“Oi, knifey git, we knowz youz in dere.”
Ruststalker Forty-two of Killclade Fanaticus XIX-Forge
World Metalica analysed the sound. High decibel, low frequency. Probability
99.8% xeno species Ork. Intent: Verbal handshake / ITT / moderate-to-low probability
of distraction and/or subterfuge (Contraindicated by typical Ork engagement
strategies). Distance 48.2 meters, azimuth 312 altitude -2 degrees, behind cylindrical
machinery/obstacle A (Tentative Class.: thruster unit fuel conduit).
Forty-two considered whether to respond,
mentally cycled through greeting, negotiation and taunt/insult verbalization
options, before deciding to remain silent and observe the developing situation.
It was in no hurry.
The primary objective was complete: A triumph
of humanity over monstrosity, of reason over rage, of technology over barbarism
(Praise Omnissiah). Together with other units of its Killclade, it had boarded
the sublight repurposed assault/transportation asteroid Mtc.Trans.Inbound.090
(Ork designation: “Bludybig Rok”) and executed a kinetic operation to
neutralize members of said satellite’s command cadre. This done, it had found
its primary, secondary and tertiary egress routes all interdicted, and had
opted for a tactical withdrawal to the aft section.
It was currently concealed (efficacy est.
71%) between two more pieces of machinery (B and C), possibly parts of the
drive unit, possibly junk. Ork technology was difficult to analyse, not least
because the builders often appeared to have only the vaguest idea of what they
were doing. Forty-two crouched on top of machinery D (combustion chamber?),
1.63 meters above the surrounding deck, offering a high probability of
first-strike success (93%) if any crew instanced themselves within the room.
“Why’z we talkin’ wif it?”
Second sound source, similar to the first but
located 0.8 meters away, also behind obstacle A. Forty-two tagged it ‘Ork 2,’
the other retroactively ‘Ork 1.’
Ork 1: “Coz it shivved the mekboyz an’ if we
dun get th’enginz back we’z gonna thump right inna star.”
Forty-two’s entrance to the chamber had been
resisted by instances of 090’s crew, requiring the application of its transonic
blades. Most of the remains of the crew lay on the deck, creating a category C
slick-surface hazard. The rest (est. 3-5%) coated other surfaces of the room,
and were therefore less of a hazard in any combat scenario.
Ork 2: “Oh.” There was silence lasting 12.4
seconds. “Izzat bad?”
Ork 1: “We’z gunna smash inna star, Arglgah.”
Ork 2 (‘Arglgah’): “Yeah? Ok. Sooo …”
Ork 1: “Yeah, it’s bad.”
Arglgah: “Right. But why all the gabbin’,
Nobbie?”
Ork 1 (‘Nobbie’): “Well, if we’z crash, it’s
gunna snuff it too, innit? I’ze finkin’ we could appeal to its sense of
wotchercallit, self-preservation.”
Forty-two re-evaluated its earlier decision
to avoid responding. Analysis of hostile xenos communication indicated further
disruption could be achieved with minimal degradation of its own
combat-readiness. It elevated the option to priority two.
New voice (‘Ork 3’): “Oh sod it. We’z got one,
two, free ... er, a lot of boyz back ‘ere. I seyz we bum-rush it an’ kill the
bastid.”
Forty-two updated its combat strategies,
increasing the estimated number of hostiles to three. It paused,
cross-referenced with data on Ork numbering systems, adjusted the number to
minimum-10-plus.
Nobbie: “And then wot happenz if we’z wreck
th’enginz by ackserdent?”
Ork 3: “Er…”
Nobbie: “We smash inna star, that’s wot.”
Ork 3: “Well, at least killin’ it might be a
laff.”
Arglgah: “I’m with Gurzbul. Lezz go!”
Ork 3 (‘Gurzbul’): “Fanks, Argl.”
Nobbie: “Owright, owright. Gi’it one more go,
then we’z wreck it. Oi! You listening, metal pantz? You’z gorrabout ten minnits
before we goes inna star and you come over all melty-like. Ger’out now and we
let you go.”
Forty-two considered. It plotted the asteroid’s
last known trajectory, extrapolated its course assuming dead-stick status.
Watched in its mind’s eye as that line intersected with the Metalica system’s
star. Best-guess estimates verified the asteroid was slightly over 10 minutes
away from point-of-no-return, after which even a maximum-thrust burn would be
unable to save it from the star’s gravity (The Ork was being overly literal, of
course: gravity and heat would annihilate the asteroid long before it got anywhere
near the star’s corona). Predicted casualties: 100%. Own-survival probability:
0%.
If Forty-two could have sighed in
satisfaction, it would have. This exceeded even the best-case predictions of
the mission outcome. It felt, insofar as it was capable of feeling anything
other than melded man-machine agony, blessed. Faith in technology would always
overcome the unthinking primitiveness of the xenos.
Look what the Machine God could accomplish!
Praise Omnissiah.
“Attention, xeno combatants,” it verbalized.
“I accept your proposal.”
Nobbie: “Charge on three, two … oh? Er. You
do?”
“Please discard your weaponry as a sign of
good faith.”
Nobbie: “Um. No?”
“Unable to comply to your request without
guarantees.”
Gurzbul: “’Ere, Nobbie, itz just stallin’.”
Nobbie: “Cheeky git. Alright, you arsked for
it!”
Gurzbul: “’Ere we go, ‘ere we go!”
Arglgah: “Aaaaagh!”
A total of 16 Ork combatants appeared around
the edge of machinery A, carrying an assortment of chemical slugthrower,
liquid-fuel incendiary and melee weaponry. They loosed a hammering barrage of
projectiles in an uncoordinated attempt at suppressing fire. Projectiles
impacted against machinery B and C. Three rounds struck Forty-two’s carapace
without penetrating. A fourth pierced the lower ventricle oxygen chamber,
reducing internal reserves by 50%. Didn’t matter, it would have enough.
Forty-two waited until all of them had
entered the chamber, activated its transonic blades and sprang. Its titanium
piston legs vaulted it over the Orks’ heads, just scraping beneath the
chamber’s ceiling, to land behind the mob, beside obstacle A (fuel conduit).
The Orks tried to track it, fired, perforating the ceiling with holes, twisting
around to bring their weapons to bear.
Forty-two raised its twin blades. Slashed.
The Orks fired. The blades carved two long orange-red lines in the fuel
conduit. Slugs tore through Forty-two’s armour, kicking it back, knocking it
from its feet. Thick, viscous fuel sprayed into the chamber like a burst
artery. Flames from the Orks’ incendiary weapons met the fuel in mid-air.
The explosion was blinding, deafening.
Glorious.
Praise Omnissi—
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