Ork stories
Hey, Where'd da Termies Go?
Plains of Acheron, Planet of Tatoonie
Nasea Cluster
Sector -0.425
The gold glinted coldly in the hot desert sun. For as far as his squinty little pigeyes could see,
Grishnak was surrounded by gold. The sun vicious heat of the sun, striking down like a million
spear shafts on the hard-packed sand, brought beads of oily sweat dripping down his face. Sand
grated irritatingly in every nook and crany of his armor, causing the cogs in the mega armor to
squeal annoyingly. And yet the Warboss' face was transformed by the blissful smile of complete
contentment as he scanned mile after mile of shining gold.
"Boss . . . ?"
An annoying sound grated at the periphery of Grishnak's hearing. He swatted it away with a
vague gesture of his powerclaw. Part of his little Orky brain registered that the powerclaw hit
something hard enough to send it flying. For several more minutes the big Ork's perusal of his
incalculable wealth was undisturbed.
"Um . . . Boss . . . ?"
This time it was a different annoying voice. Deeper. But all Grishnak really noticed was that his
meditation on the shear vastness of his new-found wealth was being disturbed. Again he moved
to swat the annoyance away. This time, however, something caught his powerclaw in a powerful
grip of its own, and he felt himself being slowly lifted towards the blurry heat of the sun.
"Uh, Boss, doze 'umie flat faces 'er comin'."
Suddenly the gold around Grishnak began to waver in the terrible warmth. Waves of
super-heated air rose up in front of the vast piles of wealth. The shimmering made the gold
almost seem . . . unreal. Grishnak felt himself being shaken. Who was shaking him? Why?
"Boss, da red 'umies iz comin' fast, Boss."
"Duh! Itz cuz dey painted dere armor red . . . " A high pitched voice began to add, before it ended
in a muffled yelp.
And with that yelp the gold disappeared, and Grishnak was looking up into the scarred and
seemed face of his lieutenant, Lew. His powerclaw was held in the nob's strong grip. Grishnak's
head whipped around frantically in search of the gold, but it was nowhere in evidence. higher up
on the dune where the Warboss had fallen asleep, the still form of Lowkee slowly leaked green
goo from a shallow powerclaw-shaped wound on his forehead, a dazed smile on his little green
lips. It was the first time Grishnak could ever remember the diminutive standard bearer being
quiet.
"Wuuzzup?" Grishnak tried to shake the sleep out of his head, shading his light-sensitive eyes
with his gun claw. The only part of his dream that seemed to be real was the Gork-awful heat and
the discomfort of the ubiquitous sand.
"Huh," Lew began with his usual glibness. "You fell asleep on dis hill, boss. And you tolds us ta
wake ya when da 'umies was comin'." He paused to gather his thoughts. "And dey's comin'
now."
Grishnak had been in no hurry to deploy after moving the mysterious black box to this miserable
field of sand. The Gretchin had dragged it all the way from the place with all the big black rocky
spikes into this endless sea of sand, where it would be easier to lay a trap for the Marines that
Nazdreg had told him to expect. Having chosen the perfect place for the ambush, Grishnak had
known that his own deployment was pretty much set: Wait on the big hill and when the Humie
marines showed up, shoot 'em all. Having spent all the time on prior tactical planning that he was
liable to, he had decided to try to fight the heat by taking a nap. Unfortunately, all that he seemed
to have accomplished was a groggy, half-awake feeling and double the sand seeping throughout
his suit of mega armor. He grumbled, absently kicked a Gretchin who had wandered too close,
and stood up.
"OK , ladz, you know da drill. We waits fer da 'umies ta come fer da box, while da Nightwingz and
da Gitburnahz run around da side ta try an' see what's behind da beakies. Alright?" The Orks of
Grishnak's Gangstahz all nodded, some grunting in response. The Warboss cursed the luck that
had placed them all on this burning ball of sand; the repressive heat was sapping the ladz of their
energy and excitement. But Grishnak knew that it was effecting him, as well, and could not be
bothered to attempt lifting the warband's spirits at the moment.
"OK, everyork get to dere place. Brukk . . . ?"
The big Blood Axe nob looked up from where he was polishing his Kustum Shoota. "Yur?"
"Take yer boyz up to da black box an' dig in aroun' it, OK?"
Brukk nodded once, looking out over the shimmering sand at the small black box. "Yur." Without
argument or comment he waved at the other kommandos who were lounging nearby in the
oppressive heat, and together they began to slog out into the desert.
Grishnak stood at the base of a small pinnacle of black basalt, silently watching his warband
shake itself out into the order of battle he had decided on. There would be no hiding like sneaky
gits this time. When the Blood Angels came up over that last dune following their scanners on
their search for the black box, all the firepower of Grishnak's Gangstahz was going to meet them.
A grim smile twisted the big lips of the fierce warboss. He knew even the Humies would be feeling
the heat out in the middle of this desert. He also knew things hadn't even started to get hot.
Brukk sat in his sandy fox hole waiting for the Human marines he knew were approaching.
Having studied standard Terran tactical doctrine in his youth, he decided that the Humies most
likely had at least one dreadnought with them, and that it was most likely going to be near the
front of their advance.
The Kommando Kaptin looked back at where the rest of his ladz were resting against a big dune.
All of their weapons were trained on the next ridgeline opposite the Gangstahz' right flank, ready
to close off that avenue of attack from the Humans. Behind his kommando's line sat the little
black box, a bit the worse for wear after having been dragged several miles by the
over-enthusiastic Gretchin. Brukk didn't know what was in that box, but he knew that if he was
going to be able to maintain what little power in the warband he had left, the humies better not
reach it?
Brukk turned back toward the direction of the Marines' advance. He strained his ears, trying to
catch even the slightest hint of the Humies, but he couldn't hear anything over the low moaning
of the desert winds. The big Kaptin knew that the first blow of the battle was going to have to be
his, and he was going to have to make it count. He fondly rubbed one thumb against the
silvery-metallic globe almost engulfed in his right claw. His Kustum Shoota was slung across his
back at the moment, making it easier to lay prone, as well as freeing up his throwing arm. He
grinned as he remembered the last time he had played catch with a Human Marine dreadnought.
Brukk's reverie was broken by the distant whirring of powerful servos working against desert
wear and the abrasive effects of constantly blowing sand. Immediately the Kaptin crouched lower
in his fox hole, cocking his head to the side so as to get a better read on how far out the
approaching marines might be. The sand on the edge of his pit began to shudder visibly in a
slow, rhythmic pattern: shake, long pause. Shake, long pause. Shake. He nodded slightly to
himself; somewhere nearby, a dreadnought was approaching the Orky line.
Brukk knew that no other Ork could get a better view of the Humans, and so the timing of his
attack had to be all his. His resentment at Grishnak's rise within Nazdreg's organization washed
away in the anticipation of the destruction he was about to visit on the unsuspecting
dreadnought. He cocked his arm back, preparing to throw the little metal globe, and rose up on
one knee, ready to jump out of his hidey hole. He knew he was only going to have one chance,
and he had to make it count.
Responding to some inner signal, Brukk exploded out of the pit, light, powdery sand spraying
everywhere, and ran towards the looming crimson machine he had known had to be there.
Out of his peripheral vision he could see a Human of heroic stature in power armor standing at
the base of a dune, a look of astonishment on his pale face. Behind that Human were five more
arrayed at the top of the dune, two holding long, dangerous looking weapons. Brukk's focus,
however, never wavered from the dreadnought. With a guttural grunt he lofted the
small-but-heavy grenade directly at the monstrous figure half-hidden behind the dune. The
Kommando Kaptin dug his jungle boots into the sand and skidded to a halt as he watched the
shimmering sphere arcing up into the hot sky, and then glide gently down directly on top of the
dreadnought.
For a moment nothing happened, and the look of fear and confusion on the face of the marine
directly in front of Brukk gave way to cruel amusement. The big Human took a single step
towards the Blood Axe nob, his chainsword waving slowly from side to side, when the big
dreadnought behind him suddenly erupted in a huge fountain of sparks.
Dazzling plumes of swirling embers exploded from several different points on the dreadnought,
which began to stagger backward as if stunned. Both arms jerked back, firing super-heated
microwaves and flashing assaultcannon rounds high into the air. Smoke began to pour out of
grills and grates in the huge beast's body, and the smell of melted plastic and scorched metal
assaulted Brukk's nose.
The marine captain, cringing from the sudden explosion, glared at the Blood Axe nob, hatred
clear in his eyes, as his main heavy support continued to stagger about behind him. Brukk smiled
evilly at the marine, bringing his Kustum Shoota up into a from-the-hip firing position at the same
moment the human lifted his bolter. Before either could shoot, however, a horrendous whistling
howl split the air, and a huge plume of sand burst up into the sky, swirling away on the hot desert
winds and revealing the crumpled remains of a Pulsa Rokkit smoking in a fresh crater very near
the dreadnought, but even closer to the marine captain.
Brukk could see the human's eyes go round in surprise in the quiet moment before the Pulsa's
forcefield generator spun up to full power. The Kommando Kaptin's smile grew broad and cruel,
and he lifted a sardonic brow, as if inviting the human to take the next move. Before the marine
could so much as twitch, however, the entire area around the Pulsa disappeared in a vast curtain
of sand blasted up at the front of the forcefield wave expanding outward from the Orky weapon.
Brukk's teeth gleamed in a horrendous grin at the look in the marine captains face as he was
engulfed by the sudden sandstorm.
The smile was still on Brukk's face as a rapid series of autocannon shells blasted him off his feet
from the marines on the hill behind the captain, who obviously had not been effected by the
Pulsa. The big Blood Axe nob did several involuntary backward summersaults, ending his
journey face down in the sand at the base of the spire that had shielded him a moment before. He
tried to rise, despite the massive damage the explosive shells had done to his chest, but then fell
back to the sand with a soft sigh. In the distance, however, the dreadnought continued to sputter
and smoke, signalling the success of the seriously wounded Kaptin.
The Orks of Da Nightwingz were far out on the warband's left flank, supported only by the ladz of
Da Gitburnahz. As Greb, the leader of Da Nightwingz saw the plume of thick black smoke rising
from the marine main position, he knew the moment had arrived.
"OK, boyz, 'ERE WE GOOOOOOO!!!!!"
With the roar of their souped up engines, the three warbikes leaped forward, sailing across the
hard-packed sand of the desert. On either side dunes and scrub brush whipped past, and far to
the rear the ladz of Da Gitburnahz yelled out their own warcries as they ran through the thick dust
being thrown up by the warbikes.
Greb signalled for his boyz to swing wide around the big dune approaching on their right, and
began to slew his bike into a wide turn. From his peripheral vision the fiercely grinning Ork
noticed a strange wavering in the air nearby on his left. Chocking it up to a heat mirage, however,
he ignored the odd effect and gunned his bike. He never had time to change his mind before the
Blood Angel's standard bearer's ferocious terminator armor, a bulky box strapped to its back,
stepped out of the wavering spatial distortion, leveling its stormbolter. Greb felt a brief tugging on
his chest, and hadn't even registered that he had been hit before he slumped over the controls of
his bike. the warbike, responding to Greb's weight on the controls, soared straight towards the
terminator, who blithely sidestepped the wildly careening vehicle, banner waving bravely.
The last two warbikes of Da Nightwingz sailed forward, sending plumes of dust rooster-tailing
out behind them, riders crouched over the controls, claws clinging to the hand grips. The four
autocannons roared out their defiance, and the area around the humie terminator was chewed up
by explosive shells. For a moment it seemed as if the marine was going to weather the hellish
storm, even as the tear-resistant fabric of the banner almost disintegrated beneath the hail of
lead. But even as the echoes of the autocannons faded away, the terminator bowed down slowly,
falling to its hands and knees, the banner fluttering to the ground beside him. The brave marine
fell to the sand with a dull thud, blood leaking from several different rents in this thick armor.
The bikes swarmed past the fallen humie, one of the riders spitting on the body as he drove by.
Together, the two remaining warbikes soared up and over the designated dune, sailing into the
marines' backfield. In the swirling dust of their passage, the Blood Angel's battle standard
flapped weakly in the desert breeze.
Grishnak surveyed the battle field before him. Everything seemed to be going quite well. Aside
from the marines on the hill opposite, their autocannon occassionally lashing out at the
screening Gretchin skirmish line, it seemed that all the Humies were accounted for. Gumz'
boarboyz were sweeping out to the right, just in case anyone was behind the big dune opposite
the main Gangstah position while Gumz and his cyboar nobz were slowly moving up towards the
black box, using the small dunes and canyons in the sand for cover.
All of the heavy firepower of the warband was sitting up on the big dune to the warboss' right:
Lew and the mega armored nobz, Da Kan, and the smoking ruin of one of Nazdreg's Smasha
Guns. Aside from the twisted wreckage of the big gun, victim of an early autocannon volley, the
boyz on the hill were lookin' pretty good. Grishnak had sent the last Pulsa Rokkit off over the
small mountain in front of his left flank in search of the still-moving dreadnought. He knew he'd
hit it again, because the Kommandos had seen it. Unfortunately, they had also seen it stumble
out of the swirling sand still moving, even if a bit erratically. Yup, the battle seemed to be going
quite well.
Just as Grishnak began to gloat, however, a strange shimmering, almost but not quite like the
heat waves radiating off the burning sand, began to distort the air off to the left. Grishnak was an
experienced campaigner, and knew exactly what the strange distortion meant: Terminators!
"Ever'body to da lef'!" Grishnak howled out, and the warband shifted smoothly to bear on this
new threat. At the same time, two spidersquig-like things crawled up over the dune the
Kommandos were covering. The big heavy bolter in the Blood Axe position rakked out, a sound
clearly indicating a catastrophic jam, and the tarantulas on the dune rose up unopposed for a
moment. The autocannon marines on the hill let out another volley at the poor Gretchin, but this
time only one of the little bleeders fell thrashing to the sand.
The battle, suddenly seeming as if it were heating up, was over very suddenly. The marines on
the distant hill abruptly disappeared in a shower of sand as explosive autocannon shells from the
two remaining Nightwing warbikes scoured the top of the hill. One of the tarantulas was slagged
by twin laser lances from Da Kan, while two of the teleported terminators fell heavily forward onto
their faces, one pierced by a bolt from Lew's lascannon, the other engulfed in the fury of Gak's
heavy plasma gun, fired on maximum power. Behind the rocky spire, the marine dreadnought
exploded in a sudden, sharp detonation as the ammunition in its assaultcannon arm finally
cooked off. A stunned techmarine and the marine commander staggered out of the sandstorm
thrown up by the dreadnoughts death. The Kommandos leapt upon the techmarine while Gumz'
nobz punched the big shiny red buttons on their cyboars' heads, and sprang towards the
unwary marine captain.
In the distance, twin heavy bolters on one of the marine's tarantulas brapped out at the
advancing boarboyz, sending three of them auguring into the sand. The last two, however, came
on, and a sheet of flame shot up over the top of the intervening dune, and the heavy bolter was
silenced. Off to the left, four autocannon howled out again, and more sanded spumed up where
the last tarantula must have been hiding.
The techmarine was quickly overwhelmed by the numbers of the Kommandos, although he did
get one final, deviant blow with his power axe through the Blood Axe defense, cutting down one
of the silent Orks. The captain put up a better fight. The first nob in on the marine hero, Dreg, was
stymied by the Humie's upraised chainsword, the pale-faced alien holding off the Ork's powerfist
in a prodigious show of strength. The next Ork, Kak, came in on the side of the marine captain,
thinking to strike him down while he was distracted, but the Humie, arm still upraised and fending
off Dreg's powerfist, snapped out a vicious kick with what had to be a bionically enhanced leg.
The Humie's armored foot nailed Kak's cyboar between the eyes, and the Snakebite nob was
thrown, wide-eyed, into the sheer black face of the basalt spire. While he was kicking the second
nob, however, Gumz road in on the preoccupied captain, his powerfist reaching out under Dreg's
halted weapon, and taking hold of the Humie in the goolies.
The marine captain, hero of countless battles, only survivor of the Tyranid Massacre of Altaire VII,
gave forth the high-pitched scream of a wounded human female. Gumz grinned down into the
pain-twisted Humie face as he wrenched the powerfist back and forth. This proved too much for
the vaunted captain, who passed out, eyes rolling back into his head as his body arched over
limply, held up now only by Gumz' unfortunate grip. Still grinning, the Snakebite nob let go,
watching as the Humie slumped back into the sand. A flutter of color caught Gumz attention, and
he leaned over his cyboar's heaving shoulder to look closer. From a tear in the marine's power
armored codpiece a tatter of pale blue cloth jutted. Head tilted curiously, Gumz sheathed his rusty
sword and reached out with his scarred claw. He twisted the cloth around one finger, and pulled
roughly, ignoring the vague yelps of pain emminating from the slumped form.
Gumz looked even more confused as the cloth finally came away from the marine with a soft
snap. He held it up to the sun, where it flapped lackadaisically in the tepid breeze. The cloth was
very soft to the touch, and there seemed to be frothy lace at what had probably been the edges
and the waist line. For what he was holding up, the nob felt suddenly certain, was the torn
remains of a human woman's fine undergarment! Gumz looked down with even greater contempt
on the still weakly-struggling Humie, and spat on his chest. With a jerk of his head he signalled
Dreg away from the scene of the battle and back towards the black box, tucking the tattered
powder blue pennant into his belt pouch as he turned away.
Grishnak had been fully involved in watching the cyboars' battle with the marine captain. When
he saw Gumz finally let the Humie commander go, his attention was immediately caught by
movement off to the left. The Termies! While the entire warband had watched the cataclysmic
battle by the rocky spire, the terminators had run towards the black box, back-handing Gretchin
out of the way as they ran.
"Stop dem!!!" Screamed the warboss. He still didn't know what the funny black box with the little
red and white swirly marks was, but he knew that Nazdreg didn't want the Humies to have it.
The massed firepower of the warband lashed out at the running marines. The startled Snakebite
nobz, bloodlust glowing from their eyes, began to charge, as did the taciturn Kommandos.
Grishnak growled in frustration as not a single shot hit the terminators. His only hope was the
cyboars, and judging from their mounts' panting and heaving, that wasn't much of a hope.
The Orks never even got to find out if the cyboar riders would have made it, because as soon as
the terminators reached the black box the air around them and it began to shimmer again, and
before Grishnak could even howl again, the shimmering stopped, and his last surviving foes
were gone, as was the object he was supposed to have been protecting.
Grishnak's vast head bowed down as he covered his bare eye with his hand and shook his head.
How he was going to tell Nazdreg about this, he didn't know.
The warboss' angry meditations was broken by the crackling voice of Bink, one of the
Gitburnahz, over the standard Gangstahz frequency.
"Boss, we're behind the marine line!"
Grishnak wanted to tell the git that there was no more marine line, but he was too hot and tired.
He was about to ignore the report and go about assessing the losses of this last battle when Bink
continued.
"Dere's some black 'umie marine bikes back 'ere watchin' ya!"
Grishnak's head snapped up. "Wut?"
"Yeah! Uhoh, dere buggin' out! Should we follow 'em?"
Grishnak thought for a moment before replying. "No, send Da Nightwingz ta follow a bit behin'.
Mebee dey're headin' to anuver planet, and we can get off dis sand ball before we gotzta
face'em."
"Gotcher, Boss."
Grishnak sighed, drawing his bare claw up and over his smooth head. He was still gonna have to
tell Nazdreg about the Blood Angels and the funny black box. The bikes of Rue de la Mort could
wait a couple hours.