by Phil Kelly
The side of a grabba pole smacked into his head.
‘Wot’s wrong wiv grots, Garguk?’ said Boggok. The old runtherd squared up to stand a few inches from Garguk’s face, his eyes pinched and red. ‘An’ who sez I ain’t the boss?’
‘You?’ sneered Garguk. ‘You’re a pig-stinkin’ fat-arse wiv a fancy pole.’
Stepping back, Boggok caught a nearby snotling with his grabba stikk and shoved it hard between Garguk’s jaws. ‘Choke on it, Garguk,’ said Boggok, turning his grabba stikk around and sticking the reeling ork’s throat with its zapper prongs.
It was the only signal the mob needed. Pandemonium broke out as half of the ork veterans decided they should be in control, and set about proving it at the expense of the other half.
The last thing Garguk saw was a shimmering black disc zipping off into the sky.
The Rust Wastes, Southern Hemisphere, Arkunasha
‘Now watch this grouping,’ said O’Shoh to the officers gathered around him, ‘the larger specimens in particular.’
A loose mob of a dozen orks milled on the curved viewscreen of the Constellation of Hopes. As the officers watched, a muscular ork warrior took a spearing blow to the throat. It was flung out of frame, blood jetting from its neck.
‘With the largest of their number disabled, they will attempt to establish dominance almost immediately. These guttural sounds you hear are challenges and insults.’
Several of the fire caste nodded, murmuring in appreciation at the sight of another greenskin leader being cut down.
‘Commendable finesse,’ said Shas’nel Xo, the corners of his scar-twisted mouth twitching. ‘It is always gratifying to watch our pathfinders go about their work. This drone footage is remarkable.’
‘Observe,’ said O’Shoh. ‘An alpha life form will try to restore order.’
The orks were shoving and punching each other, but one of their cyborg medical caste was restoring order by jabbing troublemakers with a long syringe. O’Shoh highlighted the medic with an eye-flick and spoke into his headset communion bead.
‘Rail rifle shot please, Team Thoro.’
A heartbeat later, the ork cyborg’s head exploded in a puff of red mist. Guttural roars rose from the speaker arrays as the fighting began anew.
Por’o Kais spoke up from the curving arc of the Constellation’s command tier. ‘Impressive. I have my magisters working on translations of these latest challenges even now. The earth caste are recutting them into broadcast subroutines.’
‘An elegant solution, Commander Shoh,’ said Admiral Li’mau Teng, ‘to set the beast upon itself. It chews its own tail in frustration, unable to heal.’
‘More than that, we shall soon set the environment against the foe,’ said O’Shoh, ‘and play on their weaknesses in doing so.’
‘The commander has the key, I believe, to winning the war,’ said Sha’vastos. He pressed an update visor against his temples as he leaned back in his command throne. ‘According to the sub-orbitals, the orks’ numbers are already thinning considerably. We are able to dispatch our Crisis teams upon sabotage operations once more.’
O’Shoh turned to the assembled officers. ‘The ork warriors have a physical hierarchy that is well known,’ he said. ‘However, I suspect their tribal groupings operate in much the same way. The bigger tribes dominate the smaller ones across the planet. Should all the groupings be kept roughly the same size, the resultant civil war could be prolonged indefinitely.’
‘And the death count rises, even when we are not there,’ said Brightsword from O’Shoh’s left.
‘Genius,’ said Admiral Teng.
‘Pragmatism, but thank you nonetheless,’ replied O’Shoh. ‘Now, if I could draw your attention to Sector 13-2.’
A convoy of ork vehicles resolved into focus as a monitor drone drew close.
‘The nomad clan,’ he continued. ‘Their signifier is a grimacing sunburst. I studied this particular grouping first hand in a research mission. Commander Brightsword was kind enough to join me. I believe this particular tribe governs leadership potential by the velocity a driver can attain, rather than his physical size.’
O’Shoh zoomed in on the hurtling, crimson-daubed monstrosities at the convoy’s fore.
‘My teams have honed this particular Mont’ka strike to perfection. They have intercepted the invaders towards Transit Bridge 181. Observe the ork behaviour when the fastest of their number is removed from the equation.’
The impact of heavy rail rifle fire punched the speeding red juggernaut at the head of the convoy into a slewing crash. It flipped and rolled, sending up a wall of oxide particles. Almost immediately, the wheeled vehicles in its wake accelerated into the rust clouds in a bid to lead the charge.
O’Shoh thumbed his communion bead once more.
‘Detonate.’
On screen, the end section of Transit Bridge 181 crumbled away into the chasm, leaving a wall of pale rock dust behind.
‘I estimate one third of the ork column will fall into the trap,’ said O’Shoh. ‘The casualties will include all of the tribe’s ruling caste. The rest of the rabble will soon fall to infighting.’
The leaders of the impromptu ork convoy, each powering into the rust clouds as fast as their vehicles could carry them, pitched right over the edge of the chasm. Articulated battle fortresses, junk tankers, souped-up dragsters, prong-jawed tank wagons and even fat-wheeled warbikes found themselves going too fast to stop.
By the time the rest of the ork column had slewed to a halt, their entire vanguard had been swallowed by the chasm.
Murmurs of appreciation filled the room.
‘And now the internecine conflict will begin,’ said O’Shoh. His cold and humourless smile was half-lit by the wide viewscreen.
A few long moments of strained silence passed. Sporadically at first, but then with gathering volume, the orks started hurling recriminations and curses at each other. One of the roof gunners opened fire with a sponson-mounted machine gun, and sparks flew across a dozen red-painted roofs. Whenever a larger ork emerged to restore order, the red dot of a pathfinder’s markerlight would appear, and the ork’s head would explode.
Spellbound, the fire caste officers looked on as the entire ork column erupted into an anarchic close-range gunfight.
‘This is one of two hundred and sixteen Mont’ka variants that are taking place as we speak,’ said O’Shoh.
‘By the Tau’va,’ wheezed Teng, ‘you seem to know everything before it happens, commander. Are you sure this is not archive material?’
O’Shoh could hear the jest in the admiral’s tone, but he enlarged the readouts nonetheless.
‘Observe the timestamp, admiral. It is simply a matter of understanding ork psychology.’
‘I offer contrition, commander,’ said Teng as he got to his feet. ‘And if you will excuse me, I will leave immediately. It seems I finally have some pleasant news for Master Aun’Tal.’
11-0
The Rust Wastes, Southern Hemisphere, Arkunasha
Dok Toofjaw paced amidst the roofless wreckage of a gun-runt transport dome. Rubble-strewn tunnels reached out like shattered spokes, each opening painted with his war leaders’ personal glyphs.
Toofjaw looked behind him to the trio of killa kans that formed his orderlies, each squat walker covered in a bloodstained apron. An old joke, those outfits, but one he’d kept for a reason: if the ladz thought he was a bit mad, so much the better.
‘There’s one comin’ now, painboss,’ said Droggok, lounging in an improvised hammock of cables. The mek wiggled one of his best screwdrivers into a cavernous nostril. His skullcap fizzed sparks, and he sat up with a bark of pain. Nearby, Krobb guffawed with laughter.
A wide-shouldered ork with a snowplough jaw emerged from the farthest tunnel, tasselled greatcoat flapping in the hot desert wind. He had a multi-barrelled gu
n slung on an ammo strap in such a way that it just happened to be pointing in their direction.
‘Dok,’ said the figure, tipping his ostentatious hat.
‘Grogboss,’ said Toofjaw. ‘I hear you been scrappin’ wiv my lot.’
‘So what?’ replied the new arrival, taking a swig from a dusty bottle.
Before Toofjaw could reply, the flatulent roar of a speedster engine filled the air. A gun-trike the size of a battlewagon growled in through the largest of the transit tubes.
‘Show-off,’ muttered Toofjaw.
A grinning loon of an ork slammed back the corrugated panel of the giant gun-trike’s cockpit. Dozens of teeth, every one a spent bullet casing, glinted in the sun.
‘Wotcher, Dok,’ said Redd da Bullit. He vaulted from the cockpit and swung out, crunching heavily into the rubble.
Five out of nine bosses left, thought Toofjaw. Good enough.
‘Right, lissen up you lot. Them gun-runts still ain’t up for a proper scrap. They keep shootin’ bosses and knockin’ out wagons.’
Redd da Bullit nodded sagely. ‘Can’t let ’em kill our wheels.’
‘Not in the desert,’ said Toofjaw. ‘Not wiv them storms. They’re bad news. Good news is, I still got a plan.’
‘Better be a good one,’ said Grogboss. ‘We can’t fight wot keeps disappearin’. I’ve lost too many mobs that way already, and Crossbones’s lot are pickin’ fights every chance they get.’
‘I lost a pair o’ squiggoths meself,’ said Krobb, scratching his chained squighound just above its eyes. As the beast herder straightened to his full height, the monster-hunting stick figures tattooed across his gut distorted strangely. ‘It was them desert ghosts wot killed ’em, I reckon.’
‘Yeah, them ghosts wiv da guns,’ leered Grogboss. Toofjaw stared daggers at him. The freebooter and the Snakebite chieftain had always hated each other, but they could ill afford yet more division between the tribes.
‘Speakin’ o’ guns,’ said Droggok, fiddling with his bionic eye, ‘we’re runnin’ outta dakka. We keep on lettin’ these gun-runts pick off our meks and we won’t have no Waaagh! left.’
‘Shut it, you,’ said Dok Toofjaw, his killsaws whirring menacingly. ‘Now listen up. First, we’re gonna take the farthest one of them bubble-domes out fer good, and nab as many gun-runts as we can.’
‘Can’t get through the walls, boss,’ said Droggok, grinning helpfully.
‘I know that, Droggok,’ said the Dok through gritted teeth. ‘That’s why we’re gonna cheat. Oi, Skrawn!’
A gangling ork with vomit stains on his brightly patterned clothing sat up from the shade of a ruined tunnel. The small rocks that had been drifting around his head dropped suddenly to the sand.
‘I din’t do nuffin’ boss!’ the weirdboy blurted.
‘Skrawn, what did you tell me yesterday?’
‘Er… that squig curry was bad for ya guts, boss.’
‘I mean about the dream, Skrawn,’ said Toofjaw, his killsaws revving.
‘Oh yeah, er… the dream. Well, I reckon I could swap my dream of being inside them dome fings, lookin’ at sleepin’ gun-runts, with us lot being outside the domes. Sorta like a tellyporta.’
‘Right. So in other words, you can get us in.’
The warbosses looked at each other in eager bloodlust, grins plastered across their faces.
‘Redd,’ continued the painboss, ‘you and your speed freeks are gonna smash up some o’ them fancy flyin’ tanks. Krobb, you hit the rest wiv a squiggoth stampede. Keep ’em distracted.’
The chieftains nodded. Redd’s shell-case grin grew even wider.
‘Grogboss, you and yer flash gitz deal wiv them flyin’ robot fings, if yer can stay sober enough ta shoot straight. Meantime, Skrawn gets me and the killa kanz inside.’
‘Then wot, Dok?’
‘Then I get busy carvin’ ‘til the boss gun-runt shows.’
Krobb’s squighound began to yap and snarl crazily, leaping at a patch of empty sky and thrashing on its lead.
‘Zoggin’ eck, Sniffa, give it a rest,’ said Krobb. ‘He keeps doin’ that. Barkin’ at nuffink.’
‘You’re a pig-stinkin’ fat-arse wiv a fancy pole!’ said a disembodied ork voice.
Toofjaw started, looking around at Grogboss, but he seemed just as nonplussed.
‘You wot?’ said Krobb, picking up his grabba pole. ‘You talkin’ about me, are ya?’
‘Leave it out, ya grot-fondling lumpa squig dung!’
Toofjaw cast about for the culprit, killsaws revving, but the source of the insults was still a mystery.
‘Lumpa wot?’ said Krobb, stomping purposefully towards Grogboss. ‘You got the guts to say that again?’
By the beast herder’s side, the squighound was going crazy. It was making it hard to think.
‘You two,’ said Dok Toofjaw, ‘cut it out. Now.’
‘Yeah,’ laughed Redd da Bullit, already halfway up to his absurd vehicle’s cab, ‘don’t make me gun you losers down.’
‘That fing’s a piece a junk,’ said an ork voice from behind Toofjaw.
‘A piece a junk?’ choked Redd. He grabbed a kustom slugga from the driving seat and pointed it at Toofjaw. ‘I’ll show you wot’s junk, ya mad git. Robbit, ready da guns!’
Two triple-barrelled cannons cranked up from the rear of Redd’s gun-trike, shivering around until they were pointing in Toofjaw’s direction.
This time, the Dok was shocked to find the disembodied voice from behind him was unquestionably his own.
‘It’s shootin’ time now, ya mouthy git.’
Every one of the warbosses bared their tusks.
Then the gun-trike fired, and things got really ugly.
The Dome of Infinite Horizons,
Bio-dome 1-1, North Hex, Arkunasha
In the amphitheatre of the Dome of Infinite Horizons, the tau officers watched the ork leaders blasting away at each other. One of the greenskin war-chiefs was already down, and the others were withdrawing into the shattered transit tunnels.
Despite the ache behind his eyes, O’Shoh thought he could happily watch the footage a dozen times over.
‘These specific tribes will not fight alongside each other for some time, Master Aun’Tal,’ he said. The ethereal at the centre of the amphitheatre nodded. ‘In this way, we shatter the cohesion of the foe. While he reels, we use the desert as our ally, scattering the hordes into nothingness.’
Around him, the caste council and Aun’Tal’s honour guard watched in respectful silence. To O’Shoh’s great relief, both El’Vesa and Tutor Sha’kan’thas were conspicuous by their absence, and not a single challenge had been levelled at his strategy. All eyes were on the ethereal as the drone footage showed ork leaders fleeing into the desert.
‘Admiral Li’mau Teng,’ said Aun’Tal. ‘On wings of hope, you have borne to me the gift of joyous news. Our once-errant warrior has returned to the fold.’
The willowy tau elder bowed extravagantly, smiling widely at the ethereal’s approval. O’Shoh’s own smile was a modest acknowledgement. Within, his heart leapt.
The ethereal turned to face O’Shoh, raising his arms in a gesture of blessing. His honour guard stepped forwards, forming a hemisphere around their master and raising their ceremonial swords in salute.
‘Commander Shoh of the fire caste,’ said Aun’Tal, ‘you have opened our eyes to a new way of defeating the ork menace. You clearly not only understand the minds of these beasts, but can also predict their behaviour.’
O’Shoh bowed his head and knelt in humble acknowledgement.
‘For this prescience,’ continued Aun’Tal, ‘you may stand up not as O’Shoh, the Inner Light, but as O’Shovah.’
A burning well of pride filled O’Shovah’s chest as he got to his feet, drinking in the honour the ethereal had given hi
m. Shovah was a rare name element indeed; it was given only to those who saw into the future, guiding the tau for the Greater Good.
A moment of respectful silence passed, the caste council bowing as one. Aun’Tal made an inverted gesture of dismissal and left the room, his honour guard close behind.
There was a long pause, the atmosphere in the amphitheatre one of restrained jubilation.
‘So,’ said Sha’vastos, ‘what are our orders, Commander Farsight?’
12-0
The Rust Wastes, Southern Hemisphere, Arkunasha
Brightsword revelled in the feeling of familiarity as he tipped his custom XV8 into a long horizontal swoop. Behind him was an entire hunter cadre, and behind that, led to battle in their wake, was an Arkunashan storm of terrifying intensity.
To say O’Shovah’s new strategy was audacious was an understatement, even to one as adventurous as Brightsword, but after the commander’s recent restoration to full caste council status, no one was foolish enough to disagree with it. Still, his instructions had caused many raised eyebrows and extensive clarification requests from Tutor Sha’kan’thas.
The ork beast was already blind, Commander Farsight had said. Its claws had been blunted. The vast majority of the ork outriders, air cover and heavy gun batteries belonged to specific tribes, tribes that had been split away from the main invasion force by the dissent the fire caste had sown amongst them. Now was the perfect time to attack the army of the warlord that called itself ‘Tooth Jaw’, with mobility as their foremost weapon. They were to ambush the slow-moving horde that remained, kill the leader of the ork invasion and escape before the rust storms moved in.
Behind the three advance cadres roaring across the desert were several Devilfish transports, each bearing a crack team of pathfinders. Brightsword had been assigned to coordinate their mission in person. Over the course of the last few decs, they had cut down one ork patrol after another, leaving smoking wreckage and pillars of greasy flame in their wake.
It was not long before the orks came looking for the perpetrators en masse.
Brightsword’s hunter cadre, united in a two-pronged Mont’ka strategy with Farsight’s own, had cut down orks by the hundred. The orks had fought back with great fury, and the cadres had lost over thirty tau as a result.