Grunts by Mary Gentle Page B

minute fangs in a smile.
    “Call this drill, marine? These squads need more hard work.”
    The orcs shuffled into semi-upright stances. The sun glinted on their practise blunderbusses and muskets, held at the slope, and on the occasional broom also held at slope-arms position. At least two of the big orcs wore buckets for helmets.
    “Now, you orcs.” Barashkukor planted his feet widely apart and clasped his hands behind his back. “I have a missionof vital importance for you. It may be difficult. It may be dangerous! It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it—and it’s your lucky day.”
    Kusaritku ostentatiously looked up at the dawn sky, picking one hairy nostril. The squad of orcs variously scratched bits of their anatomy, hummed, stared off towards the mountains, and—in the rear rank—continued playing cards. Barashkukor filled his lungs with air.
    “I didn’t say anything about
volunteers
!” His voice squeaked. He cleared his throat and resumed. “Assholes and elbows, you halflings! Get some ropes and heave that chunk of useless machinery over the wall. I never want to see a Huey again. Now
move
!”
    The horde of fanged and tusked orcs broke ranks, seizing ropes as they went, and charged towards the helicopter. Kusaritku ran in their wake, shouting unheeded orders.
    “Someone’s going to suffer for that,” Barashkukor murmured, turning smartly on one heel. “Lack of discipline. MFC Duranki! See that Marine Kusaritku reports to Sergeant Zarkingu after he’s carried out my orders…”
    “Sir, yes sir!” The shaven-skulled orc saluted as he passed.
    Barashkukor drew a deep breath and began to walk back across the compound, taking salutes from MFCs and marines even where it was necessary to detour some yards to do it. He buckled the GI helmet firmly down over his long ears. The morning sun shone on one of the stone buildings, now ornamented with a bullet-scarred square of metal upon which someone had painted “Officers Mess.” He could see, through the window, a fistfight in progress—which was not at all impeding the darts game that was also under way. As Barashkukor passed the window, he heard a scream from the orc, nailed to the wall, with concentric target rings painted on her stomach.
    “Sergeant Major!”
    He intercepted Company Sergeant Major Ashnak as the big orc left the Officers Mess. Ashnak surveyed Barashkukor, and hastily moved his boots out of the way.
    “What it is, Corporal?”
    “Sir, you said we’d be leaving this position, sir, and that must mean we’re going to fight, and—” Barashkukor heaved in a breath of hot, foetid air. “And you said I could have a
real
gun, sir; please sir, can I, sir? Now, sir?”
    Company Sergeant Major Ashnak examined his talons. “Certainly, Corporal, certainly. In fact, I think we might even issue you an M79. Follow me.”
    Barashkukor trotted across the compound beside the large orc, towards the ruined stone building marked out as the armoury. He passed a smoking crater in the earth. A scorched size three pair of combat boots occupied the hole, and the explosively dismembered corpse of an orc. Ashnak strode over a second crater, and spat his cigar into a third. Barashkukor narrowly avoided the fourth crater, where a larger pair of scorched boots rocked gently.
    “I see Squad Three’s mine detector is still on the blink,” Ashnak ordered. “Here we are, Corporal. Try this.”
    Barashkukor reached up to the armoury issuing-window and grabbed the gun Ashnak offered. He leaned over backwards to counteract the apparent weight and staggered, finding it unexpectedly light.
    “The M79 forty-millimetre grenade-launcher,” Company Sergeant Ashnak announced.
    Barashkukor strained to grasp the fore-end and stock of the blunderbuss-like weapon, which seemed twice as long as he was tall. He flipped the catch, broke the gun, dropped the positively enormous shell that Ashnak handed him into it, and closed it down. He tucked the stock into his