Chapter 10: The Big Boom

The vertigo and persistent ringing from the explosion were agonizing; nausea and pain clawed at the Imperial Commissar's senses. The natural defense mechanisms of the mortal frame threatened to shut down his consciousness entirely, seeking the mercy of a blackout to escape the lingering torment.

Yet, sustained by a will of tempered adamantium, the Commissar forced his eyes open. Ignoring the warm trickle of blood leaking from his ruptured eardrums, he bore witness to the carnage.

Before him lay a furnace-hell. Loading Bay 2 was a ruin. Through some erratic xenos sorcery or crude genius, the Orks had breached the reinforced bulkhead, tearing a jagged, gargantuan maw in the side of the bay.

From that wound, a tide of greenskins bristling with heavy weaponry poured forth, driving straight into the Astra Militarum's exposed flank.

Disoriented by the sudden breach and the concussive force of the blast, his men were being systematically butchered.

"Do not falter! Hold your ground! For the Emperor!" the Commissar bellowed. He ignored the blood spraying from his lips, the result of internal tremors, and roared at the reeling guardsmen.

"But... but sir! They're everywhere! They're everywhere!" one soldier cried, his mind fractured by sheer terror.

"Then fire everywhere! Seize every weapon within reach! If you have a rifle, shoot them! If you have a grenade, blast them! If you have a bayonet, gut them! And if you have nothing, use your hands and your teeth!"

Turning from the shaken rank-and-file, the Commissar racked his bolt pistol and ignited the roaring teeth of his chainsword. "Command squad! Kasrkin! On me! Charge!"

The battlefield had dissolved into utter anarchy. The Commissar knew there was only one way to restore order: lead from the front, inspire the broken, and, ideally, slay the xenos leader to break the momentum of the green tide.

If he failed, he would die here. He only prayed that his loyal sacrifice would find its way back to the Golden Throne.

On the other side of the breach, Darrius was exultant. First, the feint to draw out the armor; then, the Killa Kan to pin them in place.

The masterstroke, however, was using the cacophony of the frontline battle to mask the frantic drilling of his Burna Boyz and Tankbustas. At the perfect moment, a synchronized demolition had shattered the Imperial flank and carved a highway for his main assault.

The first to scream through the gap were the Burna Boyz. Donning soot-stained goggles and wielding oversized flamers, they charged through the settling dust of the blast.

The pillars of promethium they unleashed were like fiery drakes, lashing out to sever and bisect the Imperial lines. They were possessed by a singular, burning intent: to ignite everything in their path and reduce the world to ash.

Hard on their heels came the Tankbustas, the true architects of the breach. Obsessed with the "Big Boom," these madmen carried triple-mounted rokkit launcha, their backs stooped under the weight of enough ordnance to level a spire.

If the Burna Boyz had lit a fire under the battlefield, the Tankbustas were a bucket of cold water thrown into boiling oil. The "Humies" were the main course, and they were being flash-fried.

One by one, the Imperial armor was picked off. Prideful Leman Russ tanks were transformed into roaring, steel coffins.

Darrius had picked up a Tankbusta's launcher for the first time, and it was love at first sight. Each trigger pull resulted in a beautiful trinity of detonations. It was no wonder the Orks called such things "Boom-bomm." That world-shaking roar of destruction was utterly addictive.

The Astra Militarum were breaking. Horror and despair were etched onto the faces of the soldiers. Soon, they would be little more than a disorganized rabble, fleeing like the "Humies" the Orks so despised.

Assuming the victory was won, Darrius stopped "finkin'" and focused on the slaughter. He found it cumbersome to carry a plasma gun in one hand and a launcher in the other.

Inspired perhaps by the memory of Smartnog's handiwork, Darrius felt a spark of sudden, Orkish "Ingenuity." Scavenging a handful of jagged components from the deck, and with Smarty acting as a frantic tool-caddy, he assembled a new weapon in under two minutes.

A Kombi-weapon was born: a rocket launcher on top for the "Boom," and a high-energy plasma dispenser below to melt whatever was left.

"Sneaky Boss! I'vz seen kunnin' Meks who culdn't fight loike ya, an' killy Bosses who culdn't build loike ya! You'ze both! You'ze a Mekboy! A Big Mek!" Smarty shrieked in admiration.

"A Mek..." Darrius grinned. Though it was a primitive assembly, the technical hurdle was significant. Managing the interference between the two firing systems and, critically, the plasma cooling, had been achieved through sheer power of "I-Finks-So."

The sensation of knowledge bubbling up from his DNA was intoxicating. In Ork culture, titles like Mek, Big Mek, or even a Warboss ruling dozens of systems were symbols of absolute strength.

This feeling of getting stronger... it's good. Being a greenskin isn't so bad after all.

"Why ain't da Humies all dead yet?" Darrius suddenly realized the battle was still grinding on. Normally, the Orks should be looting the corpses by now.

"FOR THE EMPEROR!"

The roar of the Commissar reached Darrius's ears, and he finally saw why the line held.

An Imperial Commissar had rallied a surviving knot of guardsmen. Using a few battered Leman Russes and Chimeras as a makeshift bulwark, they stood like a reef against the green tide: bloodied, but unyielding.

The Astra Militarum is the foundation of the Imperium. Individually, they lacked the transhuman might of the Astartes, but through sheer weight of numbers and a terrifying capacity for sacrifice, they held the line against the horrors of the 41st Millennium.

And a strong Commissar was the soul that kept that sacrifice burning.

As a human, Darrius would have admired the man. He might have even followed him into the fire.

But he was an Ork. He had his own "loyalty" now. And he knew that because of the Emperor's holy hatred for all xenos, the Inquisition would only ever offer him a pyre.

"Go. Get da Boyz. I'm gunna krump dat big Humie," Darrius commanded.

Smarty leaped from his shoulder, his shrill voice echoing across the bay. "Sneaky Boss says he'z gunna krump da Humie Boss! Boss says he'z gunna take 'is 'ead!"

The message rippled through the mob. By the time it reached the frontline, the "translation" had evolved: Sneaky Boss iz challenging da Humie Boss to a duel! Tell da Humie to wash 'is neck 'cause he'z dead-meat!

The Commissar seemed to understand the Orkish challenge. The rhythm of the battlefield shifted into something strange and ritualistic.