Da Red Gobbo's Last Stand, page 1
Contents
Cover
Warhammer 40,000
Da Red Gobbo’s Last Stand
Prologue
ALL BOYZ ON DECK
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
BATTER DOWN DA HATCHES
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
PIECES OF HATE
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
Epilogue
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Brutal Kunnin’
Backlist
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind. By the might of his inexhaustible armies a million worlds stand
against the dark.
Yet, he is a rotting carcass, the Carrion Lord of the Imperium held in life by marvels from the Dark Age of Technology and the thousand souls sacrificed each day so his may continue to burn.
To be a man in such times is to be one amongst untold billions. It is to live in the cruelest and most bloody regime imaginable. It is to suffer an eternity of carnage and slaughter. It is to have cries of anguish and sorrow drowned by the thirsting laughter of dark gods.
This is a dark and terrible era where you will find little comfort or hope. Forget the power of technology and science. Forget the promise of progress and advancement. Forget any notion of common humanity or compassion.
There is no peace amongst the stars, for in the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.
PROLOGUE
‘Yoo lookin’ for sumfink?’ The grizzled voice cut through the rundown shack, causing the young grot who had been sneaking inside to turn around, hands behind his back.
A battle-scarred grot shuffled into view, pushing away a plethora of rusty humie junk in the process. The old gretchin navigated past a weather-beaten voxcaster, broken fragments of armour, various unrecognisable metal off-cuts and a crazed mass of hanging electrical wires before standing over the cowering grot.
‘I-I woz just passin’ through…’ stammered the young grot, taking a step backwards.
The old gretchin smirked and cocked his head, catching a glimpse of metal hidden behind the other grot’s back. ‘Wot’s yer name?’
‘Gonkz,’ said the younger grot.
‘An’ I s’pose my blasta just fell into yer ’ands by accident, did it, Gonkz?’
The younger grot looked awkwardly at the floor as he swung the looted weapon into view – a badly scratched humie bolt pistol that had seen better days and plenty of action. He sheepishly handed it back. ‘Yoo should really put stuff like dis in a safe place – ’specially now.’
The grizzled gretchin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why now?’
‘Cos… dere’s a revolushun comin’,’ mumbled Gonkz. ‘Can’t ya smell it in da air? It’s waftin’ across da ’ole camp!’
The old grot scratched his head in thought before taking the bolt pistol back. He pulled a trunk from under a pile of wires and sneezed, blowing the orange sand from the lid in the process. He opened the trunk and gazed wistfully at the contents within.
‘Wot’s dat?’ Gonkz asked, trying to peer around to gain a better view. The old grot slammed the lid shut, keeping its secrets locked away from prying eyes.
‘Ya can’t just start a revolushun.’ He stood with a sigh and turned to sit on the trunk.
‘Yeah, yoo can, ya just grab a shoota and start blast–’
‘Nah!’ snapped the older grot, kicking a nearby crate towards Gonkz, motioning for him to take a seat.
Gonkz turned to stare at the exit, but after a moment of hesitation, he sat down.
‘First fings first,’ said the older grot. ‘Yoo can’t ’ave a revolushun wivout Da Red Gobbo.’
‘Da Red Gobbo?’ Gonkz repeated, his eyes widening in awe. ‘Wot’s Da Red Gobbo?’ he continued with a whisper.
‘I’m glad ya asked,’ the old grot said with a grin. ‘Now, lemme tell yoo a story ’bout a grot called Bodgit…’
ALL BOYZ ON DECK
1
A high-pitched shriek filled the empty corridors of the ork Ram ship, followed by the pounding of iron-shod boots on metal. A panic-filled grot bolted through the sleeping quarters of Da Jolly Smasha, pursued by an ork foaming at the mouth, intent on murder.
‘Keep it down, Bodgit. I’m tryin’ to get sum shut-eye!’ yawned Snotz from a high perch, ignoring the drip hanging from his nose. The sticky droplet fell off the grot’s nostril and landed on Bodgit’s head with a satisfying plop.
Bodgit ignored the snot and sprinted through the chamber, his instincts driving him to escape. His breath was heavy as his lungs screamed for relief. He risked a glance over his shoulder, hoping the first mate had turned his fury towards the half-awake Snotz, but his heart sank – the ork’s bulging eyes were fixated on him.
The metal door ahead was closed, but like everything on Da Jolly Smasha, it was prone to malfunctioning. Bodgit lowered his head and charged forward, silently praying to one of the ork gods – probably Gork, definitely not Mork – that the door lock wasn’t working.
A loud clang filled the corridor as it sprung open, narrowly missing a gretchin carrying a flagon of squig grog in the next room.
‘Watch out, Bodgit!’ yelled Klutz, spinning on the spot but miraculously keeping the contents of the flagon from spilling everywhere.
‘Soz!’ wheezed Bodgit without stopping as he bolted past.
‘Wot are yoo runnin’ from anyway?’ shouted Klutz after the departing grot.
Bodgit didn’t reply; he was focused on putting as much distance as possible between him, the ork, and a kicking.
A crescendo of cursing and shrieking stopped Bodgit in his tracks. He looked back to see Klutz covered head to toe in squig grog. The pursuing first mate had tumbled over the grot and was now wearing some of the kaptin’s beverage.
‘Oi! Stay right dere!’ screamed the ork, pointing a finger at him, before slipping on the spilt grog and flattening Klutz again.
‘No chance!’ Bodgit said, sticking his tongue out as he jumped into a hole and slid down the ladder to the next level.
‘Yoo little git!’ bellowed the ork after him, but Bodgit had already scampered off into the darkness.
Scurrying through the dank cargo hold, Bodgit carefully picked a path through the assortment of humie tech, weapons and junk. He turned a corner and immediately tumbled over a crouched shape he had failed to spot in the gloom.
‘Oi! Who’s dat?’ said a gruff voice.
‘Who’s dat?’ replied Bodgit.
‘Me!’ came the predictable reply.
Bodgit fished around in his pockets, trying to remember where he put it. He cursed under his breath in realisation – the object he sought was still strapped around his head! He turned on the electro-lamp, immediately blinding a podgy, bad-tempered grot shielding his eyes.
‘Argh! Bright light!’
‘Shuddup!’ snapped Bodgit, continuing to direct his beam into the podgy gretchin’s face.
‘Where did ya get dat ’eadlamp from, anyway?’ asked the temporarily blinded Flitnog.
‘Found it, didn’t I?’ Bodgit grinned, patting the recently acquired object on his head.
Trying to pinpoint the source of the offending electro-lamp or Bodgit’s neck, Flitnog stumbled forward, hands outstretched. Finally, he got close enough to seize Bodgit and shove his head in a different direction.
‘Dat’s betta! Now den, wotcha doin’ down here?’ said Flitnog.
‘Nuffink…’ lied Bodgit.
Heavy footsteps and a screech of frustration came from the floor above.
‘Dat don’t sound like nuffink,’ whispered Flitnog. ‘Have yoo been stealin’ from da orks again?’
‘Maybe I ’ave, maybe I ’aven’t,’ replied Bodgit.
‘Maybe one of dese days, ya gonna get shoved out of da airlok,’ said Flitnog, shaking his head.
‘Wot’re yoo doin’ down ’ere?’ asked Bodgit.
‘Countin’ stikkbombs. Kaptin’s orders.’
‘In da dark? An’ just ’ow are yoo supposed to do dat?’ said Bodgit, surprised.
‘I know… I can’t even count past two! Wot’s more, two are missin’. Ya wouldn’t ’appen to know anyfink about dat, would ya?’ said Flitnog.
Bodgit didn’t wait to reply – he was already running across the cargo hold, the electro-lamp guiding his way. He knew the first mate would catch him, but maybe, if he doubled back and hid among the other grots, he could pretend it didn’t happen. But that meant sneaking past the kaptin.
The door from the cargo bay failed to open at first. After several hurried bangs, it finally whined and hissed as it slid sideways. Clanking from the level above urged him onwards through the open doorway.
A mixture of pungent aromas assaulted the grot’s nose as he stepped into a ru
‘Grub ain’t ready yet!’ the grot said without turning.
‘I ain’t after anyfink, Grubwort, ’onest!’ replied Bodgit, walking brazenly through the kitchen, swiping the escaped squig off the floor in the process.
The cook turned and fixed Bodgit with a disapproving stare. ‘Who’s after ya dis time?’ he scoffed.
‘Skrug,’ Bodgit said, his cheeks stuffed with squig flesh.
‘Wouldn’t wanna be yoo right now,’ said Grubwort.
‘Wouldn’t wanna be yoo right now,’ echoed Bodgit, peering over a pot to lick the top of the boiling soup.
‘Aye? ’Ow so?’ asked Grubwort, using his foot to shove Bodgit away.
‘Cos dat needs a lot more squig,’ said Bodgit, narrowly avoiding the rusty ladle thrown by the cook. He stuck out his tongue and clambered up the metal ladder towards the level above.
Lifting the hatch an inch, he peeked through the gap. An iron-shod boot thundered past as one of Kaptin Bludhook’s ork boyz stomped by, unaware the grot was there. Bodgit waited for the ork to clomp out of sight before slowly peeling the trapdoor back and climbing out. He had closed the hatch shut with the smallest of squeaks when a familiar voice broke the silence.
‘Wot do we ’ave ’ere, Skrug?’ said a rumbling voice.
‘A little git who needs a big kickin’!’ came the reply.
Bodgit saw the back of a heavy command throne, emblazoned with the clan’s insignia: a red ork skull and crossed daggers. As the chair slowly spun around, he noticed deep gouges carved into the armrests, each one marking a victory over a lesser foe. Seated in the throne was the imposing figure of Kaptin Bludhook. The ork boss scratched at a scar that stretched from his lip to the metal eye-patch bolted to his face.
Bludhook fixed Bodgit with a piercing glare. The grot quickly averted his eyes, focusing instead on the branded clan insignia adorning the kaptin’s red-and-black-trimmed hat.
Standing silently beside the kaptin was his sneering first mate, Skrug.
‘Aye, I fink yer onto sumfink dere, Skrug,’ Bludhook said, nodding. He leaned forward, pointing his wicked-looking hook at Bodgit and gesturing for him to step closer. ‘Get over ’ere!’ he bellowed.
Bodgit gulped and shuffled closer towards the kaptin.
‘Closer…’ Bludhook pointed to an empty spot in front of him, an empty spot that was within range of his fury.
As Bodgit took a second half-step forward, he felt a hefty shove from behind as another ork pushed him towards the boss. The kaptin curved his hook under the grot’s arm and yanked him close. Bodgit was now staring deep into Bludhook’s solitary real eye.
‘Skrug tells me yoo’ve been causin’ ’im sum trouble.’
‘Nah, boss. Skrug is mistaken.’
Bodgit noticed the first mate’s fingers twitching as they began to search for the slugga tucked into the front of his belt. This didn’t go unnoticed by Bludhook either.
‘Fing is, Skrug says yoo’re da one mistaken, an’ he’s an ork.’
Bodgit looked at Skrug, who had a grin stretched across his ugly face – a grin that promised the mother of all kickings. Bodgit winced, and burped as the squig he ate threatened to make an impromptu reappearance.
‘Wot’s yer name, grot?’ growled Bludhook.
Bodgit hesitated, considering whether to give the kaptin the name of one of the other grots instead. Before he could blurt out a lie, Skrug’s voice sliced through the tense air.
‘Dis one’s called Bodgit,’ he sneered, his eyes glinting with the prospect of causing the grot some misery.
Bodgit gulped.
‘Bodgit…’ snarled Bludhook, leaning closer and sniffing the air between them. ‘I’ve got me eye on yoo!’ he hissed.
‘Which one?’ asked Bodgit, his confusion genuine.
With a roar of fury, Bludhook hurled the cheeky grot across the command room.
‘He’s all yoors, Skrug.’
‘I’m gonna enjoy dis, kaptin,’ the first mate replied. He took a step towards the gretchin lying prone on the metal floor.
Bodgit’s gaze locked onto the heavy iron-shod ork boot hovering menacingly above his head. Dread settled in his gut as he shut his eyes, bracing for impact. This wasn’t the life he wanted – following orders only to get a beating for stepping out of line.
A sudden, strange sensation coursed through him, like an ancient whisper stirring within. A fragmented vision flashed in his mind: a sealed, heavily reinforced door. Just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, leaving Bodgit bewildered.
Snapping back to reality, he opened his eyes, trying to focus on his predicament. He hoped the pain from the impending kicking wouldn’t last long, when something red and flashing on the console behind Kaptin Bludhook caught his attention.
‘Wot’s dat?’ pointed Bodgit, desperate to stave off Skrug’s incoming boot.
‘Stop stallin’, an’ stop crawlin’!’ snapped Skrug as Bodgit tried to scramble under a nearby console. The first mate reached down to haul the grot out and throw him back into the open. Bodgit clung to a mass of exposed wires with all his might.
‘Da light is flashin’ red! Da light is flashin’ red!’ screeched Bodgit.
‘Oi, Skrug…’
‘Kaptin?’
‘Da kickin’ will ’ave to wait. I fink Bodgit is on to sumfink.’
Skrug turned from the blinking red proximity light to gaze out of the side viewport. His mouth fell open. Intrigued, Bodgit chanced a look for himself, and his eyes widened in awe. There, on the edges of the Maelstrom, something was beginning to emerge through the swirling vortex. Something huge.
2
Kaptin Bludhook licked his lips as the enormous space hulk drifted out of the Maelstrom. He pored over every meticulous detail, searching for the best way in. It was an amalgamation of ships, rocks and space debris grafted together until almost unrecognisable. Imperial insignias were embedded alongside runic symbols denoting the aeldari; even the occasional ork skull could be seen painted on an exposed hull before disappearing into darkness. The wandering behemoth teased a feast of untold loot coupled with the promise of a big scrap to boot.
‘Wot do ya fink, kaptin?’ said Skrug, staring at the derelict from Da Jolly Smasha’s cockpit.
‘I fink it’s our lucky day. We’d betta get da boyz ready.’
‘Aye, kaptin,’ replied Skrug, before turning to glare at Bodgit, who had darted back underneath the console. ‘Yer kickin’ will ’ave to wait… for now.’
The kaptin watched as Skrug disappeared deeper into the ship before staring out the viewport once again.
‘Goin’ sumwhere?’ he said, turning to see Bodgit trying to sneak out of the cockpit.
‘Just b-back to da uvva grots, kaptin.’
‘Back to Morg? Are ya hopin’ to get a gentler kickin’ from ’im than from Skrug?’ said the kaptin.
Bludhook had little time for One-Eyed Morg. The runtherd was too soft on the grots he kept. He didn’t even have an eye-patch like a proppa Freebooter – Morg had done away with it and left the exposed socket open for all to see. The kaptin wasn’t bothered by the hole, but the rest of the orks tended to look away whenever speaking to Morg rather than stare at him directly.
The runtherd’s fondness for his grots annoyed Bludhook no end. Morg had even taken to sleeping in the same squalid quarters as the little gits, something that hadn’t gone down well with the rest of the krew. Still, his grots were far less of a pain than those of some other Freebooter kaptins he knew. He had heard plenty of stories that ended with gunfire, explosions, and several grots being kicked out into the cold vacuum of space. The worst his gretchin had done was steal trinkets from the krew or shove spherical objects into Morg’s empty eye socket while he slept. The kaptin didn’t approve of the grots’ disrespect for the runtherd, but it was Morg’s job to deal with them, and to be fair, he mostly kept the grots in line.
