Age of the Orcs - 06

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

The Elders began to arrive. Boldog turned to greet them, giving a brief moment of reprieve. Zoch gave a nod, and Eevin nodded back, headed to the sheltered alcove where she could monitor things out of sight, out of mind.

Zoch's fingers fiddled with the knot of their tie. The Elders didn't all wear suits. Robes, most of them. Some of them came down from the Ered Lithui and the Ephel Dúath, Mountain Orcs from the high villages that had never been conquered; others wore the sun-veils and hoods of the desert tribes of Far Harad. The Umbar Orcs and the city Orcs from the North and West merged Mannish dress with Orcish ornaments. Suit pants with embroidered jackets or headdresses, ceremonial sashes with constellations of gold and bone pins that showed their membership in various gangs and more esoteric orders.

These were the architects of the Age of the Orc. The secret hands behind gangs and cults, far-flung communities that had never surrendered or scrabbled at the edges of the Reunited Megacorp territory. It was, Zoch had learned, the secret Orc culture. The one that young Orcs out on the plains of Mordor had been initiated into, when Zoch had been going to summer school. These were the old Orcs that kept alive the idea of Dark Empires and eternal wars.

Sometimes, Zoch had wondered what Orc culture would be like without them. Whether the breeding pits would survive, the emphasis on reproduction, sexual dominance. Zoch's face flushed at the thought of those young bodies, barely 18, being stripped down and thrown in the pits in the high villages, the weaker Orcs of both sexes being drawn down under the bigger ones. The Orcs that emerged from the picts jubilant, satisfied, radiating their dominance...and the others who emerged, if at all, cowed, sometimes bloody, cum dripping from whatever hole their brothers and sisters had chosen for their own use.

That was one of the reasons Zoch had never gone to the pits. But there were others. It wasn't just the young ones who went in there to sow their wild oats. The Orc scientist looked at the Elders and knew their scarred, hard bodies liked to visit as well. Nominally, everyone was equal in the pits, but Zoch knew that wasn't true. The Elders had rank. Influence. And Zoch knew that sometimes the smallest runts never made it out of the pits alive.

It was their way of thinning the herd. They called it breeding weakness out of the Orc race. Zoch had no word for it, in Westron or Orcish. The Black Tongue had a word for it, but not one that Zoch had ever dared speak aloud.

Boldog had brought them here, addressing each one in the formal, Classical Black Speech of scholars and initiates, not like the thousand dialects of Orcish that sprang up in every village and ghetto. Brought them together for a common purpose. He greeted each of them as they arrived, and Zoch hung back. Not the star of this particular gathering, just the nerd who made it possible. The greying, weathered faces, every color of Orcdom from dark, greenish mahogany to the yellow of ancient ivory, took in Zoch's collar-length hair, unscarred skin, and small, even tusks. Just like every other time Zoch had met one of the Elders.

No, they weren't here to see the soft, effeminate Orc. They came for their dark hero. The one that would actually make the change in Orc destiny that they had longed for.

Morgrir entered in a soft, simple black robe. Head shaved. Small, even scars that served to outline and accentuate the high cheekbones and broad brow, the strong jaw that had never been broken in a hundred matches, the slightly pointed ears. Mordor Cybernetics' surgeons had taken Zoch's creche-brother and made him into something almost as much a caricature of an Orc as a comic book character. A thing of legend. Taller than before, all lean muscle, like a boxer—but underneath, Zoch knew, the bones had been laced with mithril. Wires of the metal had been laid along the Orc's spine. Synthetic ballistic fibers were woven underneath Morgrir's epidermis...and in his head...

Zoch's mouth grew taut as he thought about the three terapulses of technical data in Morgrir's head memory. Schematics for dozens of different weapon systems. Metallurgical formulae and technical manuals. Survey maps. Morgrir wasn't just a one-Orc army corps—he was the blueprint for a technological revolution. Everything needed to build a contemporary-style military **** from absolutely nothing.

"Our champion!" Boldog said, the dark eyes alight as he clapped Morgrir on the shoulder.

Zoch could not look Morgrir in the eyes. Not until the technicians took away the robe, and the creche-brother stood naked, ready to enter the chamber. To face his destiny. Then Zoch raised his gaze. Unwilling to look at Morgrir's cock. Not after what happened last time.

"Hello, brother," Morgrir said, as he stretched out his long arms, flexing so that his muscles rippled. "Are you ready?"

"Everything is ready," Zoch replied curtly. There was pain in that voice, and shame. Zoch turned away and touched a panel. The door to the temporal chamber opened. Like the pale white inside of an egg, everything smooth and unblemished. In the center of the room stood a mirror-bright circle of pure chrome, echoed by one hanging from the ceiling.

Zoch raised his voice, in Westron, so Eevin could hear and understand. "Begin power-up sequence."

The technicians busied themselves. Switches clicked. A deep hum ran through the room. Zoch moved to the main control console and indicated the display to the Elders.

"The target date is 25 March, year 3019 of the Third Age," Zoch said, voice steadier now, in Black Speech. "Just before the destruction of the One Ring. Just before the Orcs lost."