Thanks to Vehrec for stepping in as my other two Beta's are still AWOL

Requirements Of The Service

(Part 3)

To an outside observer, the new Ork war machine would have looked like a squashed scrap heap that had been given the ability to move on an odd collection of tracks and wheels. But then the eye would be drawn to the two massive turrets crammed with cannons and missile launchers, to the multiple smaller weapons emplacements scattered almost haphazardly across its hull. Underneath the layers of tacked-on scrap, with its sharp edges and garish graffiti, the armour was smooth and deservedly thick, covering several power-field generators and a massive power plant to run it all. The words 'Fist of Mork' were painted across the box with unusual care and reverence, to make sure the Oomans knew just who they were facing.

It was a Bow-Low, the latest addition to the Ork armoury, and deep within its monstrous hide, behind extra layers of armour, sat the command deck, like the putrid yolk of a rotten egg.

"Come on, you bags o' puss!" Iron-Head stood, surrounded by his biggest and most loyal troops, "I want dat ting dead!"

"Ja wohl, mein Führer!" Dok Mangler snapped a quick salute between pulling massive leavers that caused the low rumbling coming from the deck beneath their feet to double, "Flank speed aheads!"

Spurned on by the barbed whips of their overseers, the Gretchins in the engine room worked furiously to turn the orders from the command deck into action, despite the heat, smoke and noise. Several fell into bits of heavy machinery and were dragged into the inner workings, their bodies adding extra lubricant and giving the larger Orks something new to laugh at. Up above them, the gun-crews in the various turrets prepared their Supa-gatlers, Deth Kannons and Supa-rokkits, each crew determined to be the one that scored the killing blow on the Ooman war machine they faced. Several got over excited and started firing at random, hitting several of the warband's other vehicles, by accident or on purpose depending on your point of view.

The large projectile weapon in the Ork vehicles front turret opened up first, a stream of massive shells impacting against my battle screens even as I bring my own weapons to bare. My opponent is eager for battle, a trait I have found universal to their race, so I advance to meet them head on, providing the smallest possible profile. Whether through a design flaw in the weapon or a poor targeting system, their aim is highly erratic, the majority of the shells fired missing wide, and those that hit doing little more than making my battle screens flare. I return the favour with a snap-shot from my forward 200cm Hellbore, hitting them with the force of a small atomic weapon, but they have their own defensive screens up, and the hit fails to do any noticeable damage.

Evidently, this fight will take a little longer than I had first hoped.

Using the terrain to my advantage, I swing right and drop down into a 'small' gully, allowing one of my rear turrets to fire, along with my side-mounted infinite repeaters, which tear into the few remaining supporting units. Orks die by the dozen as the more lightly armoured units explode, but I concentrate on the massive armoured vehicle in the middle of the enemy formation. It mirrors my manoeuvre, and we keep pace with one another, trading broadsides like some ancient warship of Old Terra, my Hellbores and Ion Bolters attempting to ware down their defenses while their out of control projectile weapon tracks round to face me, its massive shells chewing up the landscape as it fires continuously, regardless of what it hits. Indeed, it rakes the last surviving Gargant, and an internal explosion of indeterminate origin leaves it a twisted, burning wreck.

And still my opponent tries to close the point-blank rage, no doubt intending to try and board me. I prep my anti-personnel clusters in anticipation, and issue Guardsmen Volkovich a power carbine from one of my internal armouries, just in case. Then my sensors pick up an Eldar jet-bike approaching, broadcasting the signal from my commanders sub-dermal transceiver.

Maybe this is the surprise Inquisitor Lynch spoke of.

The jet-bike was still several kilometers out when the main body of Orks spotted them and opened fire. Rockets and bullets zipped past them, but the Eldar pilot was able to weave between them, and while many came close, none hit. Then, as they got closer, Archie started to actively support them by picking off the most dangerous Orks with his infinite repeaters and anti-personnel clusters.

"To the rear there's a bay that use to contain combat drones, before the Adeptus Mechanicus took them all for study" Hoban pointed to the Bolo's back quarter, "We should be able to get in through there."

"A wonderful plan, with only a single problem that I can see." The Eldar pointed at the massive Ork war machine that was engaging Archie, "I don't think they'd be willing to cooperate."

"Damnation!" Hoban hissed through gritted teeth, "You got a better plan?"

"Oh, I have an idea." The pilot laughed as they pulled back on the controls, lifting the jet-bike higher, "But I don't think you're going to like it."

"Oh no..." Hoban gasped, realizing what they had in mind.

"Oh yes!"

"Oh no!"

"Oh yes!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Oh crap!" static danced across Hoban's skin as they passed through a narrow gap in Archie's battle screens, then there was the sickening sound of pseudo-plastic bending and warping out of shape as it hit something a lot harder than itself.

The Eldar pilot grabbed him and leapt clear from the remains of the jet-bike a split second before it exploded, shielding them both from the blast with the strange armour they wore. There was a sickening wet sound as they hit Archie's upper deck and skidded along until they hit what was either an auxiliary sensor probe or an anti-personnel cluster, and stars exploded before Hoban's eyes as he felt his left shoulder pop out of its socket. It took him a moment to get a grip on his surroundings; the heat was unbearable, and the noise of battle struck him with a near physical force. He looked around and saw his Eldar companion laying on their side, their back to him, the helmet they had worn since the two first met broken, letting out a spray of flame-red hair. Crawling over to their side, he pulled them onto heir back with his one working arm and was shocked to discover that the Eldar warrior was a female, something he had never expected. A hatched popped open near by, interrupting Hoban's train of thought, and the snub nose of a power-carbine popped out, followed closely by a very short man in an Imperial Guard uniform.

"You the commander of this metal beast?" He asked gruffly.

"I am." Hoban nodded, wondering just what the hell was going on.

"Guardsman Volkovich, at your service, Sir." The Squat saluted, "Maybe you should get below, where it's a little safer?"

"Best idea I've heard all day." Hoban tugged at the unconscious Eldar with his good hand, "Give me a hand here."

"But sir!" Volkovich looked stunned, the muzzle of his carbine edging towards the pilot, "Xenos..."

"Is a representative of an allied power," Hoban snapped back, almost forgetting where he was, "and she damn near killed herself getting me here."

"Aye, sir." The guardsman nodded and moved to assist, knowing that at times it's best not to argue with an officer, especially when they get a truly mad glint in their eye.

With much grunting and more than a little cursing, the two of them were able to drag the Eldar to the hatch, where a sudden unexpected bump sent the three of them tumbling down into Archie, who quickly closed and sealed the hatch.

"My apologies." The Bolo sounded apologetic, "I am afraid that one of my battle screens failed, and the Orks managed to score a hit on my starboard side. Damage is minimal."

"I have had just about ENOUGH OF THIS!" Hoban shouted, his body running on pure adrenalin and rage, to the point where he was visibly shaking, "Volkovich, get a first aid kit and see what you can do for...her." He gestured to the Eldar, "I'm going to kill me some Orks!"

"Yes sir." The guardsman nodded as the captain limped off towards the command centre, "I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of that man, not for the Golden Throne of Terra itself."

Hoban waited until he was through a sufficiently thick and soundproof hatch before slamming his right shoulder into the nearest bulkhead, popping it back into the joint, and emitted what could only be described as a girlish scream of pain. Whimpering slightly, but still filled with rage, he made his way to the very heart of the Bolo. There he found his command couch waiting for him, and he carefully stripped off his jacket before climbing in. The restraints snapped shut around him and the emergency survival canopy closed as the multiple display screens came on-line.

"No, I don't think that's going to be enough, Archie." He shook his head, "Activate the neural-link."

We experience a rush as the neural-link cuts in, making Us one. Time seems to slow to a crawl as Our thoughts, Our minds, become one. The Ork was machine is still firing at Us, and I/We feel a stab of pain as they score a hit, obliterating a number of secondary sensor clusters and anti-personnel weapons. Armour that has remained untouched for millennia shatters away in flakes a meter across, littering the battlefield like snow. I/We respond with a coordinated strike against Our enemies forward turret, all three of Our Hellbores zeroing in to rob the accursed Orks of a third of their fire-power. The weapon explodes with a massive fountain of smoke, flame and debris, the charred remains of several Orks flying through the air.

But the other two turrets respond in kind, and a fresh stab of pain strikes Us as out central turret is badly damaged. Internal disruptor fields prevent the energy pulse from spreading further, but the drive system for the turret ring is reduced to molten slag, and the power feeds for the Hellbore are severed. For all their crude aesthetics, the Orks we face are obviously no fools when it comes to weapons design or battle tactics.

We change tack, aiming all Our available weapons at their drive train, seeking to limit their mobility. Hellbore bolts strike drive wheels and bogies shatter and melt under the onslaught, causing the Ork machine to swerve suddenly to port, throwing off their already questionable aim. Unfortunately their machine has ample raw power, its obviously oversized engines providing an massive amount of torque to each individual wheel, and it is soon able to overcome the damage.

The outcome of the battle is far from certain.

The Eldar pilot awoke to find herself looking down the barrel of a power-carbine.

"The Captain seems to think he owes you one." Volkovich hissed through gritted teeth, his finger holding the trigger at the very point of firing, "But to me, you're just another Xeno, understood?"

"I am Lúthien Nénharma of the Shining Spears, assigned to Emissary Arcamenel's personal guard." The woman spoke softly, her voice like oil on silk, "I can think of at least six ways to take that weapon away from you before you can fire. Four would kill you outright, while the other two would simply cripple you." She sat up slowly, "But right now, I am under orders to assist Captain Hoban in repelling the Ork attack. And even if I wasn't, I'm hardly likely to do anything that might endanger this machine and thus get myself killed."

"Just making sure we're all on the same page." Volkovich shouldered the carbine, "How much do you know about mechanical engineering?"

"Almost nothing: when I was younger, my parents wanted me to go initally into the life of a merchant, so that formed the basis of my education. What few procedures I do remember are all dependant on Wraithbone." Nénharma shook her head, "Since I became a warrior, my training had been geared more towards breaking things apart than fixing them"

"Same general principles apply, just in reverse." Volkovich pointed to a large metal box, "You can carry the tool kit; the Orks have this nasty habit of blowing holes in this overgrown tin can." He turned and started walking off down the corridor, "And with half the servitors down, you can guess who's going to have to fix everything."

Smoke and the stench of burning flesh filled the Fist of Mork's command deck, but if it made life even the least bit difficult for her crew, they knew better than to show it in front of their war-boss; the bulkhead was covered in the remains of the last Ork that had.

"I wants a targeting lock on dat Ooman and I wants it now!" Iron-Head roared, his cybernetic fist leaving a huge dent in the console beside him, "I'll chase him round the Domain of Storms, and round the Eye of Terror, and round perdition's flames before I gives him up!"

"We hear and obey, mein Führer!" Dok Mangler responded as he worked like a demon to bypass systems that had been damaged or destroyed by the battle. But the truth was that he still didn't fully understand what he had created; it was something that he had envisaged in his mind, and started to assemble almost in a daze. To a human it would have been an uncanny experience-to a Mekboy, it was mundane. There was also the problem that Ork technology was more a question of intent and belief then physical ability. This made it hard to operate such a massive machine, as the slightly loss in concentration on his part could render a key system inoperable.

"Dere she is! Dere she is!" Iron-Head painted at a shadow on the static filled main screen, his one good eye full of glee, "GIVE ME RAMMING SPEED!"

The fog of war, both literal and the electronic kind, make it difficult for Us to keep track of our foe, especially when they stop firing. Even our seismic sensors are next to useless as our own movement creates too much interference. But I/We know that the Ork are out there, waiting to get a clear shot. Their new weapon is crude but effective, a clear indication that the re-emergence of the Dinochrome Brigade has not gone unnoticed. I/We expected a response, but not so soon, and not from the Orks; of all humanities enemies, they are the ones I/We anticipated would be the last to adapt. But evidently I/We were wrong, and now I/We are paying the price for underestimating them. Underestimating your enemy is to be avoided; thousands of years ago, humanity underestimated the Melconian Empire, and the long and bloody war that followed almost wiped both sides out. Information on how the war ended, and humanity was able to rebuild is sketchy at best, and the Inquisition has, politely, suggested that looking into it further should be avoided. I/We know a direct threat when we hear one, and as such I/We have left well enough alone.

But the Orks are not the Melconians, and this is not Operation Ragnarok. Our enemy emerges from the smoke, headed strait for us at what must be their maximum speed. There is no time to manoeuvre to avoid collision, so instead I/We angle ourselves to take the blow head-on, where our armour is thickest. The difference in perception time and the ability to physically react are often disconcerting; as a human would say, it is like walking through treacle, and I/We are forced to watch as our two passengers struggle to react to the warning with give them as we veer sharply to starboard.

I/We take the bow on the very corner of our armed prow, where the reinforced internal structuring is best equipped to absorb the force of impact. Even so, we feel every destroyed anti-personnel cluster, every blow relay and every stress fracture as if they were physical pain, a bizarre by-product of the neural link. Two of our secondary Hellbores shatter as sheets of ablative armour the size of a main battle tank are pulverised. Endurachrome warps and buckles like paper, and even the inner most layer of flint-steel is damaged, but no hull breaches are detected. Circuit breakers kick in, but even they aren't fast enough to stop the massive overload that shorts out the forward turret, robbing my of half my remaining main armament. The hull of the Ork war machine rides up and onto my forward deck, sheering off sensors clusters and even more anti-personnel and point-defence weapons, leaving deep gouges in my armoured deck.

Power links to my drive train shut down to prevent overheating, leaving us, temporarily at least, stranded

"What in the Emperors name was THAT?" Volkovich demanded of the universe as he picked himself up off the deck. He'd barley had enough time to comprehend the collision alarm before he'd been thrown across the small room into the far bulkhead.

"I do not know." Nénharma pushed herself into a seated position and lent back against the hatch, "But it can not have been good."

"That just might be the understatement of the centenary." The NCO responded, grabbing his tools that had been scattered abut, "But I came here to fix a power coupling, and that's exactly what I intend to do." He opened a maintenance panel to examine a mess of burnt out components and severed wiring, "This doesn't look too different than a standard relay; little more advanced, maybe, but same general principle." He started to cut away chunks of wiring to expose the real damage below, "Looks like the main power artery is undamaged; the serge protectors did their job, may the Omnisaiah bless them, but the cut out is fused in the open position, and I've no way of getting it shut again without ripping it out and replacing it." He looked over to his companion, "I don't suppose you have a surge protector for a Mk33 Bolo combat unit with you?"

"Sorry," The Eldar warrior shook her head, "left it in my other armour."

"Well then, we make do and mend." Volkovich rummaged around inside the tool case until he found a large spanner, "This should just about do it."

"What exactly do you mean by 'it'?" Nénharma asked hesitantly, feeling totally out of her depth.

"I'm going to jam it in between the two ends of the power artery and spot-weld it in place." the mechanic explain as he pulled on his goggles, "And then prey that it doesn't make the entire turret blow up in our faces."

"Oh," The Eldar blinked, surprised at how okay she was with the plan, "That's good then."

"Okay, next time, I drive." Iron-Head grabbed the unfortunate Ork who'd been steering the Fist of Mork and crushed his skull to pulp, "What's going on?"

"Engines are off-line." Mangler reported as he listened intently at a number of speaking tubes at once, "Gun-crews are attempting to realign turrets two and three manually, but they weren't exactly built for that, so it's taking time."

"Bah!" the war-boss sneered, "Have za rest of the crew arm up and storm zat bastard; a shiny new choppa to whoever brings me za head of its commander!"

There was a moment of silent, then a riot broke out as the rest of the command crew fought to be the first through the hatch.

"Not you." Iron-Head grabbed Mangler by the shoulder and held him in place, "Let za others go get themselves killed; we'ze gots a bigger prize ta claim."

I/We detect the Orks climbing out of their damaged machine and onto our hull, but with so many of our weapons disabled or destroyed, there is little I/We can do about it. Fortunately, our hull is relatively intact, all exterior hatches are sealed and our internal defences are untouched. This does not mean that they are not a threat; they have shown themselves time after time to be relentless in battle, and I/We must refrain from underestimating them.

That leaves the question of the massive war machine I/We are entangled with. It seems to be as damaged as I/We are, if not more so, and has made no effort to move or fire its remaining weapons. At point blank range, with our shields down, any hit would be catastrophic to say the least. I/We feel what can only be described as annoyance over the fact that the Hellbore in our disabled central turret is directly aliened with a large rent in tour opponents armour, and even a low power bolt would do immense damage to their systems at this range. Given time, our self-repair systems may be able to restore power to the turret, but time is one thing we may not have.

To Be Continued...