Grak - Gnomercy: Orc PI, #3

One

You have an incoming call, Grak.

An incoming call?

Who would be calling me?

I looked to the left to Yocto, my enlightened gnome Paratechnologist friend, and then to the right to Kordeun, my spirit-swilling dwarven companion.

Both appeared as surprised as I.

With his massive flaring eyebrows lifted, a tidal wave of confusion appeared to be crashing across Yocto’s face.

Kordeun was sitting on the sofa near Yocto. His beard gnashed and twisted, threatening to get tangled in his belt buckle, as Kordeun considered the situation.

People called me about as frequently as they called old childhood friends after graduation.

Which is to say, almost never.

We were sitting in the living room of the extradimensional space connected to my ship, watching replays from this year’s glorious Wizarding tournament.

The one I’d missed because I had been laid out injured from an attack by ANGST terrorists who had infiltrated the Gnomerian Federation’s Wizarding team.

We were not really inclined to stop watching.

Mostly because I had yet to see the matches.

Yocto and Kordeun had been lucky enough to attend the tournament and remain unscathed. They had also been fortunate enough to get to the tournament without having to travel through the maw of a ship-devouring, dimension-hopping demon.

But we were all privileged enough to still be alive, on vacation, and taking in the tournament’s afterglow.

Will you take the call? pursued George, my far too helpful synthetic intelligence, digital conscience, and general doer of things I did not want to do.

But I never got calls.

Whining, even if only in thought, only begets more whining.

I sighed.

Repeating a falsity does not make it true.

Already missing the rebroadcast before it disappeared, I grumbled, I’ll take it.

It’s the Gnomerian Federation, George added helpfully about a minute too late.

If I’d known they were calling, I would have said no.

George could be tricky.

But he generally had my best interests, or at least some interests generally related to mine, at heart.

I had already heard numerous apologies from the Gnomerian Federation while I was still on Halus 7, where the Wizarding tournament had been held.

I didn’t need to hear more when I was on my ship, still orbiting the planet. I could see the dry, ochre orb if I cared to look outside, at the risk of missing the Wizarding replay now only to recall missing the Wizarding action then.

I really doubted the Gnomerians were sorry, but they needed to save face somehow in front of the countless races in the multiverse that had watched their Wizarding players, or imposters acting like their Wizarding players, try to kill me during the championships.

An attack by Wizarding players on a member of the audience was unprecedented in the modern macroversal era.

So my being attacked was a really big deal with some rather large consequences.

The same races had watched me smash my attackers to pulp, get blown up twice, and then lie comatose on the sidelines for the rest of the tournament while I healed.

Not exactly well-liked before trying to kill an almost innocent spectator, the Gnomerians were nobody’s favorite now.

What were they going to offer me?

Any idea why they are calling? I asked.

The gnome would not say.

Alright. Stop the replay and put him through.

The glorious holographic vision of wizards flying through the air, blasting each other senseless in arcane combat, disappeared as surely as my desire to get this call.

Instead, the giant head of a female gnome appeared. Unlike the Paratechnologists of Alyon and similar cityships, whose eyebrows often formed elegant, sweeping curves or were left to grow in natural, forehead-obscuring profusion, the Gnomerians favored regular, symbolically geometric eyebrow constructions.

This Gnomerian was no different.

In fact, her eyebrows could have been topiaries in a formal geometry garden.

A series of squares, cubes, and pyramids, along with other shapes I could not name, marched in perfect formation across her forehead.

How she did not get distracted by their overarching shadow was beyond me.

Without the aid of magic, she would probably have spent half her day getting those things ready.

Greetings, most noble Grak!

I had never been ‘most’ anything—except perhaps thirsty, lazy, or hungry—especially noble.

I am Joulee Fuseplasma, Exoarch of the Gnomerian Fleet.

Well met, Joulee, I lied. To what do I owe this honor?

Perhaps a bit of flattery would get this call over with sooner.

As you know, the Gnomerians are most aggrieved at the actions of the vile, cowardly, puerile terrorists masquerading most treacherously under our guise. We would like to extend an offer of friendship to help make amends for this travesty…

Before Joulee could continue—I had the feeling she might be going on for some time—I interjected, And what are you offering?

If the Gnomerians were offering tickets to the next Macroversal Wizarding Championships, I was all ears.

We would grant you the honor of visiting Gnomeria, where we will make full amends and suitable reparations.

Compared to the thought of attending the next MWC, this offer sounded about as appealing as diving naked into the sun.

I tried my best to be tactful, resisting the urge to give a flat rejection.

Maybe Wizarding tickets were involved.

One could always hope.

In which case, I would march across the macroverse, or into a demon’s gullet, to get them.

I had done so once before.

On my vacation, in fact.

I would do it again.

I put on my best negotiating face, which was just as gnarly as any other I had ever made, and said, "I really appreciate the offer, Joulee, but we’re a bit busy here.

Could you send the details to my Abstract, so that I may give your proposal the consideration it deserves?

The details have been sent. We look forward to the honor of your reply, Joulee replied with a nod of her head, at risk of knocking someone from their command chair with an unanticipated thrust of her eyebrow ornamentation.

I nodded and smiled, my massive canines protruding even more than normal. Until then.

I waved my hand, and Joulee, along with her gigantic geometric eyebrows, disappeared.

Thankfully, Wizarding took her place.

Two

After the Wizarding fireworks had died down—a most terrific display of explosive eldritch talents between the gaseous Ilusia o’Ornaus and the crystalline Gundsarrnin Kxwq’a—I asked George, Anything I should care about in the Gnomerians’ offer?

George gave the verbal equivalent of a shrug. If you’re interested in seeing the glories of Gnomerian civilization firsthand, then prepare to be wowed. Otherwise, they have proposed a meticulously tedious tour of their Federation, with many exhaustive ceremonies and events that will likely drive you crazy.

I loved that George, my synthetic intelligence, was often snarkier than I.

And that he was spot on.

Sitting through officiousness, particularly officiousness I cared little about, was about as far away from enjoyable as I could imagine.

I would not march across the macroverse and into a demon’s gullet for the pleasure.

Is there anything else? Any offers, perhaps?

I held out hope for something, anything, worthwhile.

"No. This is a goodwill mission. One where the Gnomerians show their goodwill and you receive it.

There may be things—perks, privileges, and rewards— on offer as part of the trip, but those are not the mission’s primary purpose and are therefore not explicitly detailed.

I sighed.

George, however, was not finished. "The Gnomerians are not Paratechnologists. They do not share our level of technomagical expertise, just as they do not share our level of generosity.

An analysis of important visits of state such as the one proposed, comparing the proceeds of such visits across species and collectives, places the generosity of the Gnomerians in the bottom 10 percent of cataloged cultural, political, and noetic exchanges.

See, I knew George had my interests at heart.

Somewhere.

But I had no doubt that his would also be served by not going.

Kordeun, who had yet to leave the couch—his venue of choice for the matches—snorted. "Sounds like they’re well worth a trip across tha multiverse, Grak.

Not only did they try ta kill ya, but they don’t want ta give ya anythin’ fer it, either.

Yocto laughed. "If it’s stuff you’re after, Grak, we could give you better.

And we already have.

I sighed again.

I could not disagree.

From my ship, to my new home, to the last set of Wizarding tickets, and to almost all my gear, the Paratechnologists of Alyon had been most generous.

Having your dreams come true was tough.

No matter how many came to fruition, you still wanted more.

At least I did.

And I was almost too lazy to be greedy and too unambitious to strive for my dreams.

"It’s decided, then. I’ll let them know soon enough.

But first, Wizarding!

The Ilusians’ defeat of the Gundsarrnins’ had to be followed by an even more exciting match during the next round!

Gnomerian reconciliation offers or no.

Three

"Grak, you have another incoming call. Will you take it?"

Two calls in a single day?

What had the multiverse come to?

Is it important?

I hated to have our Wizarding viewing marathon interrupted, but I would—reluctantly—if needed.

Of course it is. No one ever calls you unless it’s for something important.

George was only exaggerating slightly.

Being an orc PI came with its fair and not so fair share of responsibility.

But I appreciated the fact that he was loath to interrupt our viewing even for an important call.

Unless they’re complaining about something.

I field those calls for you, Grak. I only let the ones worth your attention through.

And you have my undying gratitude. Letting me watch Wizarding is vital to everyone’s safety…and happiness.

Before I could say something else silly, George added, It’s Fluxcoil. He would like to request your services.

Fluxcoil was one of my primary clients. As a leading Paratechnologist for Alyon, he was a hub of excitement.

Put him through. I waved my hand vaguely, and the Wizarding match disappeared from the space it had occupied in the region floating between us.

Grak! Wreathed in a cloak of roaring fire, Fluxcoil’s elegant eyebrows fairly danced with excitement as he spoke.

I was surprised they did not catch on fire.

Howdy, Flux. What’s up?

I leaned back in my plush chair, readying myself for the request to come.

Fluxcoil seldom called unless he wanted something.

And most often, that something related to matters of import in Alyon itself.

May I speak freely?

I looked to Kordeun and Yocto with a grin.

Since both of them would probably be participating, willingly or not, in whatever request Fluxcoil had, there was little need to exclude them from the conversation.

Yes. Yocto and Kordeun are with me.

A little fair warning was always a good thing.

Not a problem. Not a problem. Fluxcoil was bustling with pent-up energy. He seemed a bit wound up.

Or it could have just been the flames.

They could make anyone dance.

We need your help, Grak.

Fluxcoil had needed my help so that I could go on this vacation and once again while I was on vacation.

Nothing unexpected.

What can I do for you, Flux?

Citizens are disappearing, Grak. We need your help finding them. We need your assistance bringing them back.

"Any leads on why they’re going or how?

"Have we pissed someone off? Any more than usual?

Has the democtopus come back from the dead?

Fluxcoil sighed. "We don’t yet know the reasons. That’s where you come in.

The disappearances appear to be targeted. But we have yet to receive any demands, so I would not yet call them hostage-takings.

Targeted how?

The common thread seems to be people who have come in contact with you.

Mic drop.

My stomach fell.

I had few meaningful connections in the city.

I was more of an acquaintance orc.

Friends were few and far between.

I blamed my winning personality.

Except right now, when most of my true friends were sitting nearby.

Who’s gone? I asked, dreading the answer.

Since Fluxcoil was talking to me, he was alright. Being in the extradimensional regions of Alyon proper must be protecting him, as it did the cityship itself, from most threats.

Orthanq? I doubted anyone would be crazy enough to try to kidnap a demon lord, but stranger things had happened.

Jumbai? Aside from Yocto, Kordeun, and Orthanq, my neighbor Jumbai was just about the only other person in Alyon that I would consider a friend. I seriously doubted anyone could safely navigate the mind-altering haze of his cave and come back out with him in tow.

Who else?

Cretus is gone.

Cretus!

Cretus was my best frenemy and archnemesis. I had misguidedly saved him from a mob of disgruntled passengers back in the day. Now, he intercepted me everywhere I went across the city. Flinging me from place to place in a net suspended beneath his giant undead bat was the reward for my not-so-good deed.

Who would ever think taking Cretus would be a good idea?

Only someone equally insane.

Only someone like the ANGST gnomes.

When would these fools leave me alone?

Hadn’t I wiped out enough of them for them to get the message? Leave me and my city alone or face the beatdown.

Sadly, Cretus had never learned, either.

And now they were together.

Anything I should know or be prepared for when I get back?

There’s no one else who is close to you who has been taken, but there have also been some acquaintances who have gone missing. We have warned others and offered them our protection.

That was a load off. I could still get drinks from Orthanq and uleru from Jumbai.

"All the incidents thus far have occurred in normal space. So, no one in extradimensional regions has been taken. This is why, for instance, no attacks have occurred on Alyon.

With that in mind, we are working to enclose the entirety of Alyon outside the cityship in a pocket dimension to prevent future attacks along these lines.

Well, that was another load off my shoulders.

I felt better already.

I would be safer staying in the extradimensional space on my ship where no one could reach me.

But then I would not be able to help.

I grunted, accepting what needed to be done. Count me in.

Excellent!

Flaming sparks flew from Fluxcoil’s halo as he bounced in place.

Fluxcoil added cautiously, Since you’re a target, be ready for something to strike at any time.

I appreciated Fluxcoil’s warning, but, given all the friends I had made over the years, the type ANGST would not be targeting as potential hostages, being at risk was nothing unusual.

I will send what we know thus far to George for your review. We can go over any questions you may have after you’ve caught up.

I’ll be in touch.

I hated to miss Wizarding, but there was work to be done.

Even if it meant helping Cretus.

Again.

Until then, thanks, Grak.

Fluxcoil faded, and with him my chances to enjoy the rest of my vacation.

Now, I had to let the Gnomerians know I was not available.

Four

Joulee’s eyebrows filled the majority of my viewing area.

My mother had taught me to always make eye contact when I was talking, but eyebrows like Joulee’s made that very difficult.

Especially when the three-dimensional projection of her face threatened to knock me from my chair.

The problem was, her garb did little to deflect my attention from her massive eyebrow ornaments.

Unlike Paratechnologists, who were generally dressed as brightly and randomly as possible, if they had not modified themselves almost beyond recognition, the Gnomerian was dressed quite simply. Joulee was wearing a shimmering black garment that appeared so fluid and reflective that it could have been made of some self-adhering liquid. Aside from its unusual nature, the garment had no decoration or visible details.

This bare ascetism brought my complete attention to her face.

And above the clothing’s dark surface, her eyes were alive with burning intensity.

And colossal eyebrows.

If it hadn’t been for those comical eyebrows, I might have shivered.

"Greetings, most noble Grak. We have awaited your word most eagerly.

When will you be joining us in Gnomeria?

I cleared my throat. About that...

Her eyebrows rose, threatening to knock the roof off my ship.

"I