Grak: Private Instigator (Orc PI Book 1) Read online

  I grunted as Arcwhistle’s words sank in. “So, there is no chance that the recent monstrous outbreaks originated from goods tainted at your facility or one like it?”

  “The chance is so small that it is not worth considering,” was his reply.

  That just made me want to look all the more.

  “Do you have any suggestions on where I should look?”

  Arcwhistle squinted and scrunched his mighty unibrow in thought. After a time, he said, “Not at the moment, but I will consider this challenge.”

  “Thanks.” At least that was something. “If there’s anything you or the Construct can do, let me know.”

  “If I cannot come up with anything, I may know someone who can. Either way, one of us will be in touch.”

  Help was more than I had expected.

  “I look forward to it.”

  With those words, Arcwhistle waved his magic straw wand, and the warehouse disappeared.

  12

  I slunk out from the shimmering extradimensional teardrop like a fox exiting a henhouse.

  Cretus could be anywhere, and I was in no mood to be caught.

  Keeping low to the ground, crouched over at the waist, I darted through the park, slipping lithely from tree to tree.

  Given the amount of attention I was drawing from strollers, I was not exactly successful in my attempt to elude detection.

  I supposed that an overlarge orc thumping through the forest like a deranged rhinoceros was not the height of stealth, but what else could I do?

  I did not wish to risk detection by Cretus.

  Doing my best to stay beneath the overhanging branches of the large, mature trees, I hoped that the thick foliage and intertwining branches would hide my progress from Cretus’s aerial vantage.

  Being green could only help my cause here.

  I had the advantage that the vegetation was generally the same color as my skin.

  At least that was what I told myself.

  Where Cretus was concerned, my camouflage seldom worked. But I had to hold out hope for something.

  My heart hammered excitedly as I neared the pedestrian lift to Alyon. Shadowing the trail leading toward one of the traveling nexuses, I had remained undetected through the wood. Snickers and pointing fingers notwithstanding, the unwelcome attention had not drawn Cretus to me.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I stepped out from the forest’s shadows onto the walkway leading to the pedestrian lift. All around, people were walking to and fro, entering and exiting the lift system.

  Visible as nothing more than indistinct tunnels of wavering air, akin to a shimmering tubular manifestation of heat haze, the pedestrian lifts connect the Center City to the cityship of Alyon high above.

  Citizens of every stripe and vocation entered the lifts, were scanned, and then proceeded to their destination. Hulking ogres mingled with technomagical gnomes, while terrible rakshasha stood shoulder to shoulder with elegant anuvatari. Giving the sky one last wary glance, I strode up the stairs to the broad dais and waited my turn to enter the lifts.

  If it had not been for all the people, I would never have guessed that this pedestal was situated in a major metropolitan area. Aside from trails through the woods, there appeared to be nowhere for all these people to go. But that was the beauty of this city. So much of interest was hidden in plain sight that even the wonders all around paled in comparison to those that were hidden.

  While the lifeblood of the city moved all around me, I thought about my next move.

  If the source of the monstrous transformations was not to be found in the city’s transport system, then I would go one step backward to the transport system’s source to see if there was anything unusual entering the city through the great docks on Alyon above.

  Unless summoned or made within, all goods coming into the city from outside move through the docks lining the perimeter of Alyon.

  These docks are a direct connection to the vast universe beyond our protected shores.

  There is much to be feared outside Alyon’s shields. The cityship’s defensive, processing, Construct, and docking systems help prevent most of these dangers from entering the city.

  But there are always exceptions.

  “Citizen Grak, please step forward.”

  The voice of the Construct echoed in my head, nagging me like my oft-ignored conscience.

  “Prepare for scanning.”

  I felt a slightly warm tingle as an invisible wave of energy washed over me.

  “Thank you. You are free to proceed.”

  I nodded, my gesture an involuntary response to the voice in my mind.

  Anyone who stands by watching without knowing what is going on must think the people of Alyon crazy, what with all the head bobbing, nodding, gesturing, and mumbling we do to no one in particular.

  Usually, this means we are interacting with the Construct or one of its various parts, like our personal Abstracts.

  If we use them.

  After the hoary dwarf in front of me had been launched skyward faster than he could fill his pockets with gold, I stepped forward into the tube’s shimmering haze and onto the lift pedestal.

  All thoughts were wrenched from me as I was hurled skyward in the lift tube.

  I felt like an unsuspecting insect launched skyward by a rubber band.

  Although I felt no discomfort, I rocketed heavenward so quickly that I could do little but pay attention to the journey.

  Center City and the enclosing Dwimmer Mounts around it shrank precipitously, while Alyon expanded faster than a budding wizard’s ego.

  With but a little altitude, much of Center City was undetectable. Alyon, however, loomed impressively, more so with each passing moment.

  If Center City is an emerald nestled amongst the rough green and gray ridges of the Dwimmer Mounts, Alyon is a lustrous pearl poised in the firmament.

  Suspended within a mighty shield, gleaming in the sunlight, refracting beams in rainbow hues, Alyon flows in waves and whorls sculpted from the whimsy and inspiration of Ea’ae’s grandest minds. Birthed long ago, before the Diaspora, Alyon hearkens back to the home world she left behind.

  Surrounded by a graceful sweeping spiral, Alyon’s docks bustle with ships and crews from all over the macroverse, the air alive with the movement of commerce and exchange.

  Overflowing with verdancy, vegetation spills overtop the walls perched high above the docks, hinting at the splendid city beyond.

  Alyon’s actual size is deceiving, for she is far larger than the Center City located in the valley below. Alyon’s physical manifestation is not her full extent, for she has been extensively expanded through extradimensional spaces and linked pocket dimensions, creating a coralesque multidimensional tapestry supporting many hidden regions, places, and environments accessible via waystations and portals throughout the city.

  The city herself is but the framework for so much more.

  In addition to interdimensional trade, Alyon is the seat of learning, magic, and Paratechnology on Unea. People come from far and wide, from regions well beyond Unea’s borders, to study and exchange knowledge with the wizards and Paratechnologists within.

  The home of the Home Guard, the city’s focus and her heart, Alldrassil, the world tree, shelters the city within her radiant shadow. Beneath her vast, overarching crystalline branches, the heart of civilization on Unea thrives and grows in peace and security.

  Alyon is a seat of treasures that surprises with more at every turn.

  Which is part of why I seldom visit.

  I have nothing against treasures.

  But I do not need any more surprises.

  Or the trouble that often comes with them.

  Enough adventure and excitement comes to me without my having to go looking for more.

  Trouble seems to find me as regularly as a Paratechnologist finds, and creates, explosions.

  The lift deposited me on one of the lower levels of the docks. I hoped to be able to get all the informat
ion I needed from the Customs House without having to visit the city proper and navigate all her complexities and mysteries.

  In this, and many other things, I am a bit old-fashioned.

  I could very easily—well, probably not too easily, but somewhat easily—have queried the Construct about potentially dangerous materials entering the city without having to come to the docks in person.

  But I prefer to do things myself.

  Which, as I have already mentioned, sufficiently increases my risk exposure without my needing to seek out more.

  It also makes sure things are done right.

  Or, as is often the case for me, makes sure things are done wrong.

  But at least I am in direct control of the situation and can see what’s happening in real time.

  And I have no problem owning up to my mistakes, because I am the one who has to deal with them.

  “Citizen Grak, how may we assist you?” the voice of the Construct asked solicitously.

  “I am working on a case. I am trying to find and neutralize the source of the transmutagen that is turning Citizens into monsters.”

  I did not mention my incentive, but the Construct probably already knew the source of my motivation.

  Besides, as a general rule, it is almost always good practice to be honest with a semi-omniscient intelligence that can answer questions about you better than you can yourself.

  “This is a most noble cause,” the Construct replied approvingly.

  “I would like to go to the Customs House to observe the import process and review the receipt and transfer of goods on the docks.

  “I would also appreciate any insight you may have into the source of this outbreak, so that I can help to stop it.”

  “This will all be arranged,” replied the Construct. “Proceed to the Customs House. Fluxcoil Hammersprocket will meet you to assist in your efforts.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a nod of appreciation.

  “Until then.”

  I began walking up the ramp’s gentle slope toward the Customs House. The walkway itself was smooth and opalescent, filled with a soft inner lambency. Like the docks, the whole of Alyon seemed to be cast from a single unbroken mold.

  All around, ships moved and flitted, danced and swayed. There were sleek anuvatari corsairs that looked to be sculpted of molten starshine floating beside dwarven hulks forged from meteorites and mine tailings. Human airships with sails unfurled like the boats drifting upon the open seas from which they were derived were tied down next to the random piles of mechanical accretions that marked many a gnomish metamagical vessel. Alien ships ranging from shimmering vortices of light to light-engulfing planetoids had docked to trade ideas, goods, and currency.

  The races that made these ships home, that used them as engines of commerce and ideation, filled the ramp as goods were unloaded, moved, and exchanged.

  More numerous than the ships, sentry drones hovered, buzzed, and whistled through the air.

  Aylon’s principal defense, and her most visible, the drones range from sleek metallic missiles to multilimbed utilibots. Some are so small as to be invisible, while others are ships unto themselves. Most, however, are the small portable variety favored by Paratechnologists. These take whatever shape their masters desire but often have more appendages with unidentified tools than a sane orc could look at without getting the shivers.

  I was not exactly sane, but I still got the shivers.

  I had seen what collections of those drones could do.

  Shivers were an understatement.

  Beyond the ships and drones, the docks were as alive with all the colors and varieties of people and trade as the banks of diverse coral housed in some of the city’s wild oceanic pocket dimensions. Like great fish gathering at a vast reef, the ships floating near the docks were surrounded by the myriad smaller fish, the many folk and craft, who tended to them.

  I did my best to swim by without drowning.

  The problem was, I felt like a fish out of water.

  Alyon just was not for me, no matter how beautiful or beguiling she might be.

  The city was too perfect, too positive, and too full of vibrancy.

  Not that I’m a curmudgeon or that I hate progress, but I prefer the rundown ramshackle of the Undercity to the heavenly vistas and ideals of Alyon. I like a place with a healthy dose of grit to balance my desire for comfort, a place that has its flaws because I have many, and a place full of characters, not just character. Undercity is my home for these very reasons, even if the Undercity would not exist without Alyon.

  I gladly live in the great cityship’s shadow to have a home worth keeping.

  Besides, the shadow is more fun than the light.

  And more interesting.

  Fluxcoil, the gnome waiting for me at the Customs House, was wearing a plain tunic with the words ‘Gnomes do iπ better’ stenciled on the front in not-at-all-obnoxious glowing letters. This not-so-simple shirt was complemented by shimmering platform shoes filled with spiraling nebulae and dwarf galaxies.

  For all I knew, he might actually be wearing miniature universes in his shoes.

  Fluxcoil was also wearing a purple fedora that crackled with lightning bolts instead of sporting feathers and wavered with shifting clouds around the brim. The hat appeared to float smartly slightly above his head, perhaps to keep it dry from the roiling miniature clouds.

  He was holding in one hand a variegated crystalline cane which, like most similar gnomish accessories, also served as his wand. The cane seemed to melt and reform constantly while holding its same general shape.

  Fluxcoil’s eyebrows sparkled with starshine, radiating enough light to let him easily see in the dark.

  He probably used them as a nightlight to read by.

  I shook my head in awe.

  If there is one thing gnomes do better than anyone else, it’s craziness.

  Or, I should say, they do crazy with zest.

  I think gnomes’ inventive capacity correlates with how crazy they are.

  And this gnome had a near-monopoly on one particular corner of crazy.

  Or several corners, if I was being honest.

  “You must be Grak,” he said, offering one small, sparklingly gloved hand for me to shake.

  Careful not to crush it, I took his hand in my own and offered a gentle shake. “Aye. I’ve a few questions I’d like answered and figured this was the place to do it.”

  “We are glad to help. We appreciate you taking the time to come visit us.”

  “Some things are better seen and learned in person,” I agreed.

  I left out the part about how I seldom accessed the Construct or the Abstracts and felt more comfortable dealing with people face to face. That might seem unnatural to a gnome who probably spent much of his time immersed in some virtual dataverse, swimming in seas of abstraction.

  For all I knew, he was swimming now.

  “Fair enough,” he replied, gesturing me forward into the Customs House.

  The Customs House was carved into the side of the sheer wall rising from the interior side of Alyon’s docks about midway up the spiraling walkway. The entry was a columned façade with a simple overhanging low-pitched stone roof. Plants were clustered around the pillars, making them look like the boughs of giant trees emerging from the underlying vegetation.

  The columns themselves were engraved with images of humanity’s evolution, from travels through the stars to the development of magic and technology.

  There was a small sign above the oaken doors that opened to the building’s interior. In the preferred language of whichever race read the sign, it read:

  Customs House

  Enter and be welcome

  Exit and be at home

  I followed Fluxcoil inside.

  It was hard following a lead like him, but I tried.

  Entering was like stepping outside.

  It felt like I was more outside when I was inside than I had been when I was actually outside.
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  There was no ceiling, just an open, cloudless sky filled with the bright light of day. The only walls were the horizon, unblemished and untouched. The floor, though not invisible, was translucent, allowing a view of the Center City and Dwimmer Mounts below.

  I felt like I was flying.

  For a large, rather ungainly orc, this was truly magical.

  It was seldom that I felt light on my feet, much less light enough to hover effortlessly in the sky.

  Visiting the Customs House was worth the journey.

  Now, if I could find out what I needed, I would feel that my enjoyment was justified.

  “Be seated, Citizen Grak.”

  A glassine stool appeared beside me invitingly.

  If I could make things appear at will, I would never leave the house.

  Of course, I would not be summoning chairs.

  I sat down, glad to see that the fragile structure could hold my bulk.

  “How may we help you today?”

  As he spoke, Fluxcoil made a simple gesture with his staff of many colors, and we were surrounded by a transparent dome of privacy.

  I assumed it was for privacy, anyway.

  It’s a rare day that anyone willingly isolates themselves with me in a confined space.

  The reasons are too numerous to count.

  And I can count pretty high.

  I should add here that the term ‘Citizen’ within the cityship of Alyon, and other cityships like her, is more than a general designation of simple membership in society. Being a Citizen confers many rights and privileges and is the result of responsibility and service to the community.

  Those who have proven their worth and are deemed worthy are granted Citizenship.

  Citizens can, for example, travel where they will within the city, have access to the city’s resources, including the Construct, receive protection from the Home Guard, have the right to free education and healthcare, and, most importantly, can relocate with the cityship should it change location.