Chapter 8: The Squabble

The loading bays for a Macro-cannon are titan-sized, and the arteries leading into them are numerous. Following Darrius's orders, Smarty had taken a pack of keen-nosed Squighounds to sniff out alternative routes, the first step of the pincer movement.

Next, Darrius rounded up the Spanners. He commanded them to cobble together dedicated anti-armor weapons and to reinforce the surviving Killa Kan. His instructions were simple: make it bigger, make the scrap-plate thicker, and make it loud. It was to be a sacrificial anvil, designed solely to draw the "Humies'" fire.

Among the Orks, temperaments varied. Some lived for the red joy of the Choppa, some for the rhythmic thunder of the Shoota, and a specialized few lived only for the "Big Boom," the beautiful, cacophonous destruction of high explosives. Darrius singled out five or six Burna Boyz and Tankbustas to act as his secret ace, keeping them under his direct command.

In the heat of the scrap, Darrius seemed to have forgotten his original objective. Mekboy Smartnog had ordered him to take the Power Room, but Darrius was now entirely consumed by the tactical riddle of krumping the humans before him.

…

The Glorious Knight was a standard Lunar-class Cruiser of the Imperial Navy. Her station was to monitor the chaotic internecine conflicts within the Ork-held sectors, gathering intelligence on their perpetual civil wars. Whenever the greenskins threatened to unite under a single powerful Warlord, the Navy would intervene, sowing just enough discord to ensure the Orks returned to their preferred state of mutual slaughter.

It was a cold, effective strategy that kept one of the Imperium's oldest threats contained with minimal loss of life. The surveillance had been going perfectly, until the "unexpected" happened.

Just after the Glorious Knight had dispatched a report stating the Orks remained divided, three Ork pirate warships had ambushed her. By the Emperor’s grace and the Captain's steady hand, the cruiser had slipped the noose, narrowly avoiding destruction or capture.

But escape did not mean safety. The Orks had launched waves of boarding torpedoes, many of which had bitten deep into the cruiser's hull. Now, swarms of greenskins were rampaging through the decks, bleeding the ship’s speed and combat effectiveness.

"Bearing 42.38.57! Unidentified vessel approaching. Signature matches Ork Freebooter profiles! They're gaining on us!" the sensor rating barked from the bridge pit.

"Damned xenos... they're like grox-flies," Captain Pex hissed. He turned to his first officer. "Are those green beasts still running amok on my decks? Have they been purged?"

"I regret to report they have not, sir," the officer replied, his voice tight. "Our Armsmen are fighting valiantly, but several counter-attacks have failed. The raw physical power of the xenos is simply too much for unaugmented men to contain."

"We have no Ogryns, no Catachans, and no Adeptus Astartes. The men are doing what they can."

"Excuses!" Pex roared, his voice echoing across the bridge. He leaned in until he was nearly spitting in the officer’s face. "You lack effort! You lack faith! You do not understand the necessity of sacrifice! Only through sacrifice is victory forged!"

The officer’s face turned the color of raw liver. He stood rigid, swallowing his fury. He could not endure the Captain insulting the memory of the men who had already died in the dark corridors below.

Before the confrontation could boil over, a sharp, rhythmic click of leather boots on the cold deck plating broke the tension.

A Commissar, resplendent in his peaked cap and black greatcoat, stood nearby. A bolt pistol hung at one hip, a chainsword at the other. His eyes, cold and predatory, swept between the Captain and the officer.

The Officio Prefectus is the iron spine of the Imperium. So long as a Commissar stands, an Imperial force remains a fighting unit, regardless of casualties. They lead through sheer force of will and an uncompromising loyalty to the God-Emperor.

On the bridge, the Commissar exists to watch the watchers. Should any commander show the slightest hint of cowardice, treason, or incompetence, the Commissar’s bolt pistol provides a final, bloody resolution.

"Captain Pex," Commissar Jappard said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he rested a hand on the pommel of his chainsword. "I have reviewed the combat logs. The men have indeed given their all. They have practiced their faith through the ultimate sacrifice. You will not disparage them. The Astra Militarum has contained the xenos momentum; that is as much as can be asked against such brutes."

"They have done their duty. They have protected this ship and our lives. Now, Captain Pex, it is time for you to do yours. The Ork vessel is entering engagement range."

Under the Commissar’s watchful gaze, Pex’s bravado withered. He turned back to the tactical hololith.

The Ork ship was closing with impossible speed, faster than Pex’s calculations allowed. The plumes of fire from the xenos vessel’s aft engines had doubled in length. Pex knew what that meant: the "Big Red Button." The Orks had activated some ramshackle over-burn device that defied the laws of physics.

But raw aggression did not always win a void war. The Lunar-class was a masterpiece of Imperial naval architecture. Even damaged, Pex was confident he could break the enemy.

"Hard to port! Bring the macro-batteries to bear!"

As the Ork ship crossed into the kill-zone, the Glorious Knight’s batteries spoke with a thunderous roar, hurling shells with the yield of tectonic shifts across the void. The Orks, outranged, responded with volleys of boarding torpedoes and space-slugs. The first exchange of the void duel had begun.

While the heavens burned outside, the battle intensified within.

After an hour of frantic Orkish industry, Darrius's plan was ready. Smarty’s Squighounds had confirmed the good news: there were indeed multiple vents and access shafts leading into the loading bay. The bad news: every single one was guarded by a squad of resolute "Humie" soldiers.

Darrius looked at the "Secret Weapon" the Spanners had hammered together. He looked at the crude map scratched into the deck-plating. After a moment of Ork "finkin'," he slapped his own bald head.

The primary axis of the attack was decided.