Chapter 7: Facing the Steel

The human reaction was swift. Two anti-tank teams leveled their launchers and loosed anti-armor missiles at the Killa Kans. This time, without Kukka’s timely intervention, the ordnance struck home with bone-shaking force.

Two thunderous detonations rocked the leading walker. However, the thick hull plating bolted on by the Spanners held firm; Orkish engineering was designed to soak up an unreasonable amount of punishment.

The Killa Kan’s luck had its limits, though. One of its hydraulic legs was sheared off by the blast, causing its speed to plummet. Yet, it did not fall. Using its massive power-claw as a makeshift crutch, the walker continued its lurching charge, the twin-linked Big Shootas on its chassis spitting a more fervent torrent of fire than before.

With the heavy suppression lifted, the Boyz surged forward. The dead zone of the corridor was crossed in a heartbeat. Two armored Boyz breached the Imperial line.

They worked with practiced brutality: first, igniting bundles of Stikkbombs and hollowing out the trenches; then, drawing their heavy Choppas to begin the harvest.

When a gore-drenched Ork hoisted a severed trophy on the edge of his blade, the rest of the mob hit a breaking point. No Ork wanted to let another "have all da fun." Darrius included, the entire warband erupted into a full-throated WAAAGH!

A standard Ork is a nightmare; a Waaagh!-fueled Ork is a catastrophe. Under this psychic influence, a Grot would challenge a Boy, a Boy would headbutt a Nob, and a Nob would dare to talk back to a Warboss.

As the Waaagh! took hold of Darrius, his human sensibilities evaporated. He became a predatory engine of destruction.

With his plasma gun in one hand and a Big Shoota in the other, Darrius charged, obliterating every defender in his path. His vision swam in a haze of crimson.

His Boyz were equally possessed. The Imperial line, struck as if by a titan's hammer, shattered instantly. The elite defenders were scattered, isolated, and methodically butchered by the Orks' crude but effective weaponry.

To their credit, they died with the name of the Emperor on their lips, fighting to the last man without a single soul turning to flee.

The aftermath left the Orks in a state of post-combat euphoria. They cared nothing for their own losses; their only regret was that the "Humies" had run out before the fun was truly finished.

The corridor was a charnel house. Scraps of Orks and men carpeted the deck. There were no survivors, and few corpses remained intact. The armaments of the Killa Kans and the Boyz were too savage. A glancing blow meant dismemberment. To hold a line against such xenos ferocity, one truly needed the Adeptus Astartes.

The Boyz who had missed the main event wandered the ruins, prodding piles of meat to see if a "Humie" still had enough life left to be worth a finishing blow. The greedier ones began brawling over scrap and teeth.

With no prisoners left alive, Darrius had no way to ask what these elites had been guarding. No matter, he thought. Just keep Waaagh!-ing forward.

He spent some time restoring a semblance of order, mostly by slapping any Boy who looked at him sideways, and had the Spanners perform field repairs and "kustom" upgrades on the gear. Then, he led his mob deeper into the ship.

A sudden, violent tremor shook the vessel. It was like a localized earthquake, sending greenskins tumbling into one another.

"What happened?!" Darrius shouted, catching his balance.

Smarty, clinging to Darrius’s shoulder muscles for dear life, dangled in the air. "Up dere, Boss! It came from da front!"

Once the shaking subsided, Darrius pressed the advance. The narrow corridor soon opened into a breathtakingly vast expanse.

It was a cavernous hall of industry. Thousands of Imperial Serfs and laborers toiled beneath colossal gears and soot-stained chains. They operated massive, primitive lifters to shove shells the size of apartment blocks into the breeches of gargantuan cannons.

The tremors were the recoil of the Macro-cannons firing.

As the Orks spilled into the chamber, the well-equipped Voidsmen and security detachments reacted instantly. In this open space, the heavy armor of the Imperium could finally breathe.

Heavy Plasma Turrets, Leman Russ Battle Tanks, Sentinel Walkers, and Chimera APCs turned their muzzles toward the tunnel mouth. Supported by such iron, even ordinary men could stand against the xenos threat.

The Orks charging out of the tunnel were decimated in a heartbeat by a combined storm of plasma, high-explosives, and las-fire. One of the Killa Kans tried to tank the fire, but a direct hit from a Leman Russ's Battle Cannon reduced it to a spray of molten shrapnel.

Against such concentrated steel, even Orkish hide was insufficient. The greenskins charged with suicidal bravery, only to be turned into steaming heaps of charred meat.

"Back! Get back into da tunnel!" Darrius roared. This wasn't a fight won by muscle alone.

He realized now he had taken a wrong turn. Based on his knowledge of the lore, they hadn't found the Power Room, but had instead stumbled into the Weapon Vaults, specifically the loading decks for the ship's macro-batteries.

In the 41st Millennium, the Imperium of Man is a decaying titan. Plagued by the ancient Cybernetic Revolt and the loss of technical STCs, humanity relies on primitive mechanics: axles, gears, and manual labor. Yet, there is a brutal, "baroque" beauty to their violence. Even their "crude" machines possess a terrifying efficacy.

A frontal assault was suicide. Darrius ordered his Boyz to withdraw to the neck of the corridor.

Seeing the greenskins retreat, the human defenders did not pursue. They maintained a disciplined perimeter. They knew that in the tight confines of the tunnels, their heavy armor would be vulnerable to Ork boarding tactics and melta-bombs.

So long as the Macro-cannons were secure, their duty was done. Under the harsh barks of their Commissars, the soldiers quelled their celebratory cheers and held their ground.

Seeing that his attempt to draw them into a trap had failed, Darrius rubbed his chin, his mind whirring.

There is a saying: When a man thinks, God laughs. When an Ork "finks," Mork grins.

As a human, Darrius might not have been this "kunnin'," but now, the ideas came to him with terrifying ease.

If we can't smash 'em head-on, we'll go 'round da back. Long as we don't stop finkin', we'll find a way to krump 'em.