Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 180
A hundred kilometres away Orkamemnon was busy killing. The Cybork's hands were locked around the throat of his enemy, squeezing for all he was worth. His grip was a vice, his strength mighty, but sadly choking this foe was not an option. Metal pistons made up the neck and rigid tubes the windpipe, all covered over by a red hood. Orkamemnon tightened his grip but metal hands pounded at his sternum, each blow would dent a plasteel plate but the ringing impacts merely bounced off his reforged guts. Tvos had made him mightier than a hoomie could know.
Orkamemnon growled as he felt his bloodlust rising, the welcome rush of savagery buying him a sweet moment of relief from the thoughts in his head. He gave up trying to choke the enemy and instead heaved left, slamming the skull into a Ferrocrete wall. Stone splintered under the impact, but this enemy was proof against such injury. Crushing the skull was not his intent though, with a moment of breathing room he pulled the hoomie low, setting a broad boot upon the chest. Both arms heaved upwards as his foot went down, and the snapping of metal rods and breaching tubes was his reward. The head came clean off, ripped bodily from the metal torso, leaving the warboss holding a shiny skull with glassic eyes, dripping oil from the stump of the neck.
Orkamemnon tossed the Skitarri's head aside as he stooped and picked up his fallen Grot-prodder. The sounds of carnage were all around, the heavy drumbeat of Shoota mixed with the high-energy thrum of Arc rifle and Galvanic shot. Rokkets blew chunks out of the high walls as streams of Hellgun fire came back, Zzap guns blasted defenders from sandbagged gunposts while Grav-cannons folded Orks into compacted balls of wet blood no bigger than a fist. The battle was well-joined and the Orks were loving it.
Orkamemnon counted the surviving Skitarri and judged they were falling fast. The Forge-fane would belong to the Greenskin's soon, but he wanted the fight to last longer. Already the thoughts were intruding, painful insights told that the Skitarri had refused to abandon their position, even though it lay a hundred kilometres outside the safety of the city walls. The Archeotech relics within the fane were too priceless to abandon, the shipyards within too valuable to risk being looted. For millennia this fane had constructed vessels to ply the Shimmering sea, luxurious cruise liners and fishing boats alike, the tools employed older than cities. So the tech-priests stayed, even though they could not withstand a tenth of the Waaagh's strength. Orkamemnon hadn't even brought that many with him, but they were enough.
A sharp snap of high-energy discharge saw a Boy sent flailing backwards, front ablaze with emerald energies. A final knot of red-robed warriors held a barricade at the Forge's final door, defiant despite the futility of their resistance. The outer defences had been overcome, the gates broken and this processional leading to the shipyard beyond was about to fall, but they fought regardless. Implants inside Orkamemnon's brain allowed him to see the vox-waves coursing between them, coordinating their struggle. Attempts to call for aid from outside were thoroughly blocked by the MekBoyz, these were the last defenders of the shrine.
Orkamemnon was already moving, charging towards the barricade like a stampeding Ambull. He saw Diorkgenes on the floor, trying to unscrew the head of a dying Skitarri, eager to peer at the brains within. Orkamemnon ignored the insane Dok as he redoubled his speed, seeing another Ork sent backwards as a flaming torch, set alight by a Gamma-pistol held in the hand of a Skitarri leader. Sorkrates was there, trying to batter his way to the leader, but held at bay by a thin line of red. His shield bashed heads in, his angle-grinder sent sparks flying wherever he struck, but he could not break the line.
"Getouttamyway!" Orkamemenon bellowed as he smashed a path through the mob assaulting the defenders. Orks moved, or were trampled underfoot, as the Cybork barrelled past, eyes fixed on the Skitarri leader. They saw him coming and swung the deadly Gamma-pistol to bear but Orkamemnon was a juggernaut and smashed through the plasteel barricades, slamming bodily into them. The pistol went flying but fingers grew lightning-wreathed needles and lashed over his flank. Piston oil and blood flowed but Orkamemnon embraced the pain, finally a decent fight. This is what he had been waiting for.
He swung his Grot-prodder wide and sent the Skitarri staggering back. A blurt of Binaric defiance echoed loudly, even over the din of the fight, and with the clash of metal feet on Ferrocrete they came back. A high-slash went for the eyes but Orkamemnon scrunched his neck and the tips scored over the metal plates riveted to his head. He let go one hand and drove it into the centre mass of his enemy, sending them staggering. Instant recovery, nice move Orkamemnon thought, a thrust to the chest that would have torn out his heart. This Skitarri was good but Orkamemnon was better.
He swung the haft of his Grot-prodder laterally and knocked the blow aside, then shoved his mass forward. He had the advantage of weight and height and the impact sent the Skitarri tumbling to the floor. He slammed his boot down, pinning the enemy to the ground. Lashing claws gouged at his knee as Binaric vitriol rang loud but Orkamemnon lifted his weapon high and chuckled, "Hur, hur, hur!"
With both hands he drove the sparking tips into the Skitarri, discharging electrical torments. The metallic body convulsed wildly as surging electrons flowed through wiring and nerve endings. Motive Force was the blessed sacrament of the Cult Technis, but this was too much. Orkamemnon heard garbled screaming as pain overcame decades of Augmentation and conditioning. He grinned wickedly as he lifted his staff then struck again. Surge buffers overloaded, wiring melted, the scraps of flesh cooked and the bits of brain left in that head began to char. A third time he struck, sending wild currents through the Skitarri. They broke, Binaric Cant giving way to an all-too-human scream as the last vestiges of humanity burned to ash. The deed was done, and Orkamemnon finally left the charred corpse drop.
He looked about and found the battle was over. The Skitarri were all dead, their bodies dismembered and sprayed across the walls. Rusty cleavers were notched and gouged but raw muscle power had been enough to break the finest Augmetics Mechanicus arts could forge. Diorkgenes was holding up a trepanned metal head, peering at the empty brain cavity within as if wondering where the brains had gone. Sorkrates was shaking oily blood off his shield as he randomly fired the angle grinder, clearing flecks of metal off the spinning blade.
"We won boss!" Diorkgenes called out.
"I'z can see dat ya berk," Orkamemnon growled, "You get in dere and get me some hoomie slaves."
"You'ze wants dem alive?" Sorkrates puzzled.
"Course I doez, dat's why we'ze 'ere!"
Sorkrates glared, "We should'a gone to da walls with da first wave!"
"Dem's stoopid gits were weedy an soft, dey too thick to know'z I got bigga plans."
"Dey got to dish out a Krumpin," Sorkrates pointed out.
"Let da hoomie tink dey beat Uz, but we'ze stomp 'em good tomorraw."
"You'ze gon yellow!" a harsh rebuke rang loud. Orkamemnon turned to spy a mob of looming Ork flesh coming his way, lead by the Goff boss Wildgob. The Goffs towered over other Greenskins, almost filling the Processional with their bulk. They radiated Waaagh energy, the raw essence of their savagery pouring off them. Tvos had claimed that this untamed energy had shrunken Greenskin intellect and looking at them Orkamemnon could believe it. Boyz seemed entranced as Wildgob stomped past, his presence firing their feral hearts and feeding their muscles, at the cost of their brains. The lesser Ork warbands had been lacking, made soft by easy kills, not the Goffs, they remained as bullish and violent as ever and it seemed Wildgob had decided that made him the boss.
"Wat did ya say ta me?!" Orkamemnon barked as he faced off with the Goff boss.
"We'ze aint come dis far to be keepin' hoomies alive," Wildgob snarled, "We kills dem all!"
"We needz dem for da plan!" Orkamemnon retorted.
"Screw da plan!" Wildgob yelled, "You'ze were a weedy Runtherder once, you'ze a weedy Runtherder now! You krump dem hoomies or you iz yellow!"
"I not yellow!" Orkamemnon snarled, "You fall in line, or I make you fall in!"
The pain behind his eyes increased as he exerted his will, compelling the challenger to obey. Unfortunately Wildgob shrugged off the psychic compulsion, his brain fired by Waaagh energy. The Goffs were feeding him raw aggression, violence spiking their innate savagery. Wildgob's head was pulsing in time to the heartbeat of the psychic field all Orks generate and his belligerence was inspiring the rest to join him. Orkamemnon had lamented the weakness of his comrades, only to find strength returning at a most inconvenient moment.
Diorkgenes interrupted to philosophise, "To Krump or not to Krump, dat iz…"
"A stoopid hoomie question!" Wildgob spat, "We'ze Orks, we always Krump!"
Orkamemnon glared as he hefted his Grot-prodder, "I da boss, you'ze do as I sayz."
"Not anymore," Wildgob growled.
"Ya wanna fite me?!"
"Yeh, I doez…"
Tension filled the air and Orkamemnon knew the time to prove his superiority had come. Despite all Tvos' tinkering no force could tame the Ork heart, to be a boss demanded strength and violence, to prove one's might in combat over and over. He had to fight, or else lose the Waaagh entirely, but someone else had a different opinion.
Sorkrates stepped up, "You too stoopid to live!"
"Wat?" Wildgob blinked as the Black Ork's natural influence washed over him.
"Ya heard me," Sorkrates rumbled, "Ya too stoopid, dat brain is no good. It's gotta go."
"I…" Wildgob frowned as his brain fought to obey the compulsion, "I fite…"
"Nah, you'ze too weedy, Goffs be big an' strong, but you soft in da hed. Ya know wat happens to runts…"
"No…" Wildgob strained as his hand moved to take a Shoota from his belt.
"Do it," Sorkrates hissed.
"Won't…" Wildgob gasped through gritted teeth as he put his pistol to his temple.
"Soft! Yellow! Weak!" Sorkrates snapped.
"No!"
Wildgob fought with every fibre of his being, but was helpless. The same energy that would send a million Orks headlong into the guns of the enemy coursed through the Goff, carrying him along with no control of his body. The bang of the pistol going off rang loud and Wildgob's brains were painted over the walls. The looming body toppled over, smashing into the floor with a wet thud. Orkamemon was surprised, he'd struggled to overcome the Goff's raw force of will but Sorkrates had done so effortlessly. He'd known the Black Ork's power was natural, whereas his was a crude simulacrum, but he'd not grasped how much better Sorkrates was at imposing his will.
Diorkgenes spoke to the silent mob, "Rite, funz over! Get bak to work ya lazy runts!"
Orkamemnon blinked then commanded, "Get in dere and grab me some slaves, I want hoomies to turn wrenches and hamma me together some rides. Get to it, move!"
The mobs rushed past, pouring into the fane proper. The Tech-priests within would be overrun with ease, captured and put to work on Orkamemnon's plans. The warboss was content they'd live long enough to do what he needed, but there was a bigger problem to be dealt with. Sorkrates was prodding Wildgob's corpse with a boot, as if looking for good loot. Orkamemnon didn't buy the act, not for a second.
"Why ya stick ye nose in?" Orkamemnon growled.
"He was too stoopid ta live," Sorkrates sniffed.
"Ya could let him fite me, den stab da winner in a back!"
"Yeh could'a," Sorkrates shrugged, "Dinna though."
"Why'z not?!"
"Da plan be a good 'un. Why mess up a sweet ting?"
"Cause you could'a been warboss!"
"Still will sumday," Sorkrates dismissed, "Ya can do da borin' bits for now."
"So ya let me run da show?" Orkamemnon frowned.
"Till ya screw up big time, den I gut ya."
"Promise?" Orkamemnon asked warily.
"Swears ta it. When ya go soft… den I killz ya."
Orkamemnon smiled at the Orky sentiment and said, "Alritey den! Lookin' forward ta rippin ya throat out when you'ze try. But first we gotz thingies to fry. Diorkgenes gets da hoomies set to work, while we go break dat wall down. Enuff skulking about, now we go give dem Beakies a rite good Krumping!"