Never trust an elf

Thoughts of food made his stomach growl, reminding him that supper time was near. He sauntered on down the street, sniffing the air and checking the signs. There were no strange odors, no new marks of violence, no signs of alarm. His neighborhood was as quiet and as safe as it got. There were still some kids from the hall across the street playing around the wrecked or nearly wrecked vehicles that lined the sidewalk. Here in Orktown, there was no towing for the junkers or off-street parking for the workers. Everything was left until it rotted away, like the garbage. Like a lot of the orks in Orktown, Kham and the others called their communal house a hall. Word on the street was that the ancient Vikfhgs used to live all together in a hall, and everybody knew Vikings were tough; orks were tough, too. Calling their places halls made it a little easier to deal with the squalor, Kham supposed. If you couldn't live in a palace, at least you could pretend you did. Kham's hall was a run-down structure that had once been a store. His family and the half-dozen others of his home group lived there, bedding down in the upper stories and doing most of their day-to-day living in the lower story, which was mostly kitchen and open space.

As he turned off Wilkerson Boulevard, Kham could see that the hall was lit. A trio of young orks, all wearing Black Sword colors, waited idly near the front steps. Like the kids from the other halls in the neighborhood, kids from Kham's hall joined a gang when they were old enough, Or good enough. The gang provided local security, more reliable than the police, and halls that had kids in the gang didn't even have to pay for the service.

The biggest of the three, the obvious leader, straightened up when he saw Kham approaching. That was Guido, one of John Parker's brood. Guido was a shadowrunner wannabe, always trying to act like he thought a runner ought to.

"Hoi, Kham," he said in a casually familiar drawl. " 'Zappening?" "Hoi, Guido."

A little miffed by Kham's ignoring his question, Guido tried again. "Got work?" "Could be."

Guido elbowed one of the others and gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Better, or Lissa'll have your balls for breakfast."

Kham was too tired to play games. His response caught Guido totally off-guard. The young ork made only a feeble, futile effort to block the paw that reached for his throat. Exerting a mere fraction of his strength, Kham lifted the boy off the ground. Guido struggled to take the pressure from his throat by keeping his balance on his toes. Kham smiled grimly into Guide's

purpling face and said, "Watch out your balls aren't on the menu."

"Hey, he didn't mean anything by it, Kham," one of the others pleaded.

"Yeah," the other chimed in. "Everybody says that, ya know. Like it's not a secret."

Giving them a squint-eyed stare, Kham said, "Yeah? Well, if everybody knows, ya don't need ta say any ting about it."

"Chill, man," Guido choked out. "I'm a sphinx."

"Nah. Ain't good-looking enough," Kham said, releasing the boy. "Or tough enough."

"Hey, man, I'm tough," Guido whined, rubbing his throat. "Take me on a run, I'll show you."

Not if you can't take a little rough treatment. "Gotta walk before ya can run, Guido."

Recovering his former bravado, Guido straightened up and said, "I'm ready. You got a job and need some more muscle, I'm the orkboy for you."

Guide's quick recovery was a good sign. The boy was still a little young to move up, but he had talent. Maybe in a year or two. Kham decided to be encouraging. "Could be. Keep hanging till I call ya."

Kham walked up the steps, listening to the gibes of Guide's companions as they started in on the boy. They'd sort it out. If an ork couldn't survive his own gang, he didn't have any business looking to tackle anybody else.

As he stepped through the door, the familiar scent of ork and old food washed over him, blotting out the refuse scent of the street. The light was brighter than in the street, but not enough to bother him, nor was it enough to really illuminate the squalor. The main room, what had once been a show room, was littered with debris and randomly scattered piles of bedding, but, he was pleased to see, no garbage. The chamber was furnished in early junkyard; its broken-down chairs, stained and ripped couches, and tables of jumbled scraps gave it an air of bedraggled but comfy chaos. In one corner an unwatched monitor, the coils of its illegal cable hook-up snarled around its base, blared out the latest video from Maria Mercurial, courtesy of one of the music channels.

Someday, he promised himself. Someday they wouldn't have1 to live here.