Legends of the Smoke Jaguars Chapter 173
Waaagh Orkamemnon was on the move. Across pristine fields the Greenskins advanced, rolling over crops, villages and manor houses like a swarm of locusts. Rubberised tracks squashed small animals into roadkill, solid rollers toppled trees and tore them to mulch with sharpened spikes while caterpillar tracks churned dirt into thick mud. Belching exhausts darkened the sky, causing birds to plummet to their deaths as they choked on toxic fumes and stomping Killa Kans waded through the morass like men fording a muddy river. Boyz hung from the sides of Trukks or gunned the engines of bikes, all eyes fixed on their destination. The prospect of shedding blood enticed them, the prospect for violence drew them like rotgut does a drunk and from many lips the ancient chant arose, "Ere we go, ere we go, ere we gooooooo!"
High above the Cybork Orkamemnon rode, peering out the eyesocket of his command Stompa. Like him it was a misshapen thing, rudely assembled and barely holding together. Pot-bellied, swathed in metal sheets and walking under a cloud of noxious emissions. The deck plates under his boots didn't fit, pipes leaked in the walls and the steering was a random forest of unnamed levers, wheels and a big brass handle hanging from a chain in the roof. The air reeked of burning oil and metal shavings, the light was dim and the entire bridge swayed left to right as the Stompa's feet rose and fell. Yet like him also it was deadly. The right arm was a Mega-Choppa, with chainteeth larger than a hoomie, ever ready to slice and dice. The left arm was a Supa-Gatler, with twin barrels aching to vomit thousands of rounds a minute. Snotlings with stubbas manned pontoons on the shoulders and behind the head structure arose a collapsible boarding ladder, able to extend and drop on command to turn the Stompa into a siege tower. The mobs called it, Kill-Da-Git but Orkamemnon just thought of it as his ride.
His gaze peered across the horde to where the other Stompas clomped along. Altogether his Waaagh commanded twelve of the towering war machines, none of them large enough to be considered Gargants, but their mere existence was a miracle. He led tens of thousands of Orks, maybe even hundreds, he hadn't counted, but even so that was small by Waaagh standards. Orks grew more dangerous as they grew in number, power building on power as they swarmed to follow a great leader. It wasn't until they numbered in the millions that the instinctive urge to build bigger and bigger war machines took hold, racial imperatives compelling Mekboyz to assemble parts in ways even they didn't understand. The Maker had changed that, brought forth the potential of the Orks, enhanced their abilities in ways none had dreamed possible and promised to take them to heights beyond the darkest nightmares of other races.
"Three dayz," Sorkrates announced as he loomed over a chart table covered in yellow parchments.
"Eh?" Orkamemnon grunted.
"Three dayz till we hit da hoomie city. Then we gives dem a proper hard krumping. Unless we get sneaky dat iz."
"Ya think he cares 'ow we does it?"
"Huh?" Sorkrates frowned.
"Da Maker, ya think he cares if we fite hard or sneaky?"
"Krumping is krumping, and he wanna get his mits on dat Flashy Grubbins da hoomies hiding."
Orkamemnon leaned further out the porthole and spied a massive carriage riding at the heart of the horde. On sixteen massive wheels it rolled each tall as a Deff Dredd. It was covered in gunnery howdas, rocket launchers and Zapp gunz, making it appear a spiked animal crawling through the underbrush, but at its heart was a bunker of solid black Plasteel. Within dwelt the Maker, toying with his latest creations. The one who captured a weedy Runtherder and reforged him into a mighty Cybork. The one who had birthed the Black Orks from his maturation tubes and sent them forth to bring harmony to the unruly. Orkamemnon was the face of the Waaagh, the one the Greenskins saw giving orders, but he was bound to the Maker's will. Another reason for Orkamemnon to hate his existence.
"Why'z he after dis loot anyhow?" Orkamemnon grumbled.
"Beats me," Sorkrates shrugged, "All he sayz is da hoomies have it locked up and we gotta beat the door down and takes it."
"Dis planet ain't no proper place for da Orks," Orkamemnon muttered as he turned from the porthole, "Everything's weak and runty, too small for a proper fite. We shouldha gone for da Mekworlds or dem big pointy hives, dem's worth fighting ovver."
"Gotta start somewe're," Sorkrates sniffed, "Been eazy so far."
"Easy is no gud for da Boyz, we need proper enemies to grow big and strong."
Orkamemnon eyeballed the bridge crew and noted they were singularly lacking. Pot-bellied Orks waddled about, tugging randomly at controls and chopping on smoking ilo-root cigars they'd looted from somewhere. Their arms hung with fat, their teef were short and they looked distinctly soft about the middle. One of them reached up to pull the big chain and the Stompa blew whistling steam from its smoke stacks, causing laughter to ring about the bridge. They were more like overgrown Grots than proper Orks.
"It going too eazy," Orkamemnon grumbled.
"We got's a Waaagh up and running in no time," Sorkrates pointed out.
"Too smooth an' straight. Orks getz bigger and meaner da more we fite, and we got them berks playing nice. It takes a good beating every day to make a hard Ork, dis lot got spines of mush."
"You wanna a big fite?" Sokrates asked a grotling ran up to him with a slip of paper, only slightly smeared with boogies.
Painful inspiration lanced into the Warbosses' brain as he regurgitated, "Da harder da Gitz iz to Krump, the more Orky da Krumping iz!"
Sorkrates glanced at the slip, "Well dis make ya happy: dem berks up in space says loadsa Beakies just dropped in da city."
Orkamemnon's face split with a joyful leer, "Beakies! Dey makes for a rite gud fite! Da Boyz gotta get real big and real mean to tussle with Beakies! I hears da yellow ones be ded hard nuts, if they gets a wall to stand on. And da white ones gives da Speed Freaks da willies. Dem greenies wit da glowy eyes luv to torch stuff and da red ones be total nutta's. Tell me dey be da Red un's!"
"Nah… blue… it says 'ere," Sorkrates sniffed as he tossed the slip aside.
"Blue…" Orkamemnon sagged, "Dey alrite, I guess. Bit boring, but tough enuff for a decent scrap. You 'ear that ya Gitz, we got a proper brawl brewing, it's gonna be sweet!"
The bridge crew glanced about, confusion splitting their fat faces. They didn't seem nearly as excited as Orkamemnon was, almost as if the prospect of a genuine battle didn't thrill them. Orkamemnon stomped about in irritation, his head pounding as he forced his brain to hold back the tide of ideas and concentrate on the lacklustre response.
"I didn't 'ear you'ze runtz cheering!" Orkamemnon snarled.
"Yaaaaaay," the bridge droned in a bored monotone.
"Wat's wrong with you ugly snotlings?!" Orkamemnon yelled, "We got Beakies to beat up!"
"No need for Brutal, when we got Kunning'" one of the steersman said.
"What waz dat?!" the Cybork snarled.
"Just be sayin: shoot da stabby ones an' stab da shooty ones."
"You. Here. Now." Orkamemnon growled.
The fat Boyz waddled over, a passive look smothering his face. Orkamemnon could sense the Waaagh energy streaming through the runt, compelling obedience. The warbosses' own head was doing it, the devices bored into his brain magnifying his innate talent to dominate and control lesser breeds. Still he despised it; this Ork should be coming at him with fists clenched and rage in the eye, not standing about like a weak snotling.
"You'ze a measly Blood Axe or someting?" Orkamemnon growled.
"Dey sayz: no need for smashing and hacking, we can be all sneaky like."
"Iz dat wat da mobs be saying me Waaagh is all about?!"
"Da Orks getting smarter boss, dat's wat dey says, no place for stoopid Gitz anymo."
"Wat's ur name?"
"Gut Gnawer," the Boy replied.
"Rite, Gut Gnawer, get this through yur fat head…"
Orkamemnon's fist swung, pistons extending under his skin to force his arm about. The clenched knuckles smashed into the side of Gut Gnawer's skull knocking him aside. Another blow smashed into him from the other side, and then a third folded his nose inwards. Something broke in the Ork's mind, a dam of bottled rage bursting. Whatever passivity had been forced upon him shattered and Gut Gnawer's true savagery broke loose.
The Ork came at the warboss with fists flying. Gut Gnawer's attack was simple and direct, smashing his beefy fists into the armoured panels riveted to the Cybork's frame. Knuckles pounded on metal, scraped raw in seconds and yet unrelenting. He wasn't fast, he wasn't particularly strong for a Boy, but there was a feral rage firing his assault. Pure ferocity, all attack with no thought of defence. He was brutal, he was primeval in his vicious need to inflict injury. Fierce, unbridled rage made Gut Gnawer batter his fists against the Warbosses' plates, he would beat his fists down to the bone and then starting hacking with the bleeding stumps of his arms. It was pure aggression and Orkamemnon loved it.
The boss swung both arms about and clapped Gut Gnawer on both shoulders, then his head slammed forward and smashed the lesser Boyz' skull so hard the room echoed with noise of impacts. Gut Gnawer collapsed in a daze as the crew watched and waited for the killing blow. Orkamemnon however didn't finish him, instead dropping his jaw to laugh aloud.
"Hahahaha! Dat's more like it!" he bellowed, "You'ze snotlings could learn a thing or three from dis! He eats Guts three times a day!"
"Huuuuuuuh…" Gut Gnawer groaned woozily from the floor.
"I likes ur moxie," Orkamemnon chuckled, "Get bigger and meaner and u mite be a proper Boss sumday!"
"Gnuuuuh…"
"Uh-huh…. You gitz, pick dis Boy up and drag him outta here. Tell him I wanna another round, when he's grown up a bit."
A mob of snotlings grabbed the dazed Boy and hauled him off the bridge. Orkamemnon let them go, as everyone else tried to avoid his eye. He could sense the resentment bubbling under the surface, suppressed by his dominance, but still extant. That was good, the Orks needed that rage to be Orks, without it they were weedy and pathetic. The Maker had gifted them many enhancements, but even he could not excise the raw, primal barbarity of the Ork.
Orkamemnon returned to the charts and measured the distance to the city as he growled, "We getting smarter but nobody gonna takes our strength. We need a big fite to make us tougher and da Beakies gonna gives it to us. After we Krump dem, dis Waaagh will be the biggest and meanest Waaagh da galaxy ever seen!"