Legends of the Smoke Jaguars chapter 207
Orkamemnon's voice carried through the interior of Kill-Da-Git, "Dem welds gotta be tight around da boilers, yah 'ear me?! Tight!"
"Wez almost got it boss!" a Mekboy called Flinders hollered with a welding torch in his hands.
"Almost aint gonna cut it."
"Trust us, job's a gud 'un!"
"Better be, else I'll make you head go pop like Snakyab's!"
"Eh?" Snakyab asked gormlessly from the other corner.
The Warboss demonstrated his intent with a flicker of Waaagh power, causing the Mekboy's skull to burst in a shower of gory red. Orkamemnon's head throbbed with potency, painful surges lancing through his skull, but he was used to that. The power had grown within him, it was almost harder not to explode his minion's heads than to do it, but the example had the desired effect. Teams of Mekboyz went back to work, refashioning the interior of the Stompa to Orkamemnon's design.
The warboss could understand so much now, the new powers he had received allowed him to access the genic memories of the specialised Ork breeds. He knew more about technology than any Mekboy, able to grasp the fundamental sciences that underpinned their operation in ways lost to the mists of time. It was more than mere mechanical talent, Ork machines functioned on Waaagh energy, using psychic impetus to make up for shortfalls in operation. The hoomies laughed at the notion that Ork technology only worked because Orks believed it did, but reality was far more malleable than they ever suspected. Orkamemnon understood completely how it functioned, and had made some improvements of his own.
The Warboss left the Boyz to their labours as he set his foot upon a ramp to the command deck. The interior of the Stompa was dark, lit only by the flashing of welding torches and the occasional Grot who got set on fire by a careless gesture. The smell of hot metal and scorched wiring was all pervasive, as was the stench of grease on gears and oil on chains. On every level frantic work was taking place, closing gaps in the hull and making the exterior armour seamless. Normally Orks didn't care for such things, but Orkamemnon demanded it and so it was.
He reached the command deck and found Sorkrates leaning out a window. The Black Ork had a worried expression on his face, not a familiar sight at all. Orkamemnon's technical knowledge was fading as he became more remote from the Mekboyz, but being around Sorkrates made his implants spike. They were too similar, their powers feeding back upon themselves, creating a cognitive dissonance in his head. Still he forbore, pain and he were old friends.
"Gonna be dark inna minute," Sorkrates noted.
"Gud, more cover," Orkamemnon grunted as he stepped to the control levers.
"Maybe wait till sun up?"
"I've waited long enuff, I'm not waiting five more minutes."
"Ya want da crown dat much?"
"Got a problem wit dat?"
"Nah, just sayin we taking a big risk. We only got enuff Cyborks for one go at dis."
That was an annoying fact. Orkamemnon had been furious when he heard Diorkgenes had been killed, and Tvos kidnapped. He hadn't needed to be told who did it, those sneaky Beakies in grey were just the kind of berks to try something like that. Orkamemnon had lashed his forces to breaking point to cut them off from the river, only to fall short. Now everything depended on his plan working, and the Cyborks were the tip of his spear. Diorkgenes' modifications would soon be put to the test, they better work or he'd find a way to bring the Mad Dok back to life only to kill him again.
A speaking tube squawked in the interior and Sorkrates relayed, "We're all set ta go!"
"Finally," Orkamemnon growled as he gripped the levers to ignite the Stompa's systems.
Behind him a gaggle of Boyz and Grots began to chant, "Ere we go, ere we..."
"Shut it!" Orkamemnon barked angrily, "I need ta conshentrate."
They did as commanded but Sorkrates called, "All Stompas ready, da mobs is itching to get stuck in."
"Roite," Orkamemnon hissed, "Let's see wot da hoomie make 'a dis!"
The engines roared below decks, pitching high as they sucked air through new funnels sticking out of the back. Kill-Da-Git lurched as the feet lifted off one by one, crashing through low houses before slamming down. Instantly a wave of blistering heat spilled through the floor, causing the deck plates to glow faintly. The heat which would typically escape through rents in the hull trapped within. Orkamemnon grinned in the instant hell, it was working.
Alongside his command Stompa fell in six others, all similarly altered. He'd arranged them into single file, marching west through what was once the Rathaus. All around teeming throngs of Orks waved their fists in celebration, cheering their boss on, they'd spent nearly a whole day idling in the city, intolerable passivity for any Greenskin. Ahead the silver river glimmered, its waters an oily stain in the deepening night, lit by the harsh beacons the hoomies had set up to give them clear fields of fire. It wouldn't help, nor would the shields glimmering over the buildings, making an air assault impossible.
"We'll be in range 'a der big guns soon," Sorkrates pointed out.
"No matta," Orkamemnon scoffed, "Da bubble fields will cover us."
"Ya sure?"
"I gotz it all figured out, dis is gonna be bootiful!"
Orkamemnon reached out and pulled another lever and the generators rose in pitch. The Stompa's forcefields extended, merging with its kin, creating a united field. This was similar to what they had done at Victory Gate, but his careful adjustments had reshaped it from an umbrella to a tunnel. The line of Stompas were generating a static shell over their heads, like ancient Romanii soldiers turtling under their shields.
The hoomies on the far bank must have spotted the Stompas closing, for a great ruckus went up. Soldiers ducked behind sandbags and behind doorways, expecting a volley of long-range fire, but Orkamemnon bet they weren't expecting this. He pushed both levers forward and drove Kill-Da-Git straight to the river bank, then the whole Stompa lurched madly as it dropped into the flowing waters. The deck bucked wild and the floor tilted as the broad skirt smashed through the Ferrocrete walkway, but then the feet found the river bottom and everything righted.
"It's workin!" Sorkrates yelled.
"I can see dat," Orkamemnon snorted as he wrenched the levers back and forth.
"How deep it go?"
"Dunno, let's find out!"
Ominous creaks rang through the Stompa as they waded forward, lowering its bulk into the moving waters. Cold fluids wrapped the machine's mass, instantly cooling the overheated metal. The furnace heat subsided quickly but the wailing of contracting metal rang loud. Orkamemnon was confident the hull would hold, he'd had every seam closed to make the Stompa watertight, plus extending the air intakes through funnels sticking out of the shoulders. But more than this he could feel Waaaagh energy pulsing through the machines, keeping it going, holding it together. The Orks believed the Stompa would hold, and so it would.
"Da hoomies aint happy," Sorkrates called from an open window.
"Wot else is new?" Orkamemnon grunted.
"Lotsa barrel pointing our way, dats wot."
"Gonna give da bubbles a proper test den."
Flashes on the far bank announced artillery ranging in, firing through microsecond gaps in the shield envelope. Plumes of water erupted around Kill-Da-Git as near-misses sent shockwaves pummelling the hull, but the Stompa kept going. A direct hit erupted overhead, bursting off the combined shield but the modifications proved sound, the energy barrier held firm, nothing was going to hit them. Heavy weapon troopers on the bank joined in, sweeping the river with tracers but they were equally ineffective.
"Dem berks canna touch us!" Orkamemnon mocked.
"Yeh but da water's getting high," Sorkrates noted.
"How high?"
"High enuff ya need a snorkel!"
The Stompa had reached the middle of the river, the deepest part, and the waters were lapping at the lintels of the windows of the command deck. Orkamemnon realised he'd misjudged the depth, but there was nothing to be done. An unwelcome thought offered a plan for armourglass coverings and a periscope. Too late for that, far too late.
All he could do was wrench the levers back and forth and watch the waters dance. Impacts from distant weapons made it seethe like it was boiling, and stray droplets flew through the openings. Another step, the waters were at the very edge. Another and a trickle spilled over the edge, promising to become a tidal wave. Another... the waters sank of sight, another and another, the danger was past. They'd done it, they'd crossed the deepest part, nothing could stop them now.
Orkamemnon furiously wrenched the levers back and forth, driving his machine on. The hoomies redoubled their efforts to stop him but nothing could breach the forcefield. Doubtless they'd be scrambling to respond, expecting to face seven superheavies on their side of the river, but that wasn't exactly the plan. Orkamemnon drove his Stompa just short of the bank, then let go the levers. Kill-Da-Git ground to a halt and he knew the machine would go no further.
"We're here, give da Cyborks a kick and let's get up top!" Orkamemnon yelled. The Warboss led the way, kicking aside any lesser being in his path. He stepped out onto the shoulders of the Stompa, drenched with spilled water and battered by noise as shell and bolt crashed against the forcefield. It was a strobing nightmare of light and dark, thunder and silence, but Orkamemnon was looking backwards. Behind his Stompa were six more, strung out across the river, making a line of heads sticking out of the water. At some unseen command the rearmost extended its assault ladders high, momentarily breaching the forcefield, before dropping forward and down to slam onto the shoulders of the next in line. Then they did it again and again, forming an instant bridge across the river, one shielded by an impenetrable forcefield.
Orkamemnon had just created a way for his entire army to cross the river unopposed, and already ramshackle spars were being laid to connect the far shore to the war machines, but he was determined to be the first to set foot on the western bank. He stepped onto the roof of the Stompa's head as its ladder whined upwards, ready to drop onto the waiting shore. Hoomies were panicking, unable to fathom what was happening, he hoped Beakies were on their way, Orkamemnon wanted a proper fight when he got there.
"Cyborks on their way up," Sorkrates called as he took up his shield and angle grinder.
"Keep dem behind me, I wanna see dem hoomies hash demselves!"
"Dey ded killy."
"Not as killy as me."
From the depths of the Stompa came mishappen Orks, bulging with crude augmetics and vicious buzzsaws and lethal pincer hands. Diorkgenes' work had made some formidable fighters, even by Ork standards, but none were so powerful as their warboss. Orkamemnon's thirst for blood was unmatched and his drive unequalled. He would cut a path through anyone in his way and find his crown. Nothing would stop him, nothing.
The ladder reached its highest point and then plummeted forward, smashing onto the far shore. Behind Orks were already pouring onto the impromptu bridge, jostling with rising Cyborks from the interior of the Stompas. Orkamemnon got in front of them all, boots quaking the bridge as he charged across the final gap. Snap lasgun shots from desperate defenders got in under the forcefield but they barely scorched his skin as he ran headlong into the fray. He saw cowards turning to flee, the desperate courage of the hopeless making others stand in the face of annihilation and the flash of laspistols as Commissars shot down those who dared to turn their backs. A handful of metres shrinking, his goal at last in reach. Orkamemnon threw himself at the foe with a hundred thousand Orks at his back, and roared, "Waaaagh!"