Chapter 15: The Tellyporta

Smartnog had given Darrius a fresh dose of "Orky shock," not just with his transcendent technical genius, but with a raw, blunt sincerity that made Darrius feel a sudden, fierce urge to follow him into the jaws of hell.

"Boss Smartnog..." Darrius began, moved by the gesture. He wanted to ask why the Mek was being so generous, but Smartnog cut him off with a snarl.

"Stop jawin'! Stop jawin'! Ya keep flappin' dem lips an' we'z gonna 'ave a scrap! Dis iz da best gear I can bodge togeda roight now."

Darrius swallowed his gratitude. An Ork's brain likely couldn't process complex sentiment; their world was too simple, too direct for the nuances of human emotion.

Without another word, Darrius began to don the armor Smartnog had forged. This wasn't the crude "Ironboy" fare of hammered plates and rusty rivets. This was true Power Armour, a xenos mirror to the sacred wargear of the Adeptus Astartes.

"Ya zoggin' grot! Why'z ya so thick all of a sudden? Dat ain't how ya wear it!" Smartnog watched Darrius struggle with the fastenings like a primitive trying to put on a tuxedo. With a look of pure disdain, the Mek stepped in to hammer and bolt the pieces into place. "Ya go 'ere... den 'ere... den snap dat bit... dere! See? Stupider dan a squig, ya are!"

With Smartnog's "help," Darrius was finally encased in the full suit. It was a masterpiece of Orkish logic, filled with internal micro-servos and haptic feedback systems. As the systems hummed to life, Darrius felt his innate mechanical intuition, his ancestral gift from the Old Ones, flare with new understanding.

How deep does this go? Darrius wondered. Did the Old Ones hard-code the entirety of galactic science into the Orkish genome?

"Now, we got a problem wiv dis 'ere tunnel," Smartnog said, turning his attention to the tactical situation once Darrius was ready. "It's too skinny. I lost a lot of gud Boyz tryin' to push troo, but we can't break 'em."

To illustrate, Smartnog kicked a nearby Ork, who scrambled into a makeshift Killa Kan. The machine was a mobile bunker, a thick frontal armor with no weapons, clearly a desperate bodge for breaching.

The Kan waddled into the corridor. It was immediately met by a wall of fire: heavy stubbers, multi-lasers, and the blinding white-hot streams of plasma and melta-beams. Within fifteen meters, the heavy-armored coffin was a molten ruin.

"See? Dat's da score. A frontal charge iz a slog," Smartnog spat. "Even wiv our big armor an' shields, we'd lose too many lads gettin' troo."

It was a classic defensive bottleneck. Imperial heavy ordnance in a confined space was a death trap for any attacker. Darrius lowered his head, his mind churning for a solution.

"But... now you'z 'ere wiv all your big lads, dere's a way," Smartnog interrupted his thoughts. "Ya ever 'eard of a Tellyporta?"

Darrius... hadn't. Yet, as the bizarre term hit his ears, ancestral knowledge surged from the depths of his DNA like a rising tide.

"We can use da Tellyporta to 'jump' right behind da 'umie line!" Darrius exclaimed in realization.

"Hmph. You'z a real Big-Brain, ain't ya?" Smartnog grunted, a hint of jealousy in his tone. He seemed annoyed at how quickly Darrius was catching on. "Yeah, dat's da plan. Da gubbinz iz on me back, but it only 'as enuff juice to jump me. No time to bodge anada wun, tellyportas iz tricky fings."

Smartnog leaned in, his red eyes gleaming. "So, 'ere's da plan. I jump in, coz a big mess, an' distract da 'umies. Ya take da Boyz an' charge troo da tunnel soon as dey start panickin'. If you'z fast enough, ya can krump 'em all 'fore dey turn 'round."

Once again, Darrius was floored. He stared at the Ork, speechless.

Smartnog mistook his shock for awe. He puffed out his chest, delighted that his "brilliant" tactical acumen had cowed the younger Ork. "Dunt look at me like dat. I'ze just dat smart. Nachural-born, see? Dat's why dey call me Smartnog."

From one perspective, Smartnog was right to be proud. But Darrius was reeling from the sheer, suicidal "honesty" of the plan. Why was the leader taking the most dangerous role? Why wasn't he ordering Darrius to go first?

If I were a backstabbing git, Darrius thought, I'd just wait until he jumps, then take my time with the "support." He'd be dead, and I'd have his ship and his mob.

Is he really this simple?

"Right... I'll bring da lads troo az fast as we can," Darrius managed to say, biting back his urge to point out the flaws. If this lovable, "smart" brute was the pinnacle of Orkish leadership, then Orks truly were a "special" breed.

"Gud. Ya set up da charge. Tell me when you'z ready, den watch me do some proppa killin'! Heh heh heh..." Smartnog chuckled darkly.

"Ya got it, Boss..."

On the other side of the barricade, Commissar Jappard stood like a black monolith amidst the madness. Only two Kasrkin stood as his immediate honor guard; the rest of the Kasrkin kill-team were dispersed along the line, providing the veteran fire-discipline needed to hold the breach.

His gaze was iron. His will was the only thing keeping the terrified guardsmen in their seats.

Suddenly, a violent yellow flare erupted behind the Imperial lines.

Arcing bolts of lightning hissed from the point of detonation, igniting ammunition crates and incinerating nearby personnel into charred husks.

A massive Ork, draped in humming power-cables and a sparking generator-pack, materialized out of thin air. With a deafening roar, the xenos began to tear into everything within reach.

The Kasrkin responded instantly. They pivoted in a perfect skirmish formation, drowning the beast in a storm of high-intensity hot-shot las-rounds from their Hellguns.

The tempest of fire was enough to vaporize a squad of lesser Orks, but this brute was different. A shimmering amber field flickered around him, absorbing the las-fire and lashing out with retaliatory bolts of electricity that cooked any guardsman who drew too close.

"Bring up the Heavy Melta and the Plasma!" Jappard barked over the din. "That shield won't hold forever! Kasrkin, maintain suppression! Don't let that monster breathe!"

Heavy weapons were scrambled from the frontline. Two plasma blasts slammed into the amber shield, making it flicker violently. It was wavering, close to collapse.

Nearby, a Leman Russ turret, salvaged from a wrecked hull and mounted as a fixed gun-emplacement, began to groan as its gears turned to face the new threat.

Smartnog was valiant, but faced with the concentrated fury of the Imperial Guard's heaviest man-portable ordnance, his situation was becoming critical.