Glowworm-class Transport Tranquility, on approach to the planet Nguyen’s World
January 18, 3400, 1500 Hours, Eavesdown Mean Time
John had rounded up the passengers in the lounge, opposite the infirmary. Lakatos, the Techie doctor, looked nervous- he could understand that; still regretted decking the boy. Dobson looked confused. The old man Glazer, impassive.
He’s guessed more than he lets on, I bet... so why does he look like he doesn’t care?
“All right, gentlemen. We’re going to land to drop off the supplies soon. Gavin and Sammie will mind the ship while I take the others out a ways. We should be back in a few hours. But the ship will be staying buttoned up on the ground; could be bandits out there. So sit tight, and we should be back on our way to Praha shortly and close to our scheduled arrival time.”
Dobson spoke up. “Uh... are you sure this is safe, then?”
The captain grinned- he could tell the man the truth here, if in nothing else. “Reckon so. Gav can have the ship lifted off in a couple minutes, and he’ll be keeping a watch out from the cockpit. You should be fine back here.” Glazer looked back at John and nodded gravely; he still got that weird sense off the preacher that the fellow
knew, knew more than he should about this kind of work. Still, long as he made no trouble, John figured it didn’t really matter, not for this run.
1530 Hours, Eavesdown Mean Time;
1120 Hours, Planetary Local Time
Brecht hopped down from the freight hauler; Sammie rushed out to steer it back into the cargo bay. The mercenary joined Livvy and John off to the side, and began conferring.
Tranquility had touched down at the upper end of a dry mountain valley, dotted with brush; their meeting place was in the valley below. Boulders and side-ravines strewn across the slopes made for a lot of hiding places.
Olivia looked over the terrain. “Nice place for an ambush.”
John nodded. “That it is.”
Brecht grinned, and passed a bottle to the captain. “From Sammie. I buried the crates good. Equipment is back on the boat.”
Hmm. How’s he gonna pull this? On the one hand, you could usually count on orks to do things a certain way. On the other... Nazdreg was a sly one; back in the day, he’d been prone to going on about “Mork:” the ork god of brutal cunning. So if you’d walk into the situation and count on him to do it one way, he probably had a backup plan.
“He’ll figure we buried the cargo. Which means putting us to ease ‘fore there’s any action. He’ll come at us from the east, talk the location out of us. He’ll have the coin, to show us first. We get it, give him the location, he gives the signal, sharpshooters hit us from... there.” He pointed.
Livvy looked at him. “Ork sharpshooters?”
John chuckled. “Sergeant once said to me: If your attack is going really well, it’s an ambush; the enemy never watches until you make a mistake...”
Her lips twitched. “And the easy way is always mined, sir.”
“He knows we’ll be expecting his boys to rush us. Most orks, that’d be Plan A and they ain’t too keen on the rest of the alphabet. Nazdreg, though...”
“Point. If any warboss bothered to train a few marksmen, it’d be him.”
“Exactly. I have a feeling- like I said. Sharpshooters, along the cliff. Probably only a few; won’t want to risk one getting trigger happy and giving him away.”
Brecht grunted. “Figure they’re in place yet?”
“Should be. Feel like taking a walk around the park?”
“Damn straight. Been too long.”
“Walk soft. I want him to think they’re in place. And remember the signal.” On a good day, he might think twice about hitting first, but...
If anyone’s up there at all, it’s proof Nazdreg wants a fight, not just a trade.
Brecht took one last moment to survey the terrain, then checked the silenced bullpup rifle slung at his hip and lit off around the edge of the valley. Livvy looked at him again.
"I don't think it's a good spot, sir. He still has the advantage on us."
"Everyone always does." He smiled. "That's what makes us special."
John heard Nazdreg and the gang a long time before he saw them; they came roaring up the valley on bikes. When they did come into sight at the bottom of a plume of dust, he saw that one pair were driving what looked sort of like the bastard child of a wheeled technical and a halftrack, with some kind of pintle-mounted weapon... he squinted. Grenade launcher? Chain-gun? Bit of both?
Looks nasty, better make sure it goes down first.
The others were wearing ramshackle plate armor. Straight-metal plate like that would be a joke against modern firearms on a human, but he'd seen orks slap enough iron on that any normal man would fall over on the spot from the weight. Could be a mite hard taking them down... well, he'd have to hope for the best. He'd seen worse; these bastards weren't all that tough compared to a damntechie intervention squad.
As they got closer, he saw that over their armor Nazdreg's warriors were decked in the usual bizarre mass of odds and ends you found on orks: furs, bits of metal, piratical-looking jewelry. Along with their large-caliber pistols and heavy machine guns they strung an assortment of hand to hand weapons from belts and bandoliers- axes, clubs, and wicked-looking knives. It would be an intimidating show if he hadn't seen similar mobs before blasting away with as much sound and fury as a Techie heavy weapons platoon... and putting about as much fire on target as a pack of kids playing with cap pistols.
Still, could be difficult.
Brecht better come through... Nazdreg pulled his bike to a halt; standing in the stirrup-like footrests on either side, he waved his arm.
"Tamrin! How you doing, old pirate?" From him that was a compliment; you never normally expected an ork to try and turn on the charm, but some of the smarter ones picked the knack up somewhere.
"Walkin’ and talkin’, same as ever."
Nazdreg barked a laugh- he looked to be in a good mood, probably because he was expecting to kill somebody. "Just fine, Tamrin, just fine. T’anks for meeting me out here. Don't like da boyz zoggin' around when I try to do business."
Livvy’s eyes narrowed. “Brought an awful lot of the boys with you, in that case?”
“Heh heh, want to be sure you don’ try any... surprises.”
John put his left hand to his belt, away from his gun. “Just doing the job, Nazdreg. Not interested in surprises."
Brecht, you'd better
be ready...
Brecht slid around between the rocks and bushes at the top of the ravine, trying to ghost through his surroundings. People called him clumsy sometimes; those were the ones who'd never seen him looking forward to a fight. It didn't take him long to creep up on the spur where John had figured to find the sharpshooter. The mercenary peered through a tangle of scrub... at the skinniest ork he'd ever seen- muscled, but wiry instead of the bodybuilder look you usually saw on greenskins. Even lying prone, the thing looked hunched up and scrawny, with an enormous projecting nose that almost obscured his view down the sight of his weapon.
This was going to be easier than he'd thought. He wouldn't even need the gun.
He kept crawling towards the sniper, slipping his right hand into his pocket. At the last second, the creature's large, mobile ears twitched as it instinctively sensed approaching danger, and it began to let out a warning screech, but it was too late; the human was already lunging to the attack. Brecht's left hand clamped down on the grot's muzzle, yanking it up and backward with brutal force. His right fist slammed into the creature’s temple, his considerable strength backed by a set of brass knuckles.
After the beast stopped kicking, the big man took a look at the weapon- and a fine weapon it was.
How'd a runty little critter like this keep his hands on a piece like that?. Even through the tinkering damage the orks had done to it, he recognized the gun. He'd never gotten a chance to handle one before, but he knew it- who wouldn't? This was a Umerian Mark II 20 mm Callahan plasma rifle.
The Techies' elite strike and intervention units used it as a heavy battle rifle; the regulars couldn't afford them as anything but squad support. The Callahan's jacketed plasma bolts were fast enough to fly straight and level almost clear out to the horizon, hot enough to blast straight through light armored vehicles, energetic enough to burn gaping holes in soft cover from sidescatter alone. It was perhaps the most beautiful killing machine he had ever laid eyes on. It was an epiphany, and he took the time to savor the moment, murmuring to himself:
"I think I’ll call you... Vera."
He would take her back to the ship with him, he would carefully remove the weird, desecrating extras the orks had hammered onto her. He would make her
perfect. But before he could do any of that, it was time for a truly
righteous shoot.
Brecht lay down into the grot's chosen firing position, nestling the stock by his cheek carefully, and making sure the plasma rifle's bipod was secure and level. Aiming towards the little knot of orks and humans down in the valley, he dialed the magnification on the scope down a bit and got ready to fire. He grinned.
Brecht, you’d better
be ready...
Nazdreg cut into the pause. “I don’t see my cargo anywhere. Where you put it?”
“You’re not gonna see it, not till I’m holding my two hundred credits in coin.”
“You think I just take your word for it? What if you lying to me, huh? What if you don’t
have da goods?” The warboss’s lips skinned back in a smile that revealed a massive row of pointed teeth.
John fished in his outside coat pocket, then slowly drew out a flask and tossed it to Nazdreg.
He fiddled with the screw cap for a moment, then took a slug. “Yeah, that’s da stuff... So where’s da rest?”
“‘Bout half a mile east, foot of the first hill. You’ll see where it’s been dug.”
The ork squinted. “Reckon I will.”
“Well then.”
Nobody moved. The orks didn’t draw their weapons. Livvy stood very, very still; John felt the tension winding him up. He decided he had to break the silence.
“Now, I’d appreciate it if you all would ride back over and circle around. I don’t much feel like walking backwards out of this valley, and should I turn, well, I’m not sure I trust your boys here not to get... entrepreneurial.”
“You got an awful lot of coin there. I can see how da ladz might want a go at it.” That raised harsh chuckles from the warriors around Nazdreg as the warboss spread his arms.
“But you, Nazdreg, you’re a dealmaker.”
“A... how you say... a practical one.” Now his grin was very wide, showing even more teeth than before. This was going nowhere good, and he knew it.
“Isn’t practical to go back on a deal. Don’t complicate things.”
“You know how it is. Hard year. Boyz get... restless. Don’t like to see someone pull one over on da boss. And you. You just another humie ship-jockey buzzing around till his time is up. Which yours is. Now.”
That settles it. He tossed the pouch of coin back to Nazdreg.
“There. You got the money back. No need for killin’.”
Livvy’s eyes never left the orks, but her posture rotated just enough for him to see from the corner of his eye. “We’re just gonna walk away, sir?”
He shrugged. “Guess that’s up to Nazdreg here.” The ork chuckled once again.
“You know how it is. Can’t back down from a kill in front of da boyz. Nuffin’ personal.”
“Could be messy.”
“Good.”
“Say, Nazdreg? One last question.” The ork frowned, but didn’t interrupt. John gestured at the ork standing next to the warboss, wearing a horned helmet and carrying a large-caliber machine gun. “That’s quite a piece your boy’s got there. Must be your best shooter. Not counting you, I mean.” Nazdreg couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn without half his own weight in ammo belts, but fat chance getting a nob to admit that in front of others.
“Yup. Badakka ‘ere, he good shooter.” He nodded to Badakka, who grinned.
“T’anks, boss.”
“Badakka. Nice hat.” John nodded once more, lowering his arm to his side.
He’d been expecting Brecht to drill the ork through the head with the rifle he’d had with him, so he was more than a little surprised to see a streak of dazzling blue-green light slam into Badakka’s chest and blow him apart. The horned helmet spun through the air for a moment, then tumbled to earth. The other orks had been expecting the shot, but aimed at John, not one of their own. For a split second they all gaped and shouted in mixed surprise and rage up at the cliff, figuring that the grot had missed. It was all the distraction he and Livvy needed.
John's pistol was out in an instant; he brought it up in a two-handed stance, pumping rounds into the wartrak gunner’s center of mass. The first few heavy slugs sparked off the armor, but they battered the ork back enough to keep him from reacting to the humans drawing their weapons.
Olivia lifted her short-barreled carbine to her shoulder in a smooth, practiced motion and started working her way down the line. Her first target was the ork henchman immediately to Nazdreg's right, who was still gaping up at the spur when her first shot scored a line across his pauldron and ricocheted up through his neck. The high-yield cartridges had a vicious kick, but she had it well in hand as she switched targets; her first victim toppled forwards, his head half-severed by the round.
The orks had started to react, lifting their bulky weapons to bear, by the time John's fourth shot struck the same hand-sized area of the vehicle gunner's chest. The heavy cast plate shattered, and the gunner slumped down, clutching at the triggers of his gun... which wrenched the muzzle skyward and out of the way for the moment. A second plasma blast from the cliff took down a bellowing warrior swinging a drum-fed mob gun to bear on the captain. The weapon tumbled away, the ork’s hand still convulsing on the trigger. The shotgun had twisted as it fell, and the burst of fire lashed the bushes behind the orks’ line, harmlessly.
Olivia’s second target had been one of the first to react. The massive nob disdained to draw a firearm, instead pulling a huge axe from his belt and bellowing a mighty “WAAAGH!” as he charged. Her second shot took him in the belly, battering through his armor, but his charge was hardly slowed. Meanwhile, a third had already unlimbered a massive automatic weapon and started blasting away in her general direction. She dived to the right to try to avoid the fire, but the ammo belt slung over the ork’s shoulder had kinked and twisted during the long ride out to the valley, and the gun jammed after the first wild burst. The greenskin fumbled with the feed, pounding on the side of the gun and cursing as only a greenskin could.
John stooped to one knee behind a nearby rock; Nazdreg pumped a burst from his massive autogun toward him, but the first three shots smacked into the rock and the rest of the burst went high and wild. John put his last two rounds into the wartrak’s driver, who had just hoisted himself out of the seat and raised a pistol. The driver wore no armor; the first shot in his chest didn’t slow him down much, but the second went through the ork’s pistol arm, ripping the thick muscle. His hand dropped, still clutching the gun but otherwise unmoving. The captain crouched further, reloading his gun.
Olivia regained her feet just in time to meet the charge of the second ork, waving his choppa and still bellowing war cries, ignoring the heavy rifle bullet buried in his gut. A ducking step back and to the side carried her under the first irresistible slash of that giant battleaxe, but this was no time to play tag with something that outmassed her three to one and had damn near a meter of reach on her. Holding her carbine like a pistol, she jammed the muzzle under the ork’s chin and fired. The beast’s helmet rang as the bullet punched up and out through the top of his head; he sank to his knees, then flopped to the ground, twitching. She was just turning to fire on the third ork when he cleared the jam and put a single exploding slug into her chest, low down on the left side. She flew backward.
John saw Livvy go down, saw the ork curse and thump his weapon as the next round jammed it again. By now he’d slid in more cartridges; steadied by the rock his aim was good enough to put a bullet through the greenskin’s head. The driver had started to stir again; four more shots took him down. The gunner had slumped over on the bed of the technical, not moving- might be back up, but not soon. That was damn near the last of them... except for Nazdreg, who had taken cover behind his bike. Crouching low, he was an impossible target... but his gun didn’t bear on them.
Always was a little cautious for an ork.
“Livvy?” He called to her- hadn’t seen blood, but you never knew.
She gritted her teeth, pulling her shirt open to check the woven-wire armor vest underneath. “Armor’s... dented.” He could see Nazdreg inching around behind the bike, reaching for...
oh Hell. Reaching for one of the stick grenades slung over the handlebar.
Brecht wasn’t taking the shot...
He’s still got the money. Couldn’t risk outright vaporizing it with whatever the hell he’d found up there. The answer came to him in a flash. Around orks, things got... weird. Stuff that ought to be a pile of junk would work, guns flashed... too loud, somehow. And always there were plenty of explosions- ork gear was volatile as all hell.
John’s bullet punched through the thin casing of the stikkbomb; it blew up in a roar of blackpowder. Fragments whipped past John; a big one tugged at his left arm, tearing a shallow graze just above the elbow, but it was better than letting him throw the damn thing. Nazdreg roared with pain- his hand had been right next to the grenade when it went off, even if most of the shrapnel had blown away from the stick handle. That might not have stopped him, he was tough even for an ork... but the bike, still rocking from the explosion, fell on his torso and other arm.
John glanced down at his elbow- just a flesh wound, fine for the moment. stalked over to the fallen warboss, still struggling to free his right arm, staring down into his bloodied face. He brought down the revolver, holding it inches from Nazdreg’s face.
“Now, I did a job. I got nothing but trouble since I did it, not to mention more than a few unkind words about my character. So let me make this abundantly clear. I do the job.” He bent down and seized the pouch of coin from the ground beside the wounded ork. “And then I get paid.”
There was a voice in the back of his head telling him to shoot, world’d be a better place...
No. He was not a vicious man, or at least he didn’t aim to be. Even an ork could learn a lesson. He pulled the revolver back and holstered it, then walked over to Livvy and helped her up.
“You all right?” She seemed to be standing on her own two feet well enough; he let her go.
“Hurts like hell...” and then she coughed, staggered against him and hissed. There was a speckling of red on her hand.
His eyes went wide, mind snapped right back into combat mode. In a flash he tapped his commbead. “Brecht, get the hell down here. Livvy’s hurt.” Then he switched frequencies, with only a flicker of hesitation- he’d be telling Gav. “Gav, get Sammie out our way with the mule. Livvy’s hurt. Reckon she’s sound enough to stand, but get that Techie doctor to prep the infirmary.” Crackling over the radio from the ship, he heard nothing for a moment.
“GAV! Get moving!”
That snapped him out of it. “On it, John. Oh God...” But there was no damn time for that. He cut the radio.
“Livvy, lie down. Let me help you...” He eased her down to the ground, then looked up as Brecht came skidding down the side of the valley, holding some kind of heavy rifle up in the air with one hand, carefully. “Brecht, Sammie’s coming with the mule. I want you to help me get her in the back, you hear?”
“Right. Did you
see-”
“Brecht.” He gave the merc a cold, level stare; that got him to shut up and soldier.
Sammie was as fast as he could have hoped for. She hopped down from the driver’s seat and grabbed a pair of long poles from the bed. “Konrad threw this into the bed as I was getting her out. Stretcher, right?”
“Field stretcher, yeah. Give it here, now.” They rigged it, then gently slid Livvy onto the stretcher and lifted her into the back. “Brecht, you ride shotgun. I’ll stay in back with her.” They turned around and headed back to the ship.
Behind them, still pinned by his bike, Nazdreg grimaced with the pain from his injured hand. With a wrench he pulled out his personal radio, a boxy contraption with a nice big antenna- his top mek had made it for him personally.
“Boyz! Dis is Nazdreg! You kommandos, you listen good! Dunno where da ship landed, but I put you all over da place. Some of you iz close. Get there, NOW! You boyz back in da base, you do two t’ings. You get da big guns ready if dey break atmo... and you call Boss Migwazza. Tell ‘im where to go and ‘dat I got a t’ousand teef for him if he catches d’ose humies! WAAAGH!”
He might not get revenge on those stinkin’ grots in person, but he’d get it... oh, he would
get it.