathe the decidedly thin air.

  Although going with the pack is often not the best idea, in this case, I decided to follow the great roiling mass of alien species walking, flying, lumbering, rolling, or oozing toward the towering translucent citadel on the horizon.

  This could be nothing other than the Wizarding stadium, home to all of my greatest hopes and dreams.

  Resplendent, showering the surrounding desert with rays of glorious light, the stadium was a gift from the gods cast from spun starshine and the essence of fandom.

  Or it was made of only partially visible force fields.

  Whatever. I was so excited to get inside that transcendent visions of Wizarding clashes—the dance and interplay of opposing teams, the calculations of squad captains, the highest expressions of sport—were playing through my mind as I walked alongside aliens of every shape and size.

  I was the only orc—or any other species that I recognized.

  It was only then that I realized I should have brought a translator.

  How would I ask for anything if everyone was different and not everyone used magic or had the proper translation devices?

  Then I listened past the thrum of many gathered voices and realized I could understand what was being said around me.

  Either the entire region had been magicked to allow understanding, or my ALOHA balaclava was translating for me.

  Both were possible and probably true.

  I really, really needed to ask more questions.

  I had never been around so many people. Or things. Or sentient things.

  Many of the beings drifting around me were unrecognizable as living creatures.

  Living on Alyon, I was used to a variety of forms. However, even on Alyon, unique creatures were the exception. Here, they were the norm.

  I was accustomed to being in the minority, but here, everyone was in the minority.

  This novelty, as much as the excitement of being here, brought a smile to my face.

  I let the tide of so many diverse creatures carry me toward the crystalline stadium. Overhead, the gathered ships created a massed starscape visible even in the daytime. At night, the sky would be alive with artificial stars.

  The humming rhythm of many voices, the collected conjectures of multitudes, focused on one central question—who was going to win the Wizarding tournament?

  I did not need to voice my own opinion, for I already knew the answer.

  We were all going to win just by being here.

  After-Epilogue

  I knew we were getting close to the stadium when the density of hawkers, merchants, and shopkeepers began to approach the density of spectators.

  It was like two opposing armies meeting on the field, one defending and the other attacking. The unsuspecting visitors, their attack somewhat weak and fragmented, were easily deflected and redirected by the droves of well-organized vendors whose defenses were supremely planned and manned by the heartiest of capitalists. Only the most focused, disciplined, and determined made it through the gauntlet undeterred.

  Alas, I fell quickly to the beguiling enchantments of the sellers, one of the early casualties of the souvenir wars.

  “Get your commemorative shirts here!” a bulbous gasbag exhorted.

  I needed some shirts, I reasoned, both to give as gifts to friends I did not have and as models for my ALOHA shirt.

  I selected a choice handful with commemorative designs, favorite teams, and inspiring imagery.

  I had no sooner walked a few paces than another hawker crooned, “Be a champion! Come get your crown!”

  I had to have a replica of the champion’s crown given to members of the winning team! These versions were particularly fine, made of carefully crafted metal with real glowing gems.

  I gladly took one each for myself, Kordeun, Yocto, and, most importantly, George, thankful for the open purs
e granted by Alyon’s Paratechnologists, for these trinkets were not cheap.

  Drooling over my prizes, well-earned thus far on the field of battle, I managed a few steps closer to the stadium before my ears discerned the disheartening call, “Join your favorite team! Put yourself in the player’s place!”

  A small, waifish humanoid resembling a withered cactus was standing beside the most amazing canvases I had ever seen. Whoever walked by his stall was portrayed as a member of an assortment of the final sixty-four teams in this year’s tournament.

  The work was so vibrant and lifelike that it looked better than a projection taken of the actual team.

  “Do you have one of Alyon?” I asked.

  The cactus wavered, the gesture translating as a no. “Only the teams currently eligible for the championship,” it susurrated in a voice like a soft breeze rustling branches.

  “Tellanon?”

  “Of course!” it trilled. “Tellanon always!”

  In short order, I found myself depicted front and center with Tellanon’s Wizarding team, standing beneath the shimmering boughs of Illdrassil, kin to Alldrassil of Alyon. I particularly liked how the team was so welcoming of me on the canvas as we stood together jesting beneath the luminous branches of the Tree of Heaven.

  My arms now stuffed with packages, I tried to regain forward momentum against the stalwart defenses of the stadium’s guardians, but my charge was deflected by a lump of basaltic rock standing before the most glorious display of medallions I had ever seen.

  There were replicas of award medallions through the ages: most valuable player, greatest guile, champion team, craftiest counter, trickiest trickster, and many more, each unique to the year and location awarded.

  Unable to choose, I selected a handsome assortment of trophies and promptly put them around my neck to save space and ease my burden.

  Although some might think me ludicrous, I knew that the bundle of expertly crafted medallions went well with my crown.

  By this point, after having gathered a fine selection of official Wizarding robes from a birdman covered in iridescent rope-length hair, I had little room or opportunity to carry anything else.

  Though I risked tripping at every step, it was this last bit of merchandise that finally allowed me to break through the defenders’ defensive free market cordon and reach the stadium entry without further distraction.

  Mostly because I could not stop for more.

  Surging toward the gates, I felt like a drop of water—a bit of flotsam, perhaps, with my gathered winnings—rushing forward toward a sluice along with the building currents of other spectators pressing forward, most of whom were far less burdened, and therefore more mobile, than I.

  Undeterred, I pressed ahead, seeking entry through the sacred gates of Wizarding’s inner sanctum.

  Pushed to the side by a particularly fervent group of elephantine crustaceans, unwilling to risk damage to or loss of my hard-won bounty, I called into my return band loudly, unsure how to operate it as a communicator, “George? Can you hear me, George?”

  I really, really, really needed to ask more questions.

  “I hear you, sir! How is it? As wonderful as you had hoped?”

  “Far busier, George. I am almost to the stadium, but I don’t want to lose any of the souvenirs I’ve purchased. Any suggestions?”

  “Set them down beside you, and I will port them up. They will be here safe and sound, ready for your return.”

  “Really, George?”

  “Really!”

  I had not realized how much anxiety I had felt carrying so many valuable, easily damaged treasures through the surging masses until George’s welcome words lifted that burden from me.

  I set the items down as George instructed, and yelled, “You get the pick of the lot, George!”

  “You don’t have to yell, sir, and thanks!”

  In moments, the items, my hard-won prizes, had all disappeared.

  I sighed exultantly, my quest on the field of strife complete. I had sought for and retrieved treasure, and now I could leave freely, content to enjoy the matches ahead.

  No longer encumbered by care or worry, good or craft, I charged forward to the gates, ready to scale the walls of Wizarding in my final assault.

  After another gauntlet wending through the shimmering empyrean stadium and its luminous causeways, adrift alongside other masses of spectators, an eight-armed usher hovering atop a silver armature and aqueous bubble dome containing his cephalothorax finally pointed me toward my seat.

  My relief was palpable.

  Fighting through crowds, I felt like I had been pushed underwater and was only now being given the chance to emerge and catch my breath.

  Still a bit dazed, I looked again at him for confirmation as he pointed me forward.

  The combination of bubbles issuing from his beak-like orifice and color patterns flashing across his skin told me, “Yes, that is in fact your seat, hairless ape-man of the desiccated tribes.

  “Swim forth and bathe in the riches of sport!”

  “Thank you, octopoidal thing of the wet waters,” I replied, unsure of what to say or exactly how to address him.

  “May your blessings be returned to you,” he replied with a dark flush of indigo and a delicate stream of bubbles.

  “And may you have plenty to eat,” I answered flatly.

  My answer seemed to please him, because he flashed a happy pink indicating contentment and gratitude.

  Sometimes, you get lucky.

  I walked down the formed causeway of translucent force toward the ground. When Fluxcoil had told me that I would have a seat front and center, he had meant it. I was literally on the lowest level by the ground. Since the stadium was circular, for a given level, almost any seat was as good as another, depending on where the action might play out. But to be on the ground where most species fought out their matches was a gift beyond counting.

  I needed to save Alyon more often.

  But with less risk of almost certain death.

  Sure enough, when I got to the ground level, there were three empty seats waiting for me in a small box. I had room to stretch out and recline if I so chose, with the steepening sweep of the stadium soaring up behind me into the dizzying distance. Although all seats had sensory magnification capabilities, this close to the field, I would need few of them.

  I broke into a small shuffling dance, sliding back and forth along the steps, bouncing my thick shoulders, rotating my trunk, bobbing my head, and rotating my arms.

  My orcish ancestors would not have been proud.

  But I was here, and they weren’t.

  Breaking into a little song and dance was only fitting.

  And it most certainly beat smashing faces.

  Choosing the seat farthest from the aisle in order to accommodate my guests, I settled down into the translucent chair, which promptly settled around me.

  This was nice. The chair adjusted to my motions and shape, doing its best to keep me comfortable.

  I could relax in this all day.

  I reached out to feel the shield that would prevent the audience from becoming collateral damage in the match. The barrier was cool and smooth to the touch.

  Beyond the shield, the field of strife was a barren wasteland of broken rocks, boulders, and an open expanse of empty dirt. The ground, and the many companion stones, were a full spectrum of rust, ranging in color from light sandy tan to dark, bloody burnt umber.

  Halus 7 was the type of place orcish families might visit to have a nice relaxing picnic of blood and destruction.

  A tumultuous Wizarding match would be equally enjoyable.

  While my mind danced to visions of communal violence and bloodshed, I touched the shield and brought up information on the day’s first match: the Ulaerian Utrechts against the Fryndia Fubrous. Based on the teams’ statistical summaries, both clubs were quite talented. Both were enjoying their first appearance in the Wizarding finals, so there was quite a bit of excitement surround
ing the unproven unknowns. Much currency and conjecture was being exchanged around the teams.

  I had already exchanged enough currency buying my trinkets, so, aside from interest in all things Wizarding, I had no skin in this game.

  The Utrechts are a race of slug-like humanoids known for their psychic abilities. In contrast, the Fubrous are a race of sleek avian predators with superbly fearsome aerial capabilities.

  Almost all the experts anticipated quite an interesting match, given the strong differences in styles.

  I thought the birds could fly high overhead out of range of mental attacks and drop rocks on top of the slugs.

  But I did not make my living predicting the outcomes of Wizarding matches.

  While I waited and read, feeling the excitement build, the crowd behind me was quickly filling in. Moving tides of alien species thronged the seats and aisles. Even now, well before the match’s start, cheers, chants, and songs echoed through the stadium. I smiled, loving the spectacle.

  What could be better?

  “Wipe that silly grin off yer face or ya’ll embarrass yerself, ya big goon.”

  What the what?

  Kordeun?

  “Glad to see you kept our seats warm.”

  Yoctoerg?

  I was too dumbfounded—utterly flummoxed—to reply.

  My mouth agape, my smile forgotten, I stared in confusion at my friends.

  “But…” I finally managed.

  “Honus is my cousin. His crew are working on the renovations to your flat while we’re here,” Yoctoerg explained

  “We knew ya wouldn’t take anythin’ from us fer tha tickets,” added Kordeun.

  “And that you needed some upgrades to your home,” continued Yoctoerg.

  “So Fluxcoil and Honus helped us with tha exchange, considerin’ tha city owed us as well fer our help with ANGST,” finished Kordeun, his mischievous grin barely visible through his pelt-like braided beard.

  “You didn’t have to waste your reward on me,” I managed weakly.

  “Nothin’s wasted, ya big green oaf! We’re here with ya at tha tournament, aren’t we? We’re Wizardin’!”

  Yoctoerg shrugged, his sparkling silvery starshine shirt reflecting on the gems scattered like dewdrops in his thick eyebrows. “We really don’t need much, anyway, and the best coins spent are on experiences and memories.”