Age of the Orc - 10

Now
25 Mar 2019, Fourth Age
06:19:10

Behind the curtain, Eevin carefully peeled her panties down her thighs. She wasn't even sure why she wore panties, today of all days, except that it would have been suspicious if she didn't. Out on the floor, she could hear Boldog give his speech. While she didn't speak Black Speech, she knew the gist. Age of the Orc, Glorious Destiny, blah blah fucking blah.

Zoch had told her all of it. She remembered how she had to hold the Orc, how Zoch had pressed their face into her tits and cried. Eevin had cradled her lover to her chest and stroked her growing hair—and she had asked questions. Until the whole scheme was laid out, in all of its terrible glory.

Then Zoch told her the plan.

Her bare ass settled on the leather seat cushion. Rubbed sweaty hands on her knees as her feet dangled over the edge. Orcs were worse than Men when it came to building furniture meant for anybody under four feet tall. She bit her lip, eyes on the screen, watching the temperature creep up as one by one, the heavy-duty relays were engaged. Vents were opened. Temperatures began to climb. Readying the system for a single, massive burst.

The sole purpose of this machine. Not to send something small back a couple days, but to send something Orc-sized back thousands of years. Zoch had designed it. Eevin had helped build it. Now it had all come together. One shot which might well overload and slag the whole system.

Except if they had done the calculations right, it wouldn't slag. Not for just one jump. From her position as Zoch's assistant, Eevin had been able to alter the code. For Zoch's plan to work, Morgrir had to arrive right where he was supposed to—and they needed the time machine to still be there after he made his final trip.

She let out a breath and unclasped her bra. It was, thankfully, not her favorite one. Eevin had to special-order Hobbit-sized bras. Hobbit-sized anything. Years they had lived here, in that strange, **** limbo, Boldog and his corporate goons turning a blind eye to what their chief researcher did in the bedroom—and Eevin had gone along with it, put up with every glower, every leer, the constant surveillance and casual discrimination.

Her hand felt underneath the workbench, to the small, cold handle of the crude handgun she had smuggled in, piece by piece, over the last year. Four Erebor-forged barrels, each as big as her thumb, each loaded with a single .50 caliber machine gun round. The Matrix schematics called this design a "Wristbreaker." Eevin had the bones in her right arm replaced with a titanium alloy, and the palm enhanced with ballistic gel pads, specifically to handle the recoil. Nominally, that had been to deal with repetitive motion injury. Mordor Cybernetics' health plan had actually covered it, just like they had her eyes.

There was a whine in the air, which was suddenly warmer. Sweat dripped down Eevin's body and hung in little drops from her nipples. She heard the countdown begin. Could visualize the room. Morgrir was already inside. Zoch would be standing by the trigger, ready to throw the switch. Boldog and the Elders in a loose arch a few feet away. None of the technicians would be close enough to interfere. Not in time. The outer door was sealed. It would take an executive override to open it from the inside. It would take blasting charges to open it from outside.

"...three...two...one!" Zoch's voice rose with each word, audible behind the curtain. She could picture her Orc lover slamming the lever down. The final contact clicked into place. Incandescent arcs of electricity poured through the circuit. Lights visibly dimmed. The floor vibrated as if a minor earthquake. The whine rose to a fever pitch, then followed a roar of escaping steam.

Loud enough no one could hear the velcro tear as Eevin ripped the gun free.