Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 184

"Why'z aint we movin?!" Orkamemnon growled threateningly.

"Da Mekboyz be bodging bits and hammering nails but itz slow goin'," Sorkrates shrugged.

"Zog!" the warboss snarled, "I ain't hanging around 'ere all day, I gotz Beakies who need killing!"

"Ya can walk den," Sorkrates argued, "Or hop a ride on annover Stompa."

"Ya cheekin' me?!" Orkamemnon hissed.

"Yeh, nah, maybe."

Orkamemnon bit off a retort, unable to figure out the Black Ork's agenda. One second pushing and needling in a way that deserved a good krumping, but then coming to his aid the next. If the Black Ork wanted to be warboss they could throw down right now and settle it, but every time they got close the underling would back off. It was frustrating beyond words. Sorkrates was up to something, but Orkamemnon really didn't care what, so long as he did as told. The warboss had bigger issues to deal with.

The towering hulk of Kill-Da-Git steamed against the darkening evening sky. Great rents had been torn in tis armour and many decks were gutted. Its rival still lay prostrate in the rubble, the Knight was slain but had inflicted crippling injuries in its passing. Mekboyz crawled through the Stompa's guts, arc-welders flashing as they banged bits of metal together. It looked like they were working at cross-purposes, nobody having any notion of a plan, but instinctively their hands reassembled the effigies' mechanisms. Within a day the Stompa would be walking again, not soon enough for Orkamemnon's tastes.

Ork mobs still streamed through the broken gate, pushing into the city in an eager rush. Some few spilled out into neighbouring buildings, or down adjacent avenues, but that was mere Brownian motion and they came back in pieces where they ran into resistance. The vast majority of the Orks were pushing up the wide boulevard that ran due north, drawn to the sounds of fighting as it edged ever further away. War called and anything else was a distraction.

Orkamemnon eyed the road and considered if he should just hoof it. Chase after the battle on foot, or even transfer his flag to another stompa. They were waddling up the road, unwilling to wait, leaving the Warboss behind. Painful thoughts sizzled behind his eyeballs, telling him a general must lead from the front, but also that running along would make him look weak to his mobs. He should be directing the fight, he should hold back for the critical moment, he should be consolidating this ground, he should wait for his Stompa's repairs and arrive in style. Orkamemnon's face scrunched up as pain stabbed into the meat of his brain, too many ideas, too many thoughts. His skull wasn't meant to hold so many concepts at once. The tinkering done to his brain was straining the fabric of his mind, overloading neural tissue. Too many strategies, too many ideas, his head would burst if it didn't stop.

Thankfully his pain was ended when Diorkgenes ran up, with a clonking machine Ork hybrid in tow. The warboss vaguely remembered it as the driver, whatisname, only now he was remade. Piston legs made him waddle along as the rods extended and retracted in sequence, heavy shootas had replaced the arms and the head was cut open, so wires and brass rods could be stuck into the remains of his brain. A drooling expression covered the face, and yet the construct followed the Mad Dok like a whipped Grot.

"Wat da zog is dat?" Sorkrates asked.

"Gud innit?" Diorkgenes grinned, "Da patient be all betta!"

"If yah wantz a Killa Kan, stick him in a proper barrel!"

"Ah, no fun in dat! Dis be new and flashy-grubbins!"

Orkamemnon cut in, "Keep him away from me, yah getz me?!"

Diorkgenes looked at him quizzically then something clicked, "Boss! Just crossed me noggin, got a message for yah. Da maker wantz yah."

"I'm busy!"

"He be pretty keen, won't be happy if you'za a no-show, not at all."

"Dat berk can wait till I'm gud and ready."

"Yah sure?"

"Slimey little git, he oughta... uuuuurgh!"

Orkamemnon grimaced as the implants in his head stabbed at nerves with electrical goads. Obedience to the Maker was hardwired into him, to disobey would bring swift punishment. Orkamemnon loathed it to his bones but he was an Ork on a leash. Tvos held the whip hand, there was no way around that fact.

"Keep dem gitz working!" Orkamemnon snarled as he turned and stomped off. He pushed through the incoming tide of Ork mobs, forcing a path over the rubble strewn gates into the world beyond. The black iron transport lingered there, waiting as snotlings shovelled a clear path for it to proceed. Orkamemnon casually kicked some aside as he passed, snapping their bones in the process. As a former Runtherder he knew the threat of more to come would buck up the rest. He reached a hanging ladder and hoisted himself onto the transport, then ducked through a hatch.

Tvos was waiting on the command deck, staring out of the broad windows. Unlike the ramshackle nature of the Stompa's controls this room was smooth and elegant, everything laid out in an orderly fashion. Control banks circled the walls, glowing screens displaying data-points and the chatter of logic engines was a constant thrum. It was almost human in design, save that everything was scaled to Ork size. The dials and buttons were fit for meaty hands, the seats shaped for hunched spines and the readouts bright for piggy eyes. Ork operators were hardwired into the stations, wires drilled into their skulls to make them mono-tasked like a servitor. Tvos had taken the principles of the Mechanicus and applied them to Ork physiology, and he'd done it well, designing the perfect control room. It struck Orkamemnon like the difference between him and Sorkrates, one bashed together out of parts, the other conceived from inception, he didn't care for the comparison.

"I am not happy," Tvos stated as he stared out the window.

"Bout wat?" Orkamemnon grunted as he ducked inside.

"All these delays," Tvos hissed, "I was clear and explicit in my commands, and yet you dither!"

"We'ze in da city, da hoomie can't stop us now."

"You should have achieved my goals days ago!"

"Ya wanna fite, go out dere and grabz a shoota."

Tvos turned, revealing he was cradling one of the mishappen Ork skulls from his apartments in his hand. Metal protrusions stuck out of it, with bits of rusty wire clinging to them. Tvos stroked it with his other hand like some pet, his manner worryingly intense. Mork's sake, Orkamemnon groaned, Tvos was high on Green, the mania-inducing drug he claimed sharpened his intellect. He was a lot easier to handle when he was on Yellow or Blue, but it seemed he wanted to bask in his own genius.

Tvos stroked the misshapen skull, "Platork here has been telling me secret things. He whispers in my ear that you are lying to me."

"Dunno nothin' bout dat," Orkamemnon sniffed.

"You accuse him of deceiving me?!"

"He was a berk in life, he be a berk in deff."

"You insult my best friend?!"

"You dun't have friends, you'ze has petz!"

Tvos threw back his head and laughed, "Very true! Friends are equals, and you are not mine! I made you, I created you with my own two hands. You are mine to do with as I will! Your very genes yield to my genius! If only Methuselah could see me now, I fashion the Orkoid as a potter does clay and the vase does not argue with the hand that shapes it!"

"Anywho," Orkamemnon deflected, "I best be getting back ta killing stuff."

"Not so fast," Tvos hissed, "First explain your sloth!"

Orkamemnon explained, "I gotz a plan. It's a really Kunning plan. Kunning as a Knife-ear wat used to be da bigwig at Kunning school and iz now chief of Kunning plans for all Kunning Gitz."

Tvos glared, "This cunning plan wouldn't involve you running straight at the enemy shouting Waaagh, would it?"

"How'd ya know dat?" Orkamemnon frowned.

Tvos sighed deeply, "Of all my creations you, with half a brain, had to be the one who survived. I do wish Diorkgenes was capable of rational thought. I see him aping my creations, it's flattering but he will never be more than a jester in my court. You are my general, as much as it displeases me, but you are not a worthy reflection of my genius! "

Orkamemnon scowled, "Dere be more ta it den hitting tings. I gotz it all worked out, ya will see, trust us."

Yet Tvos's eyes glinted madly, "You plan to betray me, you want the crown for yourself!"

"I can't cross ya boss, Orkamemnon protested, "Ya know I can't."

"Perhaps, or maybe you think to trick me. I have ways of forcing your compliance. With a word I can inflict... pain!"

"Aaaaargh!" Orkamemnon hissed as the implants in his head bit deep. Hand grabbed at his skull but could not prise the pain out, for it was coming from within. Red hot pokers scraped his neural matter raw, making him feel like he was on fire. An Ork should be inured to pain but this was unlike anything he had been built to withstand, amplifying the withered stubs of pain receptors evolution had left him. Such weakness was not natural for any Ork, he shouldn't be capable of experiencing such torment, but the changes wrought on him made it possible. Instinctively he tried to lash out, to pound his tormentor into the deck but he couldn't. His arm wouldn't move to harm his maker, it couldn't, Tvos' engineering made it so.

"Pain!" Tvos roared, his eye lens glittering with mania.

"I gotz a plan!" Orkamemnon wailed, "I getz ya da crown!"

"You deceive me, you lie to me!"

"Can't!" Orkamemnon protested, "I gotta do ya work for ya, my plan iz all part 'a it!"

"You lie to me me, you don't want to bring my crown, you want it for yourself!"

"No gud ta me! I gotz nah use for it!"

Tvos paused as he considered, "True... you couldn't possibly understand why I need it. It would not serve you anyway. Your implants compel you to obey me, to disobey would be torment indeed. It seems Platork was playing a game with me... how wicked you are Platork. Orkamemnon... release."

The warboss sagged as the pain in his skull faded. He was freed, for a moment, but yet the leash about his neck tugged. He was bound to the Maker, no matter where he went Tvos' grip was locked about his neck. He hated it but nothing he could do would change that.

Tvos looked away, "I weep for your kind, truly I do. How shrunken you are, how low you have sunk. You can barely speak, left rutting in the dirt for morsels of inspiration. Your genetic architects were cruel, to allow you to degenerate so. What glory you have lost, what majesty has crumbled. I must conclude they made you to be slaves, weapons only, it is the only sane answer. They dropped you in the dirt as they vanished into the mists of history and now you are nothing, but I will save you. I will bring you to perfection, but first I need that crown!"

Orkamemnon rubbed his sore head, "Yah... I getz rite on dat."

"See that you do, when next we speak I expect my prize in my hands."

"Sure, I do dat rite now."

"Go then, and no more delays!"

"On it, and try sum Yellow while I'z gone."

Orkamemenon hastened away, leaving Tvos alone. The warbosses' anger was fierce but he was helpless to deny the Maker's will. Tvos for his part lifted the misshapen skull to his eyeline and said, "You are right Platork, he truly is too stupid to live. Kill him? You say he will only fail us again. No, not right now... he has a job to do first. Yes, yes, his incompetence irks me too, but he serves a purpose. Rest assured he won't trouble us much longer. Once he gets me that crown his usefulness will expire. How? How you ask? Why with but a word I can end him! It's as easy as that! Once I have the crown I can fashion a better leader a warboss born not made, then I will have no more use for Orkamemnon! He is but a tool in my grand design and he is about to be outmoded. Then his skull will join my collection and the last obstacle to perfection will be cast down!"