‘Wassup, Guv’ner?’
Governor Abdomo rubbed his red eyes and let out a weary sigh.
‘The children are playing again. I can’t sleep like that,’ he admitted. He hadn’t been able to figure out where the sounds were coming from or whose kids were making such a racket at night. But as the Planetary Governor, it would have been unwise to confide in anyone else about these strange nightly noises. It was all too easy to get branded a witch.
‘You’z want me to ‘it ’em?’
Abdomo chuckled as he looked up into the cartoonishly dumb green face of his favourite pet. Small porcine eyes glittered crimson beneath an oversized brow. A wide mouth lined with tusks mangled the ork’s attempt at Low Gothic.
He had made a fine purchase for his menagerie.
‘That will not be necessary, Greenie.’
Greenie shrugged and lumbered back to his cot. Swinging a piece of faeces against the wall, he sat and began to chew his tin cup. It was the third one he mangled this week.
The ‘umie boss took his sweet time watching him, but he finally got tired and left. Gritskit glanced around surreptitiously, to make sure no one else was watching. Nobody was. Playing dumb over the years has paid off.
He took the chewed tin can from his mouth and laid it flat. His chewing was spot on, as the piece of flat metal looked like a cutta. Still, it would be too thin and flimsy for one, even combined with the other pieces he had stashed away in the ventilation grates.
‘Sshh, boss,’ squeaked a tiny voice as he slid the latest piece between the grates. ‘Nice cutta! Can I’z try it?’
‘Not if ya want me to smack ya, git,’ Gritskit growled back.
Hushed giggling and snickering came from behind the grates. Judging by the voices, there were more of the little buggers than before. If Gritskit wanted to stay on top of his game and still be the boss when the runts started growing bigger, he’d need to make his move soon.
But for now, he had to continue playing dumb. He ambled back to the bars of his cell and hollered for the guards to bring him a new tin can.
‘Abominable,’ Governor Abdomo’s guest spat. The man was draped in the vestments of a Rogue Trader, albeit one that was down on his luck.
‘And most foul,’ Abdomo replied courteously.
‘I can see that,’ Ker Khall said. He barely hesitated before his next words. ‘Is it for sale?’
Abdomo saw Greenie’s eyes widen in surprise. So did Khall’s, as he noticed that the ork understood their words.
‘My dear little Greenie isn’t for sale, I’m afraid,’ Abdomo said. ‘Besides, who would wish to purchase him?’
‘An ork that speaks Low Gothic? I can think of at least half a dozen clients who would kill for such a specimen.’
‘Really now?’ Abdomo faked surprise as he gestured towards the exit. ‘Let’s discuss this hypothetical sale over the magnificent dinner my cook prepared for this evening!’
The ventilation duct was a tight fit, but Gritskit pressed himself through its suffocating confines. His dislocated shoulders ached like Gork’s stubbed toes, but he didn’t complain. He was a real ‘ard boi. A real ‘ard kommando boi.
Eventually, like the brain of a snotling squeezed out through its nose, Gritskit exited the duct and flopped onto the dirty floor of an abandoned storage room. The gretchins and snotlings gathered around in amazement as their sire had finally joined them.
With a grunt, Gritskit popped his shoulders back into their sockets and gathered himself to his full height. The runts gave a polite applause.
‘Right,’ he said, kicking a snotling for good measure. ‘We gotz work ta do. Gather me cutta scraps, and I’ll tell ya gits my kunnin’ plan.’
‘What’s all that ruckus?’ Khall asked, setting aside his fork and knife and wiping his mouth with a linen napkin.
The relief Governor Abdomo felt almost overwhelmed him. So it was not just his imagination!
‘Children, I assume. They make quite a racket, don’t they?’
‘At this hour? In your palace?’
‘Well, I never-’
The lights went out suddenly, blanketing the lavishly laden dining table in velvet darkness. The serfs gasped in surprise and dismay, but swiftly quieted. The Governor looked around for any source of light. He spotted the bionic eyes of his personal servitor, slowly lumbering its way around the table. Its dull, red glow was the only reassuring sight in the unexpected darkness.
‘Delta-Rho, attend me,’ Abdomo said. The servitor’s piston-driven thread shook the Governor’s porcelain plates and crystal glasses. With the servitor’s reassuring weight at his back, Abdomo turned towards where his guest was seated.
‘I apologise for this commotion, my friend. The lights shall return momentarily, and we can resume our feast.’
Ker Khall didn’t respond, which was unusual. The Rogue Trader had many traits, but silence was not among them. Perhaps the man was scared? Governor Abdomo opened his mouth to lighten the mood with a choice of reassuring words when something heavy and wet dropped on his plate—warm sauce splattered on his hands.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Abdomo asked the dark room. Only silence was his reply. Neither his guest, nor his servants stirred. The Governor’s Adam’s apple bobbed frantically as he swallowed his rising panic. ‘Delta-Rho, escort me to my private chambers.’
‘I’z got da bestest priy-veet chaim-beer for ya, Guv’ner.’
The voice was familiar and all too close. A hot breath that smelled of rot and fungus blasted the left side of his face. Delta-Rho’s red eyes swam before him in the darkness. They were smaller, more porcine and terrifyingly alive.
‘Yer ‘umie mate won’t be mindin’ us takin’ his birdie to his space shiff. Good thing ya invited da git.’
‘Greenie…’
‘Shush, Guv. Don’t ruin da moment. ‘Sides, we’z gone have plenty o’ time together, you’z ‘n’ me. If ya behave, I’z even teach ya orkish.’
About the Author
Daniel was born on a sunny, peaceful spring morning in Budapest, Hungary. He preferred watching television over reading books. That changed when his school took him to the public library and everyone was forced to pick a book to read. He chose The Princess of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs. Despite his initial disdain, our hero devoured the book in a few days and hasn’t stopped reading since. If you got this far, please send help, his budget (and shelves) can’t handle more books! Oh, and he occasionally entertains the idea of being a writer. The fool.
