by Ben Counter, Guy Haley, Joshua Reynolds, Cavan Scott (epub)
The zogging thing was still standing!
‘It’s that zoggin’ energy bubble,’ he shouted. ‘Trip the zogger up, Snikgob. Let’s step on its face!’
‘Can’t snatch it, boss. It’s like trying to grab an oiled squig,’ shouted Snikgob up the tubes. He snatched up a speeding buggy and tossed it at the walker. It exploded on the shields, buffeting the Knight but not bringing it down. The two war engines circled each other. Away off to his left, Uggrim caught the flash of a massive explosion. He turned to see a huge cloud of flame billowing up out of Gork’s Fist’s engine. The gargant stopped dead. A heavily decorated Knight was loping around from the back.
‘Sneaky gits,’ he growled. No time for that now; he had his own problems to worry about.
The Stompa thundered with the noise of the gigashoota. Talker’s shells bounced off the energy shield of their enemy. The air wobbled like jelly where the powerful grav-beams of the lifta-droppa slipped off. The two walkers traded fire, neither machine piercing the other’s energy fields.
‘Sort it out!’ bellowed Uggrim. Talker wailed and sang as he fired the gigashoota at the humie Stompa, the ammo runts stationed around him sweating to keep up with the weapon’s high rate of fire. They slammed magazine after magazine into the rotating ammo feed. Snikgob cursed, and so did Uggrim as their respective big guns did nothing to their foe.
Uggrim was very angry. And then something funny happened. A killa kan, separated from its mob, took a pot shot with a rocket at the rear of the humie walker. It corkscrewed in on a cloud of black smoke and exploded on the thing’s engine stack.
The Knight moved fluidly, torso pivoting. It destroyed the kan as a second rocket came off the small walker’s arm. This exploded well short of the body of the thing, fire smeared across the tell-tale flare of an energy field.
Uggrim saw that Talker’s rounds got through, shattering armour on the side, until the humie Stompa’s attention was back on them.
His face creased, long lips pointed in a v-shaped flute. Inspiration struck as hard as Mork’s own fist. ‘It doesn’t go all the way around. It doesn’t go all the way around!’ he shouted.
‘What do you mean?’ said Snikgob.
‘Never mind. Snikgob, left leg, on my mark.’
‘Which one’s that?’ said Snikgob, who was ordinarily very intelligent for an ork, but currently was burning with full battle rage and so was as thick as the next boy.
‘The one that’s not on the right! Talker, fire everything you got at the right-hand side!’
Whether Snikgob got that or not, it was too late. At least he was powering up the capacitors in preparation. Uggrim couldn’t expect much more than that.
Uggrim pushed Fat Mork into a tottering run. Talker’s gun swung out to track the humie. Uggrim followed with the head. Fat Mork’s beam eye joined the stream of bullets spewing out of the gigashoota.
‘Keep it up, keep it up,’ said Uggrim. He squinted through his most powerful telly-scope. If he was right, the humie could only cover part of his facing at one time. Sure enough, as Talker’s gun played over the machine’s front, Uggrim saw the last rounds batter into the chest directly. He fired again with Fat Mork’s gaze, targeting the right.
‘Now, Snikgob – left leg, left leg!’
Snikgob worked his levers, setting the lifta-droppa’s grav-beams to ‘lift’. He got it wrong, targeting the right leg. Air wobbled. Weird whoops and feedback burbles sounded from the lifta’s gubbins.
‘The other left! The other left! Quick, before he notices,’ shouted Uggrim.
The Knight’s shield shone with violent patterns of disharmonious energy as the lifta-droppa beam played over it, going for the left. Uggrim saw the pilot’s reaction; the shield was sliding along with the lifta-droppa beam. Talker’s bullets suddenly found their mark on the right arm in a hail of sparks and spall.
The humie pilot was too slow. There was a sudden howl in the Stompa’s power lines as the lifta snagged solid matter. With a nonchalant ‘Down he goes!’ Snikgob tugged back on the levers just as the capacitors gave up their last, yanking the Knight’s left foot forwards. The humie Stompa flipped backwards, landing on its back with an almighty crash.
‘Now,’ said Uggrim, ‘I’m willing to reckon that fancy shield don’t cover the nasty bits. Let’s kill it, boys.’
He depressed a big red button embossed with the ork glyph for ‘Boom!’. One of the rockets mounted alongside the gigashoota slid free and sped off into the prone walker. Boom! it went, exploding pleasingly right on the thing’s chin, rolling the head back and knocking it cold. It had been trying to get up before that, but not any more. Talker blazed away at it anyway as they marched forwards, blowing great chunks out of its colourful plating.
Fat Mork came to a shivering standstill over its prey. Uggrim jiggled the levers, shuffling his creation about, until it was in a position to drive one huge iron foot down hard on the humie Stompa’s battered gun arm.
‘Yeah!’ said Uggrim. ‘Not so clever now, is we?’
A bunch of burna boys came from nowhere to swarm all over the machine, intent on hacking it apart.
‘Oi!’ bellowed Uggrim through Fat Mork’s speakers. ‘That’s my salvage. Zog off!’
Talker pivoted the gun down to point right at them. They sheepishly slunk away. By Mork, that Talker was mad as they came, but he knew where to point that cannon. Not for the first time, Uggrim was grateful the crew put up with Bozgat’s pet.
Chapter 6
After the Big Scrap
The battle was coming to a close. Artillery shells fell on the ork horde with lessening frequency. The orks had overrun the defence lines on a front many kilometres across and the humies were pulling back towards the river. Worse still for the humans, most of the Knights that had been attacking Gork’s Fist were smoking wrecks and the rest had turned to flee. Uggrim wasn’t sure how most had bought it, but he thought he saw a massive armoured shape that could only be Grukk clinging to the front of one, biting at the face-plate as it went down. The remaining bright walkers were entirely surrounded. Orks clambered up them as they retreated. Little flashes lit up joints as stikkbombs blew. Soon there were only a handful left.
Larger explosions erupted all around the walkers then, bringing the battle briefly closer again. Uggrim zoomed Fat Mork’s eye in on their source, finding a line of humie battlewagons cresting a low rise to the north-east, those in the lead firing as they advanced. More joined in as they all lined up, tearing ragged holes in the ork horde. The freed walkers accelerated at a run. Light ork vehicles and mobs moved to intercept the tanks. Many were killed, and by the time the orks managed to get close, the three surviving humie walkers were safe behind them. The tanks commenced driving backwards no faster than walking pace, still firing. Flame tanks emerged from between them to burn up any boyz who got too close, and in the end the orks gave up the fight as a bad job.
It didn’t matter. Everywhere, the humans were in retreat. Fightas and Deffkoptas harried them as they fled. Buggies roared in hot pursuit. The orks had won. They’d come down on the planet, smashed up the defences, and had themselves somewhere to build a base. A good start. Already meks were on the rust-ships, temporarily reconfiguring them into forts.
Big Mouth, Uggrim was very pleased to see, had an enormous hole in one side, its jagged edges blackened with soot, although it was still operational. Uggrim cursed Grimgutz’s name colourfully, then turned on the squawker, hailed the other Stompa and did it all over again.
‘Don’t brag, Evil Sun,’ said Grimgutz. ‘I think we all know who did the most crumping today.’ Grimgutz cut off the squawker feed.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Uggrim to himself. ‘Try bashing my Stompa, will you? Sneaky git. We’ll see who’s best.’
Grimgutz couldn’t bring his mood down. Uggrim sighed a happy sigh. He had that warm glow he always got after a strenuous fight. That they had ne
arly been killed only added to the delicious feeling of it. ‘It’s over, lads. We won, like always.’ He slid out of his chair, and climbed halfway down the ladder. He looped his arm over a rung and hung there above the gun deck. ‘Right, Sniks, let’s get to work – we got to cut up that humie walker for parts before those burnas come back and snaffle the lot.’
‘What about the sabotage?’
‘Obvious, innit?’ said Uggrim, climbing down the ladder. ‘Mogrok did it, didn’t he?’
‘Eh?’ said Snikgob.
‘I reckon it was him. He grilled me well hard about the worky bits of our sun here. Didn’t tell him nothin’.’
‘Right.’
‘He’s a powerful enemy, Uggs,’ said Snikgob.
Uggrim waved his concerns away. ‘Nah, don’t worry. We’ll show ’em.’
Snikgob wasn’t convinced.
Bozgat popped his head through the hole leading down to the lower deck. ‘Wow, now that was fun! That chainsword, gotta get one of those. Dead killy, dead killy! Come on, if we got one weakness it’s up-close crumping, boss. Let’s put it on – go on, boss. It’s brilliant!’
Frikk popped his head up close behind Bozgat and nodded enthusiastic agreement.
‘Yeah. Yeah, it is.’ Uggrim clambered down the remainder of the ladder’s rungs. ‘Let’s stay here and get started. Battle’s nearly over. Should be safe to get working. Tool up, boyz, we got a job on.’
The meks clambered down to the lower deck, and out of the door in the side of the Stompa. The hard ground was torn up by artillery fire, and dead and nearly dead orks were strewn about in great multitudes. Piles of scrap lay everywhere, but the Red Sunz were fixated by the fallen human Knight. Bright heraldry torn and scratched, its long legs folded up uncomfortably under it. Weapons and eyes pointed to the sky. The meks took it all in with greedy eyes.
‘Would you look at that,’ said Bozgat. ‘Look at it!’
‘A veritable treasure trove of alien technological salvage,’ said Talker in a foolish voice. ‘Ain’t it pretty?’
Uggrim rubbed his hands together. ‘Right then…’
‘Trousers!’ yelled Talker at the top of his voice. Bozgat, Uggrim and Snikgob all jumped.
Talker immediately slapped both hands over his long snout and stared in shock at the three meks.
‘Will you keep him quiet?’ growled Snikgob. ‘I nearly messed meself.’
‘Sorry, Snik,’ said Bozgat.
Uggrim was about to give Talker what for when, from behind them, came an embarrassed cough. Uggrim turned to see a mob of six Blood Axes sheltering under the lip of Fat Mork’s iron skirt.
‘Great battle that, the way you did for that Stompa…’ started up the bravest of them. The others grinned with embarrassment; one stared fixedly at the ground, twisting the pole of his rocket launcher like he was trying to strangle it.
‘What you doing under there?’ said Uggrim incredulously.
‘Um, strategic placement? Er, tactical evaluation!’ ventured the brave one. The others nodded enthusiastically. ‘We was told to wait ’ere by the boss while he called in reinforcements but, ah…’ He nodded at a muscled arm lying in the dirt a couple of metres in front of the meks. It still held an axe in its hand, gold braid in evidence at the red squishy end.
Uggrim looked at it.
‘Ya know,’ said the Blood Axe, and shrugged apologetically.
‘Strategic placement… Tactical…’ spluttered Snikgob, who was more embarrassed about them seeing him jumping at Talker’s outburst than anything else. ‘Gork’s arse! Ye’re hiding! Skulkin’ about under our bubble field like you was grots! Get out! Go on!’ Snikgob kicked a lump of metal at them. They ducked and it rang off the side of Fat Mork. ‘Get on with you! Zoggin’ pansies.’
‘Er, see you then.’
‘Not if we see you first! Get!’ shouted Snikgob, tossing another piece of metal at them.
The Blood Axes sloped off.
‘Sneaky lot, them,’ said Bozgat. He belched. ‘’Scuse me.’
‘Cowards,’ growled Snikgob. ‘Cowards!’ he hollered after them for good measure. ‘Cowards,’ he reiterated for the other meks’ benefit.
‘Not like you then, jumping at a madboy’s boo?’ said Uggrim.
‘Now that’s entirely different!’
‘Hey, hey, calm down,’ said Bozgat. ‘Let’s live the moment a bit, yeah, Snik, boss?’
Snikgob spat hard, dislodging a surprised looking cheek squig. ‘Yeah. All right.’
‘Great, isn’t it?’ said Bozgat.
And it was.
The battle rumbled still, noisy enough in parts that they had to shout to be heard over it, but already moving further away. Fires guttered in the heaps of flesh and metal around them. They watched and listened and sniffed the scorched air while the sun sank towards the horizon. By unspoken agreement they broke apart, stretching out their long arms and hunched backs, kicking bits of debris out of their way as they ambled round Fat Mork.
Uggrim pulled a pencil out from behind his ear, got a notebook out of his belt pouch and started to make drawings. Much of the time his eyes were on the fallen Knight. Snikgob checked all around the Stompa for any other skulkers before lighting a smoke. He had a sit on a burned-out buggy and surveyed the carnage with little sighs of pleasure. After a while he got to checking over nearby scrap. ‘That’s junk,’ he said. ‘Junk. Junk. More junk…’ His muttering and the clatter of discarded parts moved nearer, then further and then nearer again as he scavenged. Bozgat scouted about for a bit, gathering up a bunch of unnameable debris. When he had a little pile of scrap, he settled into the dust and started to take a battered something to bits, tongue poking out in concentration. Talker started to sing. They were all in such a good mood – nobody told him to shut up for once.
They went on like this for a good time. The orange light took on the colour of burned sugar as evening set in. The battle’s noise dwindled to a comforting background din, quiet enough now that they could hear the smallest sound, near and far: the hisses of squabbling gretchin looters, orderlies planting flags by not-quite-dead boys and calling their dok masters over, the moans of the wounded, the screams of captured humans, orks laughing and shooting off their guns in celebration.
It was soon quiet enough that they caught the muffled banging coming from the fallen humie Stompa.
Bozgat looked up from his little heap of gubbins. ‘Can you hear something, boss?’
‘Hmmm?’ said Uggrim distractedly. He was drawing power couplings that might join the Knight’s chainsword to Fat Mork.
Snikgob took his smoke out of his mouth and cocked his head.
‘I think…’ said Bozgat.
Snikgob frowned, finger to his lips. Bozgat shut up.
The banging came again.
Snikgob laughed: a low, throaty and wholly unpleasant chuckle. ‘Oh I can hear it, I can! Back in a jiffy.’ He ran into the Stompa, puffing smoke as he went.
‘There! There it was again.’ Bozgat clambered up the fallen vehicle and stood on its face-plate. He stamped hard, and listened for a reply.
Some kilometres away the fighting continued. Uggrim idly thought that far too many of the humies had made it over the bridges, but he didn’t care. It just meant the fun would last longer. There was nothing nicer than a good long war.
Bozgat bent over, his hands on his knees. ‘Hmm. Stopped now.’ He stamped again on the buckled face-plate.
The banging started up. Muffled words came in between.
‘There! There is something in there!’ said Bozgat, pointing.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Uggrim, not much interested. ‘That’ll be a humie.’ He kicked a buckled armour plate on the humie Stompa’s leg and nodded at the sound it made.
Snikgob came jogging back, his burna tanks sloshing on his back, his welding mask open on his head. He bounded u
p the fallen metal giant and shoved Bozgat out of the way, pushing a crowbar into his hands as he did. ‘This is going to be fun!’ he cackled. He lit his burna flame from his smoke, flipped his mask down and set the flame to blue and hot. He carefully cut into the shell of the walker. When he’d made a full, square cut, he beckoned and Bozgat came in to pry the front open. Snikgob got his fingers under it and with a loud grunt hurled the plate back.
An angry, soot-stained human stared back at them, his gubbins and worky bits smashed all to zog around him. He shouted something at them in his squeaky humie voice.
Snikgob flipped up his mask. He and Bozgat shared a merry look. ‘Hello, humie!’ Snikgob said, very loudly and very slowly. ‘We is going to get you out – you savvy?’
The human pulled a stupid expression on its flat, pink face and started squeaking again. Snikgob got on his hands and knees. With one hand he reached in, smacking the human across the head when it tried to shoot him with a tiny pistol. Grabbing the man’s clothes, Snikgob hauled him halfway out, yanking repeatedly when the human got tangled in his straps and the wires coming out of his skull. This made the human scream. Bozgat laughed and pulled harder.
The human was soon screaming a whole lot more. Snikgob took his time with him, not stopping until he got hungry and decided it was dinner time.
‘Frikk. Frikk! You want some? There’s still a bit left!’ shouted Snikgob, waving one of the human’s thigh bones at the gretchin.
‘That was a cracking cook up,’ said Bozgat happily. The pair of them were sitting in chairs they’d knocked together from junk, enjoying the embers of their cooking fire glowing in half an oil barrel, the shiny sunset, the stink of war and – best of all – the sweet, sweet taste of pinky flesh.
Frikk wasn’t hungry. He sat with his back against Fat Mork’s foot. He shivered even though it was warm. He was frightened out of his wits, but not so frightened that he did not recognise the glyphs he’d seen scratched into the wall by the broken wires.
Urdgrub.
Chapter 7