Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 170
Half a continent away Orkamemnon was leading a fast strike upon the primary spaceport. The PDF had been preparing for the coming of the Greenskins, there were few other targets on Praedium worth bothering with, but the speed of the assault caught them off guard. At dawn a column of Trukks, Bikes and Killa Kans came roaring over the horizon, sneakily bypassing hundreds of auspex stations that lay between the main base camp and the spaceport. Barely had the alert sounded when the spearhead smashed through the perimeter, plunging deep within the facility, and then the screaming began.
Under the shadow of gargantuan landing platforms mobs of Boyz poured out of ramshackle flatbeds, cleavers waving in the air as they chanted merry songs of slaughter. Enginseers ran and adepts cowered but the Greenskins butchered them all the same, brutally ending any hoomie they ran across. PDF troopers hurried set up Heavy Bolters on gantries and cranes but laughing Stormboyz caromed overhead, rocketpacks belching black smoke as goggled Orks dropped onto the defender's heads. A clanking Dreff Dread tore out the supports of a traffic control tower, sending the operators screaming to the ground. A trio of Sentinel walkers sallied from nearby garages with Multi-lasers blazing, they were met by a mob of bikers, swarming the gangly machines and laughing uproariously as they strapped bombs to the armoured cockpits, blowing themselves up along with the panicking militia. The attack was swift, it was brutal and it was terrifyingly well-organised. Wherever the Black Orks strode, the tone of battle shifted, becoming faster, quieter and intricately well-coordinated.
Orkamemnon would have been pleased, were it not for the pounding in his skull. The warboss strode over the ruins of the toppled control tower, taking in the sights of fires spreading and the smell of burning flesh. It was as natural to an Ork as breathing but it brought him no pleasure. Pain was his constant companion, laced into his bones and the meat of his brain and it brought with it strange thoughts, bitter reflections and vicious spikes of inspiration. Strategic and tactics poured through his brain night and day, new plans, new schemes and new ways to bring carnage to the galaxy. He hated them, they drowned out the simple pleasure of shooting and stabbing, not to mention bringing the most unorky thoughts.
"Da Ork is made for Krumping, therefore to Krump ain't an act, tis a Waaagh!" Orkamemnon declared as he strode.
"Wut?" a big Ork at his side muttered.
"Never u mind Wildgob," Orkamemnon groaned as his forehead pulsed painfully, "Go sort out Meskits mob of berks."
"Why me?"
"Cause I said so," Orkamemnon growled.
"Why's I gotta do what a weedy Runtherder says?"
Orkamemnon turned to stare at him. Wildgob was a Goff by tribe, the biggest and meanest of Orks. He was head and shoulders taller than the Warboss and much, much broader. Orkamemnon was short, round of stomach and beady of eye, his armour was basic plates held to his frame by leather straps, but his arms and legs were bulging with implanted mechanisms. Pistons moved underneath his skin, tearing through in places. His shoulder bones were braced by rods and screws and his left eye was a staring glassic orb of red. Orkamemnon was no ordinary Ork, not even a Oddboy, he was a Cybork, reworked and made something unique in all the galaxy, Worst of all his brain was swollen with strange devices, screwed into the bone of his scalp, expanding his cranium to make it an engorged melon atop his crushed neck. The machinery whirred as Orkamemnon exerted his will, causing pain to spike even harder behind his eyes, but Wildgob became suddenly passive and mumbled, "Yes boss, right away boss."
Orkamemnon watched the Goff go, then returned his attention to the battle. It was pathetically easy; the rapid strike had shattered the defences and soon this spaceport would belong to the Orks. The river of thought pounding through his skull told him that with the primary access cut off the hoomies would be reduced to shuttle runs, pinching off their logistics. Resistance would wither and the tactical disposition would shift to the Greenskins. Logistics, disposition, he hated that he knew what these words meant, life had been so much better when his world consisted of little more than bossing Grots around and cuffing them upside the head when they got gobby. Sometimes he'd fry a Snotling with his Grot-Prodder just for a laugh... those were the days.
He was meandering past an overturned Cargo-8 when a savage roar split the air. From the shadows leapt a hoomie, trying to ambush him with a revving chainsword. Orkamemnon spied a peaked cap and a red sash, but his attention was on the swinging blade. He jerked backwards and the spinning chainteeth missed him by a hairsbreadth. The hoomie was stoked, lashing out again with a roundhouse blow. Orkamemenon caught it on the aft of his Grot-prodder, sending sparks flying. The Hoomie wasn't dismayed, drawing back and hacking with an overhead chop aimed at the Greenskin's skull.
Flashing thoughts poured through Orkamemnon's head: deflection, parry, riposte and lunge. A detailed breakdown of combat stances and possible counters. He ignored them all by force of will, determined to fight properly for once. This hoomie was good, roaring savagely as he attacked. Orkamemnon liked his gumption, let him have his moment. Orkamemnon's head jerked aside, and the chainsword carved a vicious groove into his clavicle. Elated the hoomie drove forward, arm pistoning up and down as he hacked and slashed. The roaring chainteeth gouged at the Warboss's shoulders, tearing chuck of wet flesh away, chipping at the rods and plates underpinning the skin. Hatred thrummed in the man's veins, holy rage stoking his anger and his detestation was razor-sharp. Good, Orkamemnon chortled as the simple joy of combat bubbled, but not good enough.
The Ork's left arm came up and bashed the chainsword away, then he thrust with his Grot-Prodder. Electrodes sparked as they slammed into the hoomie, making the man convulse and drop his weapon. Electrical current ground along nerves like razorwire, tormenting the man with a morsel of the pain Orkamemnon felt every second. It was too much for the weak hoomie, he fell to the ground, clutching at his chest, suffering a cardiac arrest.
Orkamemnon raised his boot to crush the skull but a gruff voice broke in, "Awooogah! Awoogah, medical attenshun needed!" From the midst of battle hurried Diorkgenes, his hands heavy with chirurgical equipment. Scalpels and knives and bone saws soaked in human and Ork blood, as were his hands. The Mad Dok was as contorted as Orkamemnon, limbs interwoven with metal pistons and pulsing tubes. His head was swollen with implanted devices, obviously the work of the same Maker, but where Orkamemnon maintained bitter sanity Diorkgenes had been driven completely round the bend.
"Ya be suffering a heart attack!" Diorkgenes yelled at the hoomie as he knelt beside the crippled man.
"Get off me Xenos filth!" the hoomie gasped.
"Ya heart is no good, I gives ya a nice shiny new one!" Diorkgenes declared as he ripped open the hoomie's shirt.
"No, God-Emperor no!"
"Applying anaesthetic!" Diorkgenes yelled as he punched the man in the face, smashing the head into the dirt with a ringing concussion.
"Spreader!" the Mad Dok bellowed he took out a spiked jaw set and rammed it into the chest, then ripped it wide with both hands, snapping ribs like twigs and spraying blood everywhere.
Orkamemnon left the Mad Dok to these happy labours as he took in the state of the battle. The Boyz were making a merry slaughter, hacking and stabbing with wild abandon. They dragged screaming workers from their hiding places, tears and begging producing only laughter. An Enginseer tried to fend off a mob with a plasma-torch, he actually managed to burn the face of one Ork off but the rest guffawed at his defiance before ripping him limb from limb. A nobby hoomie had been caught trying to flee the planet, caught on the steps of his gilded shuttle as it steamed on a landing pad. He died pleading for his life, offering rich gold chains in exchange for mercy. A couple of Boyz killed him anyway but fell to infighting over the gold teeth in the jaws, arguing over their merits compared to proper Ork teeth.
Orkamemnon felt the violence in the air. Not via the smell of blood in the nostril nor the din of furiously clashing arms. The dawn light made filthy by rising smoke was a mere backdrop and the quaking of soil underfoot was a faint ambiance. No, he felt the essence of his kind pulsing in the ether, Waaagh energy building to a crescendo. Violence stoked it, numbers swelled it, a gestalt manifestation of all the Orks on the planet, growing to a critical mass. Orkamemnon was no weirdboy but as a Runtherder he'd had a subconscious tie to the Waaagh, using it to dominate and control lesser Greenskins. The devices buried in his skull amplified that ability, changing a weedy Oddboy into a Warboss. He was the first, the prototype, but far from the last.
Nearby a Black Ork battled three hoomies at once. They came at him with bayonets fitted, driven by the desperate courage of hopeless men. They knew their deaths had come but were determined to take as many foes with them as possible, yet little did they know that they contended with Sorkrates. The Black Ork stood upright, for a Greenskin, meeting their blows with a broad shield over his left arm. A shield, the most unorky implement imaginable, and yet he made it work. The other hand bore a chugging angle-grinder and he put it to work most adroitly.
A Guardsman lunged at Sorkcrates only to find his blow rebuffed by a twist of the shield. He staggered to the side, only to have the spinning buzzsaw slam into his lumbar. A flick of the wrist sent it sawing upwards, dismembering the spine and turning the man's insides out. The eviscerated corpse collapsed but the other two took their chance, lunging from both sides. Sorkrates blocked the left with the flat of his shield and whipped his right arm back, slicing open the throat of a hoomie before the bayonet could touch his midnight flesh. Torrents of blood coated the ground as Sorkrates drew back his left arm and rammed it forward, smashing the third stupid hoomie's face in. The man staggered backwards, hands flying to the ruin of his nose only to be knocked over by another bash of the shield. Sorkrates then lifted his arm high and drove the shield's edge down, slamming it into the skull and breaking it open, helmet and all.
Good kills, a good fight, and yet he'd missed one. From behind a fourth hoomie charged, carrying no blade but instead a stick-bomb. The man ran with eyes wide, a prayer on his lips, consigning his soul to the God-Emperor. If he could only close he could take this enemy with him, and so his life would have been worthwhile. Orkamemnon wasn't having that, he lowered his Grot-Prodder and squeezed the paddle hard. Reforged generators surged and the twin forks arced with lightning, then exploded outwards with electrical tongues of fire. The man was caught in the embrace of stormfire, burning inside and out. His nerves cooked, hair was set alight and his skin charred under the touch of Orkamemnon's attack. In seconds the brave man was reduced to a broiled husk, and then the explosive in his hand detonated, turning him into a crater.
Sorkrates lumbered about and spat, "I'z had him!"
"You'ze had nothing," Orkamemnon derided.
"No hoomie can best me!"
"And wat about me?!"
"Dat's... an interesting question," Sorkrates hissed.
"You wanna be da boss?"
"Yeh!"
"Course you do, but you think you can beat Orkamemnon in a straight fite?"
The pair eyed each other, gauging their relative strength. Both were products of the same maker, both wrought by the same hand. Orkamemnon was an ill-made thing, cobbled together out of parts and spares, but he was tough and experienced. Sorkrates was an altogether superior product, gene-wrought and fashioned from a single spore to be what he was. His muscles were strong but not bulky enough to slow him down, his stance was more upright, his head normal sized. The power Orkamemnon wielded had been bolted into his brain but Sorkrates was born to it. Both could compel obedience from other Greenskins, but not from each other. They were at an impasse and Orks typically settled such contests in blood.
Thankfully it was then that Diorkgenes waddled over, his stitched together face grinning ear to ear as he proclaimed, "Da Operashun wazza complete success!"
Sorkrates glanced over his shoulder at the gory mess left behind, "Looks like da patient died."
"Yeh... and?" Diorkgenes shrugged causing his many surgical tools to rattle.
Orkamemnon glowered, "We'ze wasting time, this port is ours. Now we gotta make sure da hoomies don't take it back."
"Da maker will wanna hear about dis," Sorkrates argued.
"Kay," Orkamemnon sniffed, "Go do dat."
"I will."
"Off ya go den."
Sorkrates cast a suspicious eye at the warboss but turned and strutted off, making it clear he was going by his own will. A clash was inevitable between them but Orkamemnon judged it wouldn't be today. He looked forward to it, a proper Orky skull-bashing would do him good, he missed that simple clarity. Speaking of which, unwelcome inspiration was already lancing into the meat of his brain, laying out strategic projections, defensive fortifications and timetables for moving up the rest of the Waaagh. The pain of nerves forced to act in ways nature never intended fouled Orkamemnon's mood even further and he cast his eye about, seeking someone to kill. If he couldn't ease his suffering, then he could at least share it with everyone else as well.
