Da Red Gobbo Collection, page 4
‘Yes, boss!’ Fingwit said, with greater certainty. ‘Checked it twice, an’ everyfing!’
‘Good,’ Klaws grunted. ‘Dat should tell ya wot ya needs ta do. Now, I wants ya ta remember dis, Fingwit, cos it’s very important.’
‘Wot’s dat, boss?’ Fingwit asked tremulously.
‘If dis don’t get done, den Da Meklord’s gonna be real angry,’ Klaws growled, and his eyes narrowed into a ferocious glare. ‘An’ if ’e comes lookin’ for me over it, den I’m gonna make sure I rips yer little zoggin’ arms off before ’e gets ta me, ya got dat?’
‘Yes, boss,’ Fingwit said, swallowing. ‘Fanks, boss. Real motivatin’.’
‘Good, dat’s wot I fort, too.’ Klaws waited for a moment, then snarled. ‘Well, wot’re you waitin’ for! Get movin’!’ His eyes then rolled back in his head, which sank down to the floor with a small thud: probably an indication that he was gathering his strength, Fingwit decided sagely.
‘Yes, boss!’ Fingwit said, on the off-chance that Klaws could still hear him. He looked around, searching for inspiration, and his gaze landed on the doors to the lifta which had brought them here. A nice, easy ride back down to where they’d intended to go in the first place: that sounded like the best way to start. They’d get to the right level of the ship, find the guns in question, and work through the instructions on Klaws’ list to make them do what Da Meklord wanted. Thoughts of running off to do his own thing were shunted away for the moment, subsumed into visions of glorious destruction wreaked by his efforts, and daydreams of rewards heaped onto him for being the grot that broke the humie fleet’s resistance with his quick thinking, brilliant judgement and technological mastery…
‘Right,’ Fingwit said, feeling the weight and authority of leadership settle onto his shoulders. ‘Back into da lifta, ladz. We’re gonna–’
Two humies in armour, carrying what were fairly large guns by their standards, rounded the corner of the corridor, and were quickly joined by two more, and then another two…
‘Told ya I could hear ’em coming!’ Duzzik wailed, sprinting in the opposite direction. The humies’ gun barrels started to rise towards Da Fingers as they clustered around Klaws. There was no time to get into the lifta: the doors had already shut again. There was only one thing for it.
‘Run for it!’ Fingwit yelled, and fled as the humie weapons began to open up, the other grots on his heels.
‘Aaaargh!’ Grubba yelled, as they skidded around the next corner and put the blessed relief of a wall between them and pursuit, at least for a moment. ‘Wot’s da plan, Fingwit?’
‘Keep runnin’!’ Fingwit snapped back, as the humies’ gunfire began to splinter the corner of the wall into shards of metal. ‘Dey’re comin’ after us!’
‘Dat’s yer plan?!’
‘Runnin’ is a plan!’
It wasn’t going to be enough of a plan for very long, though, Fingwit knew that much. They might just about be able to keep ahead of their pursuers, shorter legs though they had, partially because they weren’t weighed down by inconveniences such as armour – although that was a double-edged choppa, when you were being shot at – and partially because there were very few things Fingwit had met in the galaxy that could run quite as fast as a grot desperately trying not to get its head blown off. The problem was that as soon as Da Fingers encountered any stretch of long, straight corridor, they would have no handy walls to put between them and impending death, and not even the most terrified grot could outrun a gunshot.
‘Froo dere!’ he said desperately, pointing at a doorway above which was a humie glyph. He couldn’t be sure, of course, but with a bit of luck those jagged lines meant there were some stairs behind it…
Flish might not have known why Fingwit had chosen that door, but he was clearly of the opinion that being on the other side of a door was better than being out here, no matter how temporary a reprieve it might grant. The other grot whacked what looked like the release with his palm, and was rewarded by the door sliding aside to reveal exactly what Fingwit had hoped it would: a stairwell, with treads both rising and descending, presumably for the humies not important enough to use the liftas.
‘In!’ Fingwit yelped, and the rest of Da Fingers scrambled to obey. He hit the door control on the other side as soon as he was through, then desperately scanned the panel for some way to lock it against pursuit, but to no avail. Even if he had found something, the odds of the humies not knowing how to unlock it again were minimal, given this was their ship.
‘Zog it,’ he muttered. He drew his blasta, and put a point-blank shot into the controls, destroying them with a shower of sparks and a satisfying sizzling noise. ‘Dat should hold ’em!’ he declared confidently.
‘Why should blowin’ up da controls on dis side stop ’em from comin’ through on dat side?’ Duzzik asked, scratching his head.
‘Dunno,’ Fingwit admitted, ‘but it feels right, dunnit? Now get down dem stairs! We,’ he said, exposing his needle-sharp teeth with a wide grin, mainly to hide how utterly terrified he was, ‘’ave got some guns ta nick.’
ENVIRONMENTUL CONSIDERASHUNS
The problem with humie stairwells, Fingwit quickly realised, was that they were used by humies.
The rest of the boarding party were clearly still having plenty of fun, judging by the hooting klaxons, flashing red warning lights and general kerfuffle going on, but that also meant that humies were trying to get from one part of the ship to the other, and in a great hurry. Any illusions Fingwit had about being able to take the stairs right down to the correct level were shattered after the second flight, when a harried-looking humie came through the door that led off to the rest of the ship, took one look at Da Fingers descending towards it, and screamed.
Fingwit and his ladz already had their blastas in their hands, and the humie went down with one hole in its head, two in its chest, one in its leg and two more shots spanging off the door and wall behind it. Fingwit kept his weapon trained on it, but it showed no sign of getting back up and causing further problems, which was typical weedy humie behaviour. An ork would have regarded such injuries as an inconvenience, at worst.
Thinking of inconveniences…
Shouting erupted below them. It was several levels further down the stairwell, but the increase in volume and clattering of footsteps suggested that the owners of the shouting voices were already working hard on changing that state of affairs. Audible gunshots were apparently an immediate cause for concern on a humie ship, unlike on an ork vessel, where they simply meant that someone somewhere was having a good time.
‘’Ow many are dere?’ Duzzik squeaked. Fingwit poked his head through the guard rail to take a quick look down the central void, then jerked it back again in alarm when a ruby-red las-bolt flashed past his left ear.
‘Lotz!’ he informed the others in alarm. ‘Lotz an’ lotz. We ain’t gettin’ any further down ’ere!’
‘I’m gettin’ a real bad feelin’ about dis,’ Swikk whimpered. Fingwit slapped him around the back of the head, to buck his ideas up.
‘None of dat! We ain’t come dis far just ta give in ta panic! Get froo dat door!’
‘But dere might be more humies on da uvver side!’ Swikk protested.
‘Well, dere’s definitely humies comin’ up, an’ dey’ve definitely got gunz!’ Fingwit pointed out sharply. ‘Duzzik! Open da door!’
‘Don’t wanna…’ Duzzik muttered, trying to hide behind Grubba. Fingwit looked briefly upwards, and wondered what he’d done wrong in his life that had seen Gork and Mork curse him with such a bunch of cowardly grots. Orks didn’t have this sort of trouble! If an ork told a grot to do something, the grot did it, or he suffered the consequences. What was fair about being in charge, but without the ability to dish out consequences as you saw fit? This was a sucker’s game, and no mistake.
‘Fine, outta da way,’ Fingwit ordered, striding up to the door, and over the corpse of the humie they’d all just shot. ‘I’ll do da zoggin’ fing meself, if da rest of ya are too scared!’
He hit the door release, then hastily stood back against the wall to one side, leaving the rest of Da Fingers blinking in alarm at the lights from the space beyond. When none of them were cut down by a hail of gunfire, Fingwit stuck his head around the door frame.
Another empty corridor, which was better luck than he might have expected. He supposed that humies weren’t packed into their spaceships shoulder to shoulder, and they were probably mainly concentrating on dealing with what was undoubtedly by now a full-scale boarding action spread across multiple decks, but he counted his blessings nonetheless. You didn’t get deserted space on an ork ship: da boyz tended to pack in tight, since you couldn’t be choosy about which ride you got if you wanted to move from world to world. Besides, even if there was any space that didn’t have orks in it, it would have grots in it, precisely because there were no orks there.
Well, this was certainly a better bet than a stairwell filled with angry humies.
‘You were hidin’!’ Grubba said accusingly, pointing at him.
‘Dat’s cos I’m brave an’ sensible,’ Fingwit said loftily. ‘Now come on!’ He darted through the door, his blasta held in both hands, trying to point it in all directions at once just in case there were some sneaky humies hiding somewhere. No such gits showed themselves, however, and the rest of Da Fingers followed him through without triggering any form of ambush. Fingwit slapped the door button to close it again, then put a shot into this control panel as well, just to make sure.
‘Which way now, den?’ Rattak demanded. Fingwit decided that he didn’t like the other grot’s tone, and rounded on him.
‘Which way now, boss,’ he corrected.
Rattak wrinkled his brow dubiously. ‘Dunno about dat. Dunno about you being boss. Who d’ya fink yoo are, da Red Gobbo or summat? Yoo ain’t Klaws, dat’s for sure.’
‘Nah, but Klaws put me in charge,’ Fingwit said, jabbing himself in the chest with his own thumb. ‘Besides, none of da rest of ya seem to ’ave any ideas about what ta do!’
‘Fingwit can be da boss for now,’ Flish said. ‘Den if we don’t like wot ’e says, we can scrag him, an’ someone else can be da boss.’
Fingwit wasn’t sure whether to beam at being confirmed as boss, or glower at the suggestion that he might possibly get scragged in the future, so he settled on a haughty sniff, and staring at the rest of Da Fingers to dare anyone to contradict his authority. None of them did.
‘First fings first,’ he said, as sounds of commotion began to be heard from the other side of the hastily and perhaps none-too-securely sealed door, which was all that stood between them and a stairwell of angry humies. ‘We needs ta do somefing about dat lot. We ain’t gonna be able ta take over da humies’ gunz if dere followin’ us all da time, an’ tryin’ ta interfere. But from wot I saw, dere’s too many of ’em ta scrag all at once, even if we stand ’ere and blast ’em when dey show up. We’re gonna need ta find some way of makin’ it fairer. Or preferably,’ he added, ‘unfair, but on our side.’
‘Wotcha talkin’ about, Fingwit?’ Swikk demanded.
Fingwit grinned toothily at him.
‘I’m talkin’ about an ambush.’
Their hasty search did not throw up any immediate options of good locations to use, until they encountered another door which had what Fingwit thought were all manner of interesting humie glyphs on it. Even more intriguingly, it was locked, which presumably meant there was something good inside. In Fingwit’s world, good usually meant potentially explosive, so by that logic it was a door he simply had to get through.
‘Want me ta try an’ wire it?’ Rattak asked, pulling out his shank in preparation for levering off the panel that sat over the controls.
‘Nah, we ain’t got time,’ Fingwit said. He raised his blasta, and shot the controls. The door slid obediently open.
‘’Ow come dis one opened when ya did dat, but da uvvers locked?’ Grubba asked, perplexed.
‘Mork knows wot we want,’ Fingwit beamed. ‘Also, dis time I shot da open bit, so stop complainin’! Now, don’t look a gift squig in da mouf, an’ get in dere!’
He led the way into the dark interior, holding his breath in excited trepidation as light began to flicker on in response to his detected movement. He was rewarded with the sight of racks and racks of… stuff.
‘Why would anyone look a squig in da mouf?’ Grubba was whispering behind him. ‘Dat’s where dey keep dere teef – if ya look in dere den yer gonna be missin’ yer face…’
‘Oh, dis’ll do nicely,’ Fingwit said happily. This wasn’t just stuff, this was stuff, and all sorts of stuff at that. They’d obviously found some sort of humie store, where they kept all the different things they needed for whenever they needed to do… humie things, whatever those were. It didn’t matter: Fingwit had spent enough time around meks to have developed a good instinct for how best to improvise what he needed from whatever was lying around, and there was a lot lying around here.
‘Shut dat door!’ he ordered, an instruction Flish obeyed using the intact control panel on the door’s interior. ‘Now, lissen up, cos I’ve got a kunnin’ plan…’
The humies tracked them down, of course; they were hardly going to miss the damaged controls on the outside. Besides, Fingwit wanted them to find him and his ladz, since there was little point in setting an ambush if the enemy didn’t walk into it. He needed to get rid of these gits, and then he and the rest of Da Fingers could go and do what they were on this ship to do in the first place.
The doors were levered open through the use of metal bars and much puffing and grunting. Then half a dozen humies slipped in, weapons held up to their shoulders and ready to fire, moving all smooth and steady-like so their guns didn’t wobble even while they were stepping around carefully. Aiming while walking? Fingwit had seen a lot of ridiculous things in his time fighting humies, but this took the fungus cake. It was like they were determined to take the fun out of everything.
Well, he wasn’t going to let them get away with that.
He kicked Duzzik out from behind the piece of machinery where they’d both been hiding. Duzzik yelped with alarm, six red dots tracked towards him as every humie’s attention was drawn towards the noise, and he dived back into cover next to Fingwit just before the floor where he’d been standing was chewed up by gunfire.
‘Ya said yoo’d tell me when it was time ta do wotever it woz we were gonna do!’ Duzzik wailed accusingly, clinging to Fingwit in terror.
‘I did!’ Fingwit protested. ‘I just used me foot! Now shurrup!’
The blaze of gunfire ceased, and was replaced with running footsteps as the humies realised they were wasting ammunition on a piece of empty floor at the far end of the aisle between two towering storage racks, and pounded forward to try to draw a bead on their quarry once more. That meant they weren’t paying attention to the storage racks themselves, which were at least three times the humies’ height, and laden with heavy objects. Obviously, humies tended to be annoyingly neat and tidy, and so there was very little chance of anything heavy falling out of its allocated place and onto, for example, a group of them running beneath in search of the grot they had just seen appear and disappear in quick succession.
Unless, of course, Swikk and Flish had clambered up on one side, and Grubba and Rattak on the other, and had levered things loose to drop on the gits below them at the opportune moment. Which, as it happened, was right now.
‘WAAAGH!’ they chorused joyously, as smaller objects began to clatter down. Fingwit risked sticking his head out of cover, and was rewarded with the sight of the humies’ charge faltering as they realised they were under attack from above, and desperately trying to bring their guns to bear, only to realise too late that there was no way their firepower could contend with two 130-pound pallets of tinned ration packs plummeting towards them from twenty feet up.
There were a couple of brief screams, followed by immensely satisfying crunching noises. Fingwit was not going to leave anything to chance, though, and sprang out. The top half of the humie at the front was protruding out from under the wreckage, and still able to move: in fact, it was reaching desperately for the shoota that had skittered out of its hand when it had been crushed. Fingwit stamped on the fingers until he heard them break, then slit its throat. He’d have done the same to the rest as well, but there weren’t any throats he could reach.
‘Nice goin’, ladz!’ he called up to his whooping grots. ‘Dat showed ’em! Dat’ll teach ’em to fink we’re stoopid! Or hopefully not,’ he added, after a moment’s thought. ‘It’s better when dey fink we’re stoopid, it makes ’em easier ta kill.’
‘We goin’ back out dere now, boss?’ Flish asked, not sounding hugely enthused by the prospect.
Fingwit could understand that. They had a mission, and the prospect of taking over the ship’s guns and using them to kill other humies was exciting and hilarious, but the prospect of trying to fight, sneak, or otherwise find the way to their destination without dying was not an appealing one. It felt much safer to just turn the lights off and hang around in here while everyone else did the dying part. The only trouble was that if the wrong ones did the dying, then Da Fingers would get found by the humies once they didn’t have any orks to worry about and were looking through the ship for any leftovers, and that wouldn’t end well. And then, if the orks killed all the humies, but Da Fingers hadn’t done what they were supposed to with the guns, then sooner or later they’d probably end up taking a kicking from someone, possibly even Da Meklord himself, and that wouldn’t end well either.
Neither option was good, so Fingwit did what any good, responsible leader would do in the circumstances, and delayed making a decision.
‘Nah, we’ll stay in ’ere just for a bit,’ he said confidently. ‘See if dere’s any more gits out dere lookin’ for us, an’ lure ’em in ta see wot’s ’appened to dere mates. I don’t fink dis was all da ones I saw on da stairs, so get set up for da next lot!’
