5
Mallard stared despondently at the opposite wall. He hated living in the storage compartment. It was cold, dull and creepy, full of rats, and he was constantly reminded of the pain. Asdatesco Reductio didn't like it either. It didn't want to stand in a cage all day, it wanted to rampage across the surface of a planet, raining death on the corrupt infidels. Mallard usually passed the time by trying to talk the Titan out of its pre-programmed constant xenophobic rage; it was a superior machine with a vast processor, and was capable of much more sophisticated thoughts than 'burn stuff'. He explained to it about peace, about the innate kindness of people and the healing abilities that we all possessed, and that the war was just about big corporations really, and ought to be stopped. The Doctor hadn't really had time to think these thoughts during his life as a fully biological life-form, but he was amazed at the progress he was making. Maybe the machine god's presence was enhancing his own mind. But now it was getting late, and the Titan had fallen asleep, creaking as it dreamed of being out there, free.
"Mallard?"
The Doctor turned his head to look at the display camera. Someone had managed to crawl up to the Titan's head and was pressing his nose to one of the eyes in order to see Mallard. It was Jack. He had a bottle of pills, and was throwing it up into the air and catching it again.
"Do you require pain relief?"
"Jack, get the hell out of here."
"I was only asking."
"I can't take the damn pills myself and I know you won't give me the right dosage, because you're evil."
Jack shrugged, somersaulted and jumped down to the floor in one leap.
"We are fast approaching my home planet. We only have to make a quick stop for vital supplies."
"Oh great, they've gone to the pub."
"Indeed. If you require my assistance, I shall be monitoring the ship's status." Jack bowed and walked out.
Mallard sighed and went online to talk to his friends on the Titan Princeps' password-protected private chat room.
Meanwhile, Quack was on his laptop trying to hack into the chatroom. After fifty-six attempts, he gave up, drooled over some pictures on his favourite machine fetishist site and left the toilet. He had more important business to attend to. Throwing a few broken bottles, tables and chairs at random other brawling Orks, he walked over to the bar, grabbed someone by the neck and pushed them off their stool, hitting them with it just to make sure they didn't get up again. Considering what usually happened in the most dangerous pub on an Ork pub moon, this was pretty tame.
"Hey, you! Snot face!"
"Wot?" snarled the huge, heavily-scarred Ork sitting on the next stool along.
"Bet I could drink you under the table!"
"Oh yeah?"
"Tell you what. I challenge you to a drinking competition."
"Winner kill and eat loser!"
"Boring. I've got a better idea..." a grin of sheer insane evil spread across Quacks face as he pulled two peripheration leads out of his pockets. Just then, five Orks flew across the room and knocked them both off their stools. Grunting a quick apology, Digg the Pigg lumbered across the room, picked two of them up, bashed them on the head again and threw them in the other direction. Three more Orks grabbed bar stools and lunged at the Ogryn, who jumped on top of them and tried to throttle them. Duck and Drake grabbed the Ork's abandoned pints and drank them before anyone could notice. They were playing a traditional medic drinking game called 'Drink To HP 5'.
Wachunga Prime, the Ork pub moon, was a deep purple. The colour of beautiful plants with deadly venom. The colour of bat wings. As it orbited its planet, it passed in and out of the eternal shadow cast by its velvet black penumbra. Commoragh was vast, a sphere of dark perfection. The medics were closer to their destination than they imagined.
Mallard stared despondently at the opposite wall. He hated living in the storage compartment. It was cold, dull and creepy, full of rats, and he was constantly reminded of the pain. Asdatesco Reductio didn't like it either. It didn't want to stand in a cage all day, it wanted to rampage across the surface of a planet, raining death on the corrupt infidels. Mallard usually passed the time by trying to talk the Titan out of its pre-programmed constant xenophobic rage; it was a superior machine with a vast processor, and was capable of much more sophisticated thoughts than 'burn stuff'. He explained to it about peace, about the innate kindness of people and the healing abilities that we all possessed, and that the war was just about big corporations really, and ought to be stopped. The Doctor hadn't really had time to think these thoughts during his life as a fully biological life-form, but he was amazed at the progress he was making. Maybe the machine god's presence was enhancing his own mind. But now it was getting late, and the Titan had fallen asleep, creaking as it dreamed of being out there, free.
"Mallard?"
The Doctor turned his head to look at the display camera. Someone had managed to crawl up to the Titan's head and was pressing his nose to one of the eyes in order to see Mallard. It was Jack. He had a bottle of pills, and was throwing it up into the air and catching it again.
"Do you require pain relief?"
"Jack, get the hell out of here."
"I was only asking."
"I can't take the damn pills myself and I know you won't give me the right dosage, because you're evil."
Jack shrugged, somersaulted and jumped down to the floor in one leap.
"We are fast approaching my home planet. We only have to make a quick stop for vital supplies."
"Oh great, they've gone to the pub."
"Indeed. If you require my assistance, I shall be monitoring the ship's status." Jack bowed and walked out.
Mallard sighed and went online to talk to his friends on the Titan Princeps' password-protected private chat room.
Meanwhile, Quack was on his laptop trying to hack into the chatroom. After fifty-six attempts, he gave up, drooled over some pictures on his favourite machine fetishist site and left the toilet. He had more important business to attend to. Throwing a few broken bottles, tables and chairs at random other brawling Orks, he walked over to the bar, grabbed someone by the neck and pushed them off their stool, hitting them with it just to make sure they didn't get up again. Considering what usually happened in the most dangerous pub on an Ork pub moon, this was pretty tame.
"Hey, you! Snot face!"
"Wot?" snarled the huge, heavily-scarred Ork sitting on the next stool along.
"Bet I could drink you under the table!"
"Oh yeah?"
"Tell you what. I challenge you to a drinking competition."
"Winner kill and eat loser!"
"Boring. I've got a better idea..." a grin of sheer insane evil spread across Quacks face as he pulled two peripheration leads out of his pockets. Just then, five Orks flew across the room and knocked them both off their stools. Grunting a quick apology, Digg the Pigg lumbered across the room, picked two of them up, bashed them on the head again and threw them in the other direction. Three more Orks grabbed bar stools and lunged at the Ogryn, who jumped on top of them and tried to throttle them. Duck and Drake grabbed the Ork's abandoned pints and drank them before anyone could notice. They were playing a traditional medic drinking game called 'Drink To HP 5'.
Wachunga Prime, the Ork pub moon, was a deep purple. The colour of beautiful plants with deadly venom. The colour of bat wings. As it orbited its planet, it passed in and out of the eternal shadow cast by its velvet black penumbra. Commoragh was vast, a sphere of dark perfection. The medics were closer to their destination than they imagined.