Da Red Gobbo Collection, page 6
‘Yes, boss.’
There were a few moments of silence while Da Fingers each considered this inside their own heads: silence that was broken as Duzzik began to kick his legs.
‘Can I come back up now? Only da blood’s rushin’ to me ’ead, an’ I’m feelin’ a bit weird…’
Fingwit saw Grubba look down at Rattak for guidance as to whether he should grant the smaller grot’s request. Rattak sucked his teeth for a moment, then shrugged.
‘Drop him.’
Grubba gave Duzzik’s lower half a shove, and their unwilling scout wailed in alarm as he disappeared from view, then cried out in pain as he landed below them. Rattak placed his right hand behind one large, pointed ear, and held the first finger of his left hand to his lips in a gesture for silence.
Nothing happened, except for Duzzik whimpering a bit more.
‘Reckon it’s safe, den,’ Rattak beamed happily. ‘Let’s get down dere, an’ see wot’s wot!’
Fingwit wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. He drew his blasta, and dropped down through the hole before the rest could move. If Duzzik hadn’t been attacked then the corridor was safe, and Fingwit was damned if he was going to let Rattak keep any more of the initiative than he had to. Let the others see how Fingwit bravely went first (Duzzik most certainly didn’t count) to scout out the lay of the land!
He achieved a relatively soft landing by dint of falling onto a dead humie, who was a bit sticky, but at least didn’t leap up and try to attack Fingwit in some sort of elaborate ambush. He scanned both ways down the corridor with his weapon, but saw nothing other than what Duzzik had recounted: an awful lot of dead bodies, from both sides. Fingwit was no great strategist, able to read the ebb and flow of battles through the patterns of corpses, but it did not look to him as though there had been some terrible new threat that had taken the combatants unawares, like that time when the tinheads had suddenly emerged up through the surface of a planet, and da boyz and da pointy-eared gitz they’d been scrapping with had needed to hastily reprioritise their targets. No, this just looked like both sides had killed a lot of each other, and any survivors had moved off somewhere else in search of living enemies.
Although now he thought about it, Fingwit wasn’t sure where those living enemies would be found. He couldn’t hear any sounds of fighting, not even distantly. And yes, there might be some doors and walls between him and it, but a grot tended to have a good instinct for where fighting was taking place: mainly in order to avoid it if possible. The floor wasn’t being shaken even minutely by the distant krump of explosions as stikkbombs went off, or a heavy weapon blew a luckless target into very small pieces, or something’s fuel went up all in one go.
‘How long were we in dose fings?’ he asked, looking upwards. He had directed the question more to himself than anyone else, but Duzzik seemed to think it was aimed at him.
‘Dunno. Longer dan a while, but not as long as a really long time?’
Fingwit sighed tiredly. ‘I woz talkin’ to meself.’
‘Wot?’ Duzzik wrinkled his brow. ‘Why?’
‘Cos I only talks ta da smartest grot about, don’t I?’ Fingwit replied. Even Duzzik seemed to realise that question was rhetorical, and went back to rubbing his back where he’d landed roughly. Fingwit took the opportunity to massage his knees, which had got very sore from Rattak’s ridiculous plan, then jumped as Swikk landed beside him.
‘Cor!’ Swikk said, looking around with avariciously wide eyes. ‘Look at all dis loot! Dat’ll make up for not getting’ ta nab Flish’s!’ He set to with a delighted giggle, prising loose anything particularly shiny that he could see.
As it happened, Fingwit decided that might not be a bad idea. Not for shiny baubles, such as Swikk was already stuffing into the poorly stitched rags that served him as a shirt, but for weapons and equipment. Orks didn’t like grots having anything too fancy, and would simply club them over the head and take it for themselves, even if they didn’t have a use for it. With no orks around, however…
Fingwit emitted an involuntary, high-pitched squeal of pure glee as he saw something poking out from underneath the corpse of a Snakebite boy, and set to work trying to extract it. He needed both hands, as well as both feet braced on the dead body to get purchase, but after a great deal of exertion and pulling it finally came free.
It was ugly, brutish and crude. But it was now his, which made it the most beautiful thing Fingwit had ever set his eyes on.
‘Look, ladz!’ he exclaimed happily, turning on the spot with his prize cradled in his arms. ‘Now I got a big shoota! Heh-heh-heh.’
Grubba landed, then folded his arms dubiously at Fingwit’s claim. ‘Fingwit, dat ain’t a big shoota. Dat’s just a shoota.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s big for me,’ Fingwit pointed out. ‘Why is it always da orks who get ta say wot’s big an’ wot’s not?’ In all honestly, he wasn’t really concerned with his new toy’s nomenclature. His hand barely fit around the grip, and the weapon must have weighed nearly as much as he did, but the important thing was that his finger could reach the trigger. He might not be able to keep it level when he fired it, but orks never bothered to do that either, and they could at least theoretically manage it. Firing a shoota was practically a prayer to Gork and Mork in any case: usually, ‘Please let dis hit da gitz I’ve sorta pointed it at.’
‘If someone sees ya wiv dat, dere’s gonna be trouble,’ Grubba said ominously.
‘Who’s gonna see?’ Fingwit demanded. ‘Dere’s no one ’ere! An’ any humies we find are gonna try ta shoot us wotever we’re carryin’, so dat don’t matter.’
‘Yeh, but wot if one of da boyz sees it?’ Grubba said. He was stroking the hair squigs on his chin again, somewhat nervously. ‘Den we’ll all get in trouble.’
‘Ya just want one of yer own,’ Fingwit said, laughing.
‘Do not!’ Grubba denied hotly.
‘Do too!’
‘Why would I even want one?’
‘Oh, I dunno,’ Fingwit said, demonstrating his superiority with towering sarcasm. ‘Maybe cos it’s a shoota, an’ it’s way better dan dat measly little blasta yoo’ve got stuck in yer belt? But,’ he added smugly, ‘yer just too scared ta pick one up.’
‘Am not!’
‘Are too.’
‘Da reason I ain’t pickin’ one up is cos I don’t want one,’ Grubba declared stubbornly, although the fact he was apparently finding it hard to tear his eyes away from the weapon in Fingwit’s grasp gave something of the lie to his words. ‘Ya ain’t betta dan me just cos yoo’ve got dat! Don’t go finkin’ yoo are!’
Fingwit sniffed dismissively. ‘Wot about yoo, Rattak? Yoo wanna shoota? Dere’s plenty lyin’ around wot nobody’s doin’ nuffink wiv.’
Rattak, who had landed last, didn’t say anything for a moment. He looked at Fingwit’s shoota, then sideways at Grubba, who still had his arms folded and was furiously projecting an aura of denial, then back at Fingwit. Then, with a great deal of hesitation that was entirely alien to a grot’s usual approach to seeing something they wanted, he edged over to another dead ork and took hold of its weapon. The corpse did not react in any way, and Rattak seemed to gain confidence from that, as though he’d been expecting the prospect of losing its shoota to recall the ork’s spirit and set it to lashing about itself to protect its property.
Appropriately heartened, Rattak tugged the weapon free and hoisted it up, then grinned triumphantly at Fingwit. ‘Dere. Got me own.’
‘It’s smaller dan mine,’ Fingwit commented idly.
‘Is not!’
‘Def’nitely is. An’ da magazine don’t hold as much.’ Fingwit slapped the sickle-shaped magazine of his own weapon, which was as long as his forearm and several times the width, as opposed to the single belt of ammunition that hung from underneath the one Rattak had picked up. ‘Don’t worry, dere’s nuffin’ wrong wiv bein’ second best!’
Rattak dropped his shoota. Fingwit laughed.
‘Wot, are ya gonna find anuvver one now, ta try an’ look better’n me?’
‘Ork,’ Rattak mumbled, his eyes wide, but Fingwit just laughed again.
‘I ain’t fallin’ for dat! Ya just wanna make me drop dis so ya can–’
‘Wot da zoggin’ ’eck is goin’ on ’ere!?’
Fingwit nearly jumped out of his skin as the massive basso bellow erupted from behind him, and then something clobbered him so hard on the backside that he was lifted up and through the air, sailing over the shocked faces of his companions to land hard on the other side of them.
‘It’s not wot it looks like…’ he heard Rattak begin querulously. Fingwit pulled himself back to his feet, his precious new shoota still gripped firmly, and looked back to see what had struck him.
Rattak had only been telling the zogging truth, hadn’t he? There was an ork, and a big one at that. He wasn’t a nob, judging by the lack of obvious rank markings like huge horns on his helmet, or a big metal gob, or any weapons fancier than the slugga he held in one hand and the blood-slicked choppa in the other, but that didn’t really matter. No ork needed to be a nob to tell grots what to do: he just needed to be an ork.
‘Wot it looks like, is dere’s a bunch of zoggin’ grots standin’ around doin’ nuffink useful, instead of gettin’ stuck in!’ the ork thundered. He probably weighed as much as all of Da Fingers put together. ‘Now quit bein’ a bunch of cowards an’ come wiv me. I fink most of da boyz are dead, but so are most of da humies! But so long as dere’s any alive, dat’s too many!’ He glowered at them, clearly expecting them to fall in behind him, but Da Fingers all looked down at the floor, and didn’t move.
‘Is dere a problem?’ the ork demanded, in the tone of someone who knew very well that there was a problem, at least so far as he was concerned.
As one, the rest of Da Fingers turned and looked at Fingwit. Things being what they were, the ork did the same, and his tiny red eyes stared into Fingwit’s, not with the threat of imminent violence, but the promise. It was clear that the only thing Fingwit could do was choose whether the violence happened to him, or he assisted the ork in making it happen to someone else.
On the other hand…
‘Uh, see, da fing is,’ Fingwit began. He tailed off as he realised he was still holding the shoota, but decided not to drop it just in case that simply drew attention to it more. ‘Fing is, we got a mission from Da Meklord.’
‘Yoo got a mission from Da Meklord?’ the ork guffawed. ‘A buncha grots? Slap me wiv a pointy-ear’s boot, dat’s a good’un!’ He stopped laughing abruptly, and growled. ‘Knock it off, or I’ll knock yer ’ead off.’
‘It’s troo!’ Fingwit wailed. ‘We woz wiv Klaws, but ’e got scragged! We gotta take over da gunz, an’–’
‘Nah, wot you gotta do is come wiv me, an’ do wot I tells ya,’ the ork interrupted.
‘But if we don’t do it, den Da Meklord’ll scrag us!’ Fingwit protested. ‘Tell him, ladz! Tell him!’
The rest of Da Fingers were all suddenly looking at something else, something extremely interesting that was in a different place for each of them. The ork snorted, and raised his slugga.
‘Now, I’m gonna count ta free. Dere won’t be any more countin’ after dat, cos I dunno any more numbaz. If yoo little gits ain’t standing next ta me by da time I reach free, I start shootin’. Ya got it? One.’
Duzzik scurried towards him. The rest of them, even Rattak, looked around at Fingwit as though he could somehow improve the situation.
‘Two.’
Clearly, Rattak, Grubba and Swikk were not encouraged by what they’d seen. They put their heads down and trudged towards the ork. Fingwit watched them go, and watched them give up on their mission, the chance of wreaking glorious destruction with the ship’s guns, and the chance of not getting their heads kicked in by Da Meklord when he found out how they’d failed. And all because they were more scared of what this ork – this wounded ork, Fingwit suddenly noticed, with blood dripping from a rent in his right side – might do to them here and now, rather than think about the future.
‘Fr–’
Fingwit turned and ran.
‘OI, COME BACK ’ERE!’
Fingwit wasn’t sure exactly why the ork thought he’d obey that instruction when it was coupled with the thunderous bang of the slugga discharging, and an explosion of gore as the shot missed Fingwit and detonated in the ribcage of a humie corpse, but he didn’t hang around to ask. He jinked and dodged from side to side – only a fool ran away from a projectile weapon in a straight line, even if the weapon in question was being wielded by an ork – and put as much of the improvised cover the defenders had hauled into place between himself and the ork as possible. There was a doorway just ahead of him in the middle of the corridor, miraculously unchoked by bodies. If he could just make it through there and get it to shut behind him, he might be able to–
The next slugga shot hit the control panel.
It couldn’t have been intentional, Fingwit knew that: the odds of an ork even considering shooting at a few blinking lights and switches, instead of at the cheeky little grot pelting away as fast as his short legs could carry him, were astronomically small. The chances of the ork actually managing to hit a target like that, even if he’d decided to try, were smaller still. This was a stray shot, which had only struck that particular point through sheer fluke.
However, fluke or otherwise, struck the control panel the shot had. And, thanks to Mork’s sense of mischief, the door was starting to descend from the ceiling, ready to trap Fingwit in this section of corridor with an ork who would probably consider casual dismemberment to be an appropriate punishment for the kind of insubordination he’d just shown.
That was not an option. If the choices consisted of getting crushed beneath a falling door, running head first into the door and shattering his skull, or being left to the mercies of an ork with a gut wound and a great deal of pent-up aggression, Fingwit would take either of the first two without hesitation. He accelerated, trusting that straight-line speed was his only real ally here, then made a desperate, headlong dive for the shrinking gap between door and floor.
His outstretched hands, still clutching his looted shoota, got through.
His head got through.
His back got through.
He whipped his feet around as he skidded along the floor. The descending door grazed the back of his heel and took some skin off as it slammed down, but that was all.
He was through.
He was away from the ork that probably now wanted to kill him.
And he was…
Alone. On a ship that belonged to humies who definitely wanted to kill him, not because he’d disobeyed their orders and run away from them, but just because of who and what he was. Well, and the fact that he was part of a boarding party that had apparently already killed most of them, but Fingwit thought that was rather beside the point, since the humies would have wanted to kill him for who and what he was anyway.
He cautiously got to his feet, hefting his shoota as though he had the slightest chance of being able to effectively aim and fire it at anyone or anything that appeared and threatened him, and began to walk.
REFLECTIONS
Orks did not, as a rule, go in for the notion of ‘creepy’, or ‘spooky’. The closest Fingwit had got to it was when he’d seen some tinheads get blown apart, and then they’d started to flow back together and re-form in a way that was abhorrently unnatural. He was used to the idea that you could stick someone back together – that was how orkish medicine worked – but generally you needed a painboy for it, and something like stitches or staples to anchor a body part in place until it healed properly. Ufthak Blackhawk, the newest of Da Meklord’s big bosses, had apparently had his entire head transplanted onto another body when his old one had got blown up. Nonetheless, seeing those strange bipedal machines re-forming themselves had made Fingwit feel quite uncomfortable, and not just because there was an increased chance of them getting up and killing him.
He was experiencing something of the same sensation now, albeit for very different reasons. There was nothing alarming about empty corridors in general: that just meant no orks to shout at him or clobber him. Likewise, there was nothing alarming about dead bodies, unless there was some notion that something monstrous had killed them, and was about to make him its next victim. Generally, dead bodies were a useful source of interesting items, and – if he was feeling particularly hungry, and there was no decent fungus or squigs nearby – food. However, the collection of quiet corpses he was walking over and past at the moment, with no sign of any living combatants anywhere nearby, was a bit… well, creepy.
It might have actually been better if he’d been able to hear the sounds of fighting, oddly enough. Normally that was the last thing Fingwit wanted to be near, but at least it might have reassured him that he wasn’t alone.
‘Dunno why I wanna be around anyone else, anyway,’ he muttered, kicking a dead humie as he walked past it. ‘Yoo lot can zog off, ya bastards. An’ yoo,’ he added to the charred remains of an ork who had clearly run head first into the blast from a humie skorcha, or equivalent. ‘Wot’s da big idea, anyway? Knockin’ us around just cos yer bigger? Dunno why us grots needs ya, anyway. We fix stuff for ya, we carry stuff for ya, why don’t ya just…’ Fingwit paused, and looked around to make sure no one could hear him.
‘Why don’t ya just do it yerselves?’
The echoes of his shout died away, and he cringed instinctively, but the punch or kick his hindbrain had half-expected as automatic punishment for such cheek never materialised. He stood frozen in place for a few moments nonetheless, until he was quite sure that no one had heard him, and was intending to exact revenge on the cheeky grot who dared speak up. Then he started giggling.
