Applied Orkodynamics: Part 2 (Patreon)

The WarmupHigh above Eagleton, the Simurgh considered the problem of Orks.

This was, already, a mistake.

Problems were meant to become smaller when considered. Problems were meant to reveal weak points, hidden structures, predictable branches. A problem, properly understood, became a machine. A machine could be disassembled.

The Orks did not become smaller when considered.

They became louder.

The Simurgh had withdrawn from Eagleton with red paint still drying on her feathers. This was not a defeat. It was not a retreat. It was a tactical relocation undertaken in response to an unreasonable enemy whose collective understanding of cause and effect resembled a pile of scrap with a flag in it.

Below, the Orks had celebrated.

They were still celebrating.

The Simurgh watched from far above the clouds, wings spread across currents of probability.

Eagleton was worse than before.

This was not unexpected.

It was worse in unexpected ways.

The Machine Army had once been a spreading metal infection, disciplined in its hunger. It consumed, adapted, multiplied, improved. Its growth could be modeled. Its weaknesses could be touched. Its future was ugly, but ugly futures still had use.

Now sections of it were shouting.

Captured factories belched black smoke and red sparks. Assembly lines designed to produce adaptive war machines were instead producing crude guns, crude vehicles, crude armor, crude banners, and in one particularly concerning case, crude boots for a building. Machine Army processors attempted optimization and were drowned in directives such as MORE DAKKA, NEEDS TEEF, MAKE IT STOMPIER, and DAT BIT LOOKS BORING.

The Simurgh searched the futures.

In one, the Orks breached the quarantine and spread.

In another, they turned Eagleton into a fortress.

In another, they built a machine large enough to wrestle an Endbringer, though the machine fell over before reaching the fight and still somehow won because it landed on a reactor.

In another, they followed her.

That future repeated.

They followed her.

They followed her badly. They followed her through the wrong dimension. They followed her into a dead world. They followed her into an ocean and invented land boats. They followed her into space and discovered that stars were “big burny targets.” They followed her through a tear in reality while arguing over whether reality needed more red paint.

The Simurgh closed that branch.

It reopened with a bigger engine.

A lesser intelligence might have reacted with frustration.

The Simurgh did not have frustration in the human sense.

She had adjustment.

The Orks responded to finesse by becoming worse. They responded to destruction by learning. They responded to being ignored by preparing for the rematch.

There was another method.

No song.

No manipulation.

No engineering.

No elegant chain of falling pieces.

Only heat.

Only impact.

Only erasure.

The Simurgh sent a request down into the deep places of the world, where the solid earth turned into liquid flame. 

Something answered.

Far away, beneath layers of earth and pressure, a vast shape stirred.

The planet shivered.

Eagleton did not notice.

Eagleton was busy.

The Ork camp had improved considerably since the Bird Boss had left, which meant it had become more dangerous, more flammable, louder, and substantially less structurally sound.

A proper camp needed certain things.

It needed fires. The Orks had those.

It needed scrap piles. The Orks had many.

It needed shouting. The Orks had achieved excellence.

It needed a place where Meks could build increasingly unwise machines without interference from anyone except other Meks, who did not count as interference because the ensuing fistfights improved morale.

Most importantly, it needed trophies.

The largest trophy was the red-stained feather.

It had been mounted in the center of camp on a pole made from three streetlamps, an artillery barrel, and a machine spine that kept trying to crawl away until someone nailed it down.

Every Ork agreed the feather was important.

No one agreed why.

Some said it proved the Bird Boss could bleed, because paint was basically outside blood. Some said it proved she had accepted their challenge. Some said it was a map, though no one could explain where it led. Rukkrakka said it was “science,” which ended the debate because no one wanted to ask follow-up questions and risk having to help him.

Warboss Grimsnagga Redtoof stood beneath the feather, one arm in a sling made of chain, rubber, and something that might once have been a human caution sign.

His shoulder wound had not slowed him. If anything, it had improved his authority, because being stabbed by the Bird Boss and not dying made him extremely qualified to make decisions.

He watched the camp with satisfaction.

To the left, Boyz painted armor plates black so they would be tougher. To the right, other Boyz painted rockets red so they would go faster. In the center, a group of grots painted themselves purple and vanished from sight, though everyone could still hear them arguing.

Near the machine pits, Rukkrakka was building something large enough to cast a shadow over smaller shadows.

It had legs.

Possibly too many.

It had guns.

Definitely not too many.

It had a head because Grimsnagga had complained that the last big machine did not know where to look when it was krumping. It had three faces painted on the head because Rukkrakka wanted it to see in more directions.

The Machine Army components inside it were trying to form a distributed targeting network.

Rukkrakka had improved this by giving the targeting network an opinion.

So far, the opinion was “shoot dat.”

It was an excellent opinion.

“Boss!” Rukkrakka shouted from halfway inside a chest cavity large enough to park a tank in. “We’z got da left arm workin’!”

The left arm fell off.

Rukkrakka looked at it.

The arm fired all its guns, shot across the ground, smashed into a machine tower, and exploded.

The nearby Orks cheered.

Rukkrakka nodded with professional satisfaction.

“Workin’.”

Grimsnagga scratched his chin.

“Needs more aim.”

“Dat was aim!”

“At wot?”

Rukkrakka paused.

He looked at the burning machine tower.

“Dat.”

Grimsnagga considered this carefully.

“Good aim.”

A horn sounded from the edge of camp.

Then another.

Then shouting.

Not alarmed shouting. Ork alarm sounded different. Ork alarm usually involved the phrase “it’s bitin’ me” or “dat was my leg.” This was interested shouting.

Every Ork turned.

A Humie was walkin through da camp.

She was small, compared to an Ork. Almost all humies were small, which was a problem, but some managed to give a good krump anyways. She wore a suit and a hat and an expression so blank that several Orks immediately distrusted it. Blank faces were sneaky. Orks preferred faces that announced what they were about to do, ideally with teeth.

The humie looked around the camp.

Every gun turned toward her.

Every choppa lifted.

Several half-built machines rotated to face her, including one that had no business rotating because its base was not attached.

The humie did not flinch.

That was interesting.

Grimsnagga stepped forward, boots cracking the pavement.

“Wot’s dis, den?”

The humie looked up at him.

“The Bird Boss sent me.” She declared, no fear or anxiety in her voice. Only calm certainty. 

Silence hit the camp like a dropped tank.

Every Ork gasped.

Even Rukkrakka, who was currently elbow-deep in a reactor and therefore usually immune to conversation, froze.

“The Bird Boss,” Grimsnagga said slowly.

The humie nodded once.

“Sent you.”

“Yes.”

Grimsnagga narrowed his eyes.

The camp held its breath.

Then he leaned closer.

“You ain’t purple.”

The humie said nothing.

Grimsnagga’s eyes widened.

A ripple passed through the Orks.

She was not purple.

She had walked into the middle of the camp, past the lookouts, past the guns, past the squig pens, past the grot traps, past the machine things that shot anything they did not recognize and several things they did.

Without purple.

Which meant she must be very, very sneaky.

Possibly the sneakiest humie ever made.

A Nob lowered his gun slightly.

“Boss,” he whispered, “she’s dead sneaky.”

Grimsnagga did not look away from the humie.

“Yeah.”

Another Ork whispered, “Maybe da Bird Boss painted her purple on da inside.”

This was accepted as plausible.

Grimsnagga straightened.

Because obviously the Bird Boss would have sneaky humie messengers. That was advanced war boss tactics.

He had not expected that from a bird, but that only proved the Bird Boss was worth chasing.

“Right,” Grimsnagga said. “Wot’s da message?”

The humie’s eyes moved across the camp.

She took in the Gargant frames, the smoke, the red feather, the Machine Army factories now producing Ork glyphs, the grots pretending not to exist while robbing each other, and the enormous cannon pointed at the sky with a sign reading FOR BIRD.

“The Bird Boss says you are not ready.”

Every Ork froze.

The words spread outward through the camp.

Not ready.

Not ready.

Not ready.

A Mek dropped his wrench.

A grot fainted.

One Boy looked down at his shoota with sudden shame.

Grimsnagga went very still.

His good hand closed slowly around the handle of his choppa.

The air tightened with the pressure of wounded pride.

The humie continued.

“She is sending a warmup challenge.”

The camp changed.

The shame became awe.

The awe became excitement.

The excitement became noise.

“A warmup,” Grimsnagga repeated slowly, the word almost foreign.

“Yes.”

The humie tilted her head slightly.

“It will arrive soon.”

“What kind?”

The humie’s blank expression did not change.

“Large.”

The camp breathed in.

“Strong.”

The camp leaned closer.

“Difficult to kill.”

Somewhere, a Mek began sobbing happily.

Grimsnagga’s grin returned one tooth at a time.

“Da Bird Boss,” he said, voice thick with emotion, “is finkin’ of us’.”

The humie said nothing.

“She cares.”

That settled it.

The Bird Boss had not run because she was scared. Well, maybe she had been a little scared, which was proper. But mostly she had gone to arrange a better fight. A warmup challenge. A test. A way for them to prove themselves before the rematch.

This was not just advanced war boss tactics.

This was respect.

Grimsnagga thumped his fist against his chest.

“Tell da Bird Boss,” he said solemnly, “we accepts.”

The humie nodded.

Then the door appeared behind her.

The Orks gasped again.

She had brought a door.

Not opened one.

Brought one.

A proper sneaky humie messenger.

The humie stepped backward through the door.

Before it closed, Grimsnagga shouted, “OI!”

She paused.

“Tell her we’s gonna make her proud!”

For one tiny moment, the humie’s blank face did something almost like hesitation.

Then the door shut.

It vanished.

The camp remained silent.

Then Grimsnagga turned.

His voice became thunder.

“LADZ!”

The Orks erupted before he could finish.

“WARMUP CHALLENGE!”

“BIRD BOSS FINKS WE AIN’T READY!”

“GET DA BIG GUNZ!”

“NO, DA BIGGA GUNZ!”

“WAKE DA GARGANTS!”

“PAINT EVERYFING!”

“WOT COLOR?”

“ALL OF ’EM!”

The camp exploded into motion.

This was different from normal Ork preparation, in the sense that normal Ork preparation was already a riot with tools. Now it became religious.

Rukkrakka sprinted back to his construction pit and began screaming instructions.

“Dat one needs more armor!”

A Boy pointed at a half-built Gargant. “It’s already got armor!”

“Den put armor on da armor!”

“What about da gun?”

“Put armor on dat too!”

“Won’t dat make it harder ta shoot?”

Rukkrakka stared at him.

Then he slapped him.

The Boy nodded, enlightened, and ran off to find more armor.

The Machine Army assembler units were pushed beyond all reasonable limits. Conveyor belts ran so fast they blurred. Metal arms welded, cut, stamped, bolted, and occasionally fought one another. Every time the machines tried to produce a sleek component, an Ork leaned over and added spikes. Every time the machines tried to remove the spikes, another Ork added more.

A captured drone attempted to flee.

A grot rode it in circles, whooping.

The red feather was taken down and carried through the camp like a sacred banner.

Every Gargant touched it.

Every cannon touched it.

Every Ork who could get close touched it.

One squig ate part of the pole and was immediately declared blessed.

Grimsnagga oversaw it all from the center of camp, radiating satisfaction.

His horde had purpose.

His enemies had manners.

His machines had names.

The smallest Gargant, which was only three stories tall and therefore barely worth mentioning, was called Da Warmup-Wakka.

The second was called Da Bigger Warmup-Wakka.

The third was called Dat One Wiv Da Face.

Rukkrakka’s pride and joy towered above them all, still incomplete, still smoking, still arguing internally with its Machine Army components. Its head swiveled from side to side, one painted eye larger than the other.

“What’s dat one called?” Grimsnagga asked.

Rukkrakka looked offended that the answer was not obvious.

“Da Bird Boss Preparashun Engine.”

Grimsnagga stared.

Rukkrakka shifted.

“Too much?”

“Too many syllab... sillab... too many mouth bits.”

Rukkrakka scratched his chin.

“Da Prepper.”

“Nah.”

“Da Big Practice.”

“Nah.”

“Da Warmup Krumpa.”

Grimsnagga smiled.

“Dat.”

Rukkrakka beamed.

The Warmup Krumpa’s reactor coughed, roared, and turned a deeply concerning shade of yellow.

“Good,” Grimsnagga said. “Explody.”

“Very explody,” Rukkrakka agreed proudly.

Hours passed.

Maybe.

Time was difficult to track in Ork camp because every clock had been scavenged for parts, shot for being suspicious, or turned into ammunition in case the warmup challenge was time-related.

The sky darkened.

The ground shook.

At first, no one noticed. There was already shaking. Several Gargants were being tested, and one of them had discovered hopping. Another had fallen into a building and was still trying to claim it had done so deliberately.

Then the shaking grew deeper.

Not louder.

Deeper.

It moved through the pavement. Through scrap. Through teeth. Through the red feather and the machine pits and the half-awake engines. It came from below, a rhythm too vast to be footsteps at first.

The Orks stopped.

One by one, heads turned.

Far beyond the broken towers of Eagleton, the horizon glowed.

Not fire.

Fire was friendly.

This was heat.

The kind of heat that made metal remember it used to be liquid.

The kind of heat that made air bend.

The kind of heat that made shadows sharp.

A mountain moved.

No.

Not a mountain.

Mountains were lazy gits.

A shape rose beyond the far ruins, black against the red glow, vast and horned and heavy. It walked through the remains of Eagleton as if the city were a carpet of brittle bones. Buildings sagged before it touched them. Metal softened. Concrete cracked. The air screamed around its body.

Behemoth had arrived.

The Orks stared.

Grimsnagga stared hardest.

The warmup challenge took another step.

A shockwave rolled through the street, knocking grots off machines and shaking loose several plates that had only been attached for emotional reasons.

Behemoth’s eyes burned.

Radiation washed outward.

Machine Army units attempting to reposition near him slagged in place.

The ground split beneath his feet.

For the first time since arriving in Eagleton, every Ork was silent for more than five seconds.

Then Grimsnagga removed his helmet.

He held it against his chest.

His eyes shimmered.

“Ladz,” he said softly, “da Bird Boss sent us a big one.”

The silence became reverence.

Rukkrakka sniffed. “She really does care.”

Behemoth turned toward them.

The Warmup Krumpa chose that moment to fully wake up.

Its three painted faces opened their mouths.

This was odd, because they were painted.

They opened anyway.

The Gargant’s engines ignited. Its legs locked. Its guns rose. Its Machine Army targeting network looked at Behemoth, attempted to calculate survival odds, and immediately tried to resign.

The Ork glyphs overrode the resignation.

Target acquired: DA BIG WARMUP.

Grimsnagga put his helmet back on.

The old grin returned.

He climbed onto the front of the nearest battlewagon and raised his choppa toward the walking apocalypse.

“RIGHT, LADZ!”

The horde leaned forward.

“BIRD BOSS SAYS WE AIN’T READY!”

The Orks snarled.

“SHE SENT US PRACTICE!”

The Orks roared.

“SO LET’S SHOW ’ER WE BEEN STUDYIN’!”

Rukkrakka, standing on the shoulder of the Warmup Krumpa, shoved both hands onto the firing controls.

Every gun in the camp turned toward Behemoth.

Not in perfect unison.

Not with discipline.

Not with strategy.

With enthusiasm.

Grimsnagga took one deep breath.

Behemoth advanced.

The ground melted.

The Gargants stepped forward.

The guns began to glow.

And ten thousand Orks screamed as one:

“WAAAAAAAAAGH!”

The first volley hit Behemoth hard enough to make the horizon blink.

From high above, hidden beyond cloud and distance, the Simurgh watched the warmup begin.

For one precise, terrible moment, the future became clear.

Then the Warmup Krumpa punched Behemoth in the face.

The future became Orky.