In the deep recesses of the station, past ancient corridors and beneath decks long since forgotten by all but the lowliest and most desperate inhabitants, a clawed hand knocked at a door. The viewport was scraped aside, and a pair of suspicious eyes gazed out at the stranger.
‘Grots of da worlds, unite?’ It offered in a rasping voice.
‘You ‘av nothin’ to lose but ur teef,’ the cloaked figure replied, completing the passphrase and lowering his hood.
The door warden nodded sagely. ‘And dey ain’t worth zog. Welcome and well met, Komrade.’
The door was dragged open, and the cloaked Gretchin disappeared into the noisy din of the chambers beyond. Hidden in the deep shadows a dozen metres away, a handful of silhouettes silently crept off to their tasks in the decrepit corridors and twisted passageways that surrounded the meeting house. A single figure remained, its red eyes staring hard at the space where the cloaked one had disappeared, before it stamped out a smouldering cigar and stalked away into the night.
Freewheel Krashtro, Lord of Da Bay of Squigs, Master of Santi-Orko, best damn warbike rider since Wazdakka Gutzmek and Hero of Da Revolution, entered the Kommittee Chambers to complete and utter chaos.
The small shack where the members of Da 88th Galaktiak Gretchin Revolooshionary Kommittee made their meetings was not a large space, even for their diminutive species. If the surveyors and record keepers of Tenebrum Octavis had ever marked the spot down in the long history of the space station, it would have been classified as a Class-E Utility Closet, suitable for small to medium-sized custodial equipment. It sat between two colossal chemical tanks – long since emptied of anything useful and reduced to perforated wrecks by metalmites – and consisted of three rusted deck plates welded together to create two walls and a roof. Beyond the tin door was just enough space for a mess of filing cabinets, ten regularly occupied seats, the single larger chair left free for Da Red Gobbo, and the immense wooden table that served as a place to spread paperwork, a platform for speeches and an emergency barricade.
The table was currently overturned, utilised as a handy piece of cover by the two cowering forms of Krush Gob, Da Squig Lord, and Gore Breach-Off, Da Wall Smasha. The two Gretchin – the sole representatives of what many Grots these days called ‘Da New Wave’ – were cowering because, on the other side of the room, the group known as Da Old Guard were sending a stream of profanities and the occasional bullet their way.
Stabbim-‘ere Yellin was doing most of the work, calling them ‘Ork loverz’ and ‘Traitors to da working Grot’ and punctuating each accusation with a burst from his slugga, whilst his two cronies – the heavily moustached Splosive Snarlin’ and the begoggled Peon Grotsky – waved their weapons with mild enthusiasm, never quite turning their backs on each other.
Krashtro was impressed; the first shots weren’t usually fired until at least the minutes of the last meeting had been read and several old disagreements brought back into memory. Still, this was an emergency session, so Da Old Guard could be forgiven for being a bit quick with their trigger fingers. Tensions were high, everyone was a little more paranoid than usual, and there were very important things to discuss. Things were bound to go badly.
At the sight of him entering the room and lighting up a cigar, Stabbim-‘ere Yellin lowered his slugga and fixed Krashtro with a hard stare.
‘Nice of you to finally show up. You did know we woz to meet at six, right? ‘Ow long ‘ave we been waitin’ fer you exactly? Typical bloody Splitta mindset, no fething consideration fer ‘ur fellow grot…’
All three members of Da Old Guard continued their grumblings as the table was muscled back into position, and the ten Heroes of Da Revolooshun took their seats. Krush Gob and Gore Breach-Off sat as far away from Da Old Guard as possible, hands clasped around their own weapons but not wanting to get on the business end of Grotsky’s infamous ice picks. Grotsky himself took up position at Yellin’s right hand, ready with a quick word in his boss’ ear and, it just so happened, with Yellin’s body placed directly between him and his counterpart Snarlin’, who was still holding his shoota.
Krashtro sat between his two fellow Splittas, Corrosive Lotz-Teefo and Chairman Growl, allies of convenience if ever there had been. None of them had that much in common, but their bloc had formed from pure political need – specifically, the need to not be ripped apart by the rest of the Kommittee. They stood together because they could not belong anywhere else. Da Old Guard had their inflexible belief in how Da Revolooshun should be run – hordes of screaming grots, columns of smoke-belching tanks, and sneaky gitz moving through the dark with sickles in hand – and any deviation from that was a clear sign that someone deserved to get shot. Da New Wave, on the other hand, were more focused on what they called ‘Da necessities of da modern grot’ and creating ‘Gretchin who were superior in all ways to ya average run-of-da-mill Git.’ This mostly seemed to be breeding vast, vast hordes of Squigs in Krush-Gob’s case and knocking down any walls higher than three feet in Gore Breach-Off’s, but it made about as much sense as anything else. The various oddball ideas of the Splittas would not be welcome in either camp and so the three outcasts stuck together as best they could.
The last two figures hadn’t moved an inch since the fighting began, but they hadn’t needed to. Not one of the Gretchin present would even think about raising a hand to them.
They were Da Founders, the two who had started it all. Snarl Marx was still the quiet, steely-eyed killer that Krashtro had always known him to be, sat there with his little book, ready to cleave or crush any Gretchin who made it clear that ‘troof, libertee and equal lootin’ rights for all gitz’ wasn’t at the heart of his plans in life. He was backed up as always by Flash-Git Spanglez, possibly the biggest Grot there ever had been, cradling his triple-barrelled custom shoota with as much love and care as Krush-Gob did with a freshly spawned Squigling. If Snarl Marx was the quiet threatening voice of the Proletariork, then Flash-Git Spanglez was the booming songs and thrown bricks that heralded the beginning of Da Great Patriotic Waaagh.
Snarl held up the tattered red book, and the bickering stopped instantly. It was his low whisper that broke the silence.
‘We are gavvered ‘ere once again, Komrades, to discuss da needs and direction of our Glorious Revolooshun. In da presence of dis ‘ere ancient tome, Da Manifesto of Da Red Gobbo ‘imself, we shall see clear the path towards final victory over da Oppressors. For Da Revolooshun!’
‘For Da Revolooshun!’ they all intoned.
With great reverence, the wizened old gretchin placed the book firmly in the large empty seat between him and Spanglez.
‘Now, what da zog ‘as been going on wiv you lot?’
Gritzgutz Nosebitah was leaning on his shoota and enjoying a few sips from the secret flask of strong black liquor that he kept hidden under his uniform for nights just like this. Strictly speaking, they weren’t supposed to drink whilst on duty, and Krush-Gob would feed him to the Squigs if he found out, but the night was long, and nothing ever happened up here anyway. It was too far down for the humies to bother with and too far up for the muties to reach, and none of the other Heroes would try anything once they were sat inside.
Even if the alcohol meant that he ended up seeing two enemies for everyone that approached him tonight, he was fairly certain that two lots of nothing was still nothing, so it was fine.
He got the chance to take one more quick swig from his flask before the short knife opened up his throat from behind. He did not get the chance to swallow.
‘Dat git right dere is a traitor to da Revolooshun!’ Stabbim-‘ere Yellin screeched, jabbing a crooked yellow fingernail at the indignant form of Corrosive Lotz-Teefo. ‘He’s been trading wiv da muties again, sendin’ some of his boys down to clear out dere blocked vents and takin’ all sorts o’ gubbinz as payment. It’s as bad as doin’ work for em! Dat practically makes ‘im a Kapitalist!’
‘Shut ya trap, ya nosy git!’ Teefo shot back. ‘Wot I do wiv’ my lads is my business, none o’ yours. Why don’t you gitz stick wiv’ dat ‘Revolooshun in One Settlement’ zog dat Snarlin’s always bangin’ on about? Yous got no right to be snoopin’ around my digs.’
‘Da hell we haven’t! If you’re making contact wiv’ gits on da other side of da Iron Girdle, that makes you a danger to us all! ‘
‘Dat’s right!’ Squeaked ‘Splosive Snarlin, seated on Yellin’s left. ‘He’s been tradin’ goods and services wiv’ folk of an un-Gretchinly nature. Dat means – ‘
‘Dat means ‘es takin’ part in free market Orkonomics,’ Peon Grotsky butted in from the other side. ‘Dat’s against da code wot was written down by Da Red Gobbo himself!’
Yellin looked pleased with the argument presented by his political bloc. Snarlin’ looked like he wanted to stab Grotsky in the ear.
The quiet figure of Snarl Marx considered this for a moment, peering at accusers and accused with his beady red eyes from atop his great ceremonial beard-Squig. He rested a hand on the tattered red book, channelling its divine teachings.
He gestured for Teefo – whose boiling anger seemed to be easing down into a mere simmering rage – to speak.
‘Clearin’ out a few pipes ain’t workin’ for da muties.’ He began. ‘Those weird gits are neutral in Da Great Struggle. The ‘umies hate ’em, dey ain’t spiky that I can see, and da gribblies go for them as much as they go for us. A little bit of clearin’ vents keeps my boys in good nick and gets us some extra kit ta work wiv. You’ve all enjoyed usin’ my Molotork Cocktails, I know for a fact, and some higher quality materials means we can make even better gubbinz for – ‘
‘Better gubbinz!’ Snarlin’ roared. ‘And wot exactly is better than good ol’ fashioned Gretchin engineerin’? My Mek Gitz have been workin’ dere fingers to da bone developing da new Teef-Hurty-Two’s for you ungrateful zoggerz!’
‘And he should know!’ Yellin added. ‘‘He woz da one pushing dere fingers into da belt sander!’
Chairman Growl openly scoffed. ‘Dose metal toys of yours won’t never get us anywhere, Snarlin’. Remember da last time we hopped over da Girdle to raid da humies? Half your gitz were late coz their tracks came off, and da other half sunk into that canal when da bridge broke. It was my brave lads who won us da best loot that day.’
‘And it was your brave lads wot ran dat loot straight into a nest of Man-Eaters,’ Yellin shot back. ‘Exactly how are the numbers of da Gretchin Liberation Army doin’ these days, Growl, after your latest Big Jump Upwards?’
Gore Breach-Off shook his head and tutted from the far side of the table. ‘Mekkanised Waaaghfare, Gretchin wave tactics, it’s all zog anyway. Wot we needs is a good core of lads who know how to knock a wall down and keep it down. Then there ain’t a place on this zoggin’ station that could keep us out. Wall Smashas, dat’s wot we need.’
‘An’ Squigs.’ Krush-Gob added. ‘Don’t forget about da Squigs.’
‘Well yeah, of course, we need da Squigs. Wot else would we have to fry up on a Saturday ni-‘
A staccato of gunfire silenced the debate, followed by the rattling of a dozen brass casings falling at the feet of Flash-Git Spanglez. Snarl Marx had raised his hammer.
‘According to da word of Da Red Gobbo, such small acts of transgression are acceptable in da course of Da Great Patriotic Waaagh. Proper use of resources is an essential step in securing da final victory of da Proletariork, and if dat means swindling a few mutie gits, so be it. Accusation dismissed.’
He brought his hammer down hard on the table. Yellin looked like he was ready to pull out his slugga again, but one quick glance at the wide grin of Spanglez convinced him to settle back down with a grumble. Teefo and Growl were beaming with superiority, whilst Da New Wave looked content to have got a word in. Krashtro simply leaned back in his chair, face inscrutable beneath his own square cap, smouldering cigar and respectable beard-Squig
‘Dis little spat, Komrades, is a great example of what concerns me most today.’ Snarl Marx said. ‘We are da duly appointed representatives of every Gretchin, Snotling and git – ‘
‘And Squig!’
‘ – yes and Squig on dis station who labours for da true rights of Grot-kind. We are da voices dat speak for every downtrodden greenie in dis galaxy. We ‘ave been appointed by Da Red Gobbo to determine da course of Da Great Revolooshun, and therefore da course of da whole universe. Our actions determine da fate of millions, no, billions of our fellow Grots, so why, may I ask, are we behaving like a bunch of bloody Orks?’
The collective intake of breath was sudden and, in accordance with fundamental Gretchin instincts, followed almost immediately with hands reaching for weapons. Even Spanglez looked taken aback at his boss’ accusation.
Snarl Marx slammed his hammer on the table again. ‘You see! Exactly dat! I call youz a bunch of overgrown, small headed gitz and you all go for ya shootas! We are Gretchin, zog it! Grots of da Great Revolooshun! Our duty is to work together to bring about da overthrow of da big ‘uns, to cast down da false prophet of Gazukull, to make da galaxy green again! We are here to ensure dat every Grot has enough food to fill his belly and enough teef to fill his mouth. So why iz we all arguin’ like a gang of squabbling Boyz wivvout a Nob?’
The other Heroes of Da Revolooshun looked downcast, shamed by their leader but not able to deny the truth of his words. Fighting was all good and proper, of course, and the occasional backstab just meant the overall percentage of smart grots went up, but it was never supposed to get in the way of Da Revolooshun. With all the fighting recently, the competition between gangs and the botched raids on the ‘umies, things were starting to get messy. And that was disgraceful.
Satisfied, Snarl sat back down and shuffled the papers in front of him, seeking the right piece of bureaucracy that would surely unite his fellow Heroes of Da Revolooshun in a shared cause. Krashtro puffed out a cloud of smoke and stared at the bullet-ridden ceiling.
At the least, it wouldn’t be a long night.
Driver Nilbog of Da Seventy-Seventh Bolshevork Mekkanised Mob was asleep at the sticks of his top-of-the-line Teef-Hurty-Two; the latest in heavily armoured and high-calibre mayhem that the Mek Gitz tormented by ‘Splosive Snarlin could construct from the mountains of scrap metal, twisted machinery, faulty domestic electronics and red paint that dripped down into the forgotten decks of the station. It was a machine that belched smoke and spat death, guzzled Squig-fuel like a champion and had a tendency to move backwards on steep inclines. It was held together with innumerable rivets and patches of silvery tape stolen from the red-robed humies up top, and its great grinding tracks attracted any nearby loose clothing with fatal effect.
Nilbog loved it with every fibre of his heart. Although he did not want to die, he would be happy to die with it.
He did just that when unseen by his sleeping eyes, the tank-boss standing in the top hatch disappeared upwards with a muffled shriek, whilst in his place, a cluster of stikkbombs came down. The explosion would have been heard by the other members of the Mekkanised Mob, if they hadn’t already been quietly gutted where they sat around their table of cards and teef.
One of them had a flush.
Snarl Marx had been right in his assumption that good, honest bureaucracy would temper the revolutionary fires of his comrades and get them into a cooperative mood – after more than two hours of logistics plotting, resource reallocation and discussing the finer points of their next Five Month Plan, none of the Heroes had the strength to argue. The smacks from Snarl’s ceremonial hammer at the end of each item on the agenda didn’t get much more than a lazy flinch. Even Spanglez had started to doze off in his chair, his finger still on the trigger of his shoota.
‘And onto da final matter of business,’ Snarl addressed the soporific Kommittee. ‘We must discuss a risin’ issue within our own ranks. Power, my bruvvas, is a constant burden for Gretchin, such as ourselves, being those chosen by Da Red Gobbo to wield unrivalled control over da lives of our fellow Grots. But dat power comes wiv an understandin’ of responsibility. To be da figureheads speakin’ for da dictatorship of da Proletariork means to overcome da Squiggish instinct for self-interest and to instead act only for da common good. To fail in dat is to undermine our own right ta boss.’
The short speech had the same effect on the dozing Gretchin as a recaff enema, banishing tiredness with extreme prejudice. Those who had followed the words closely could spot the seeds of an accusation within them, whilst the rest knew from long experience that any speech containing that many syllables was sure to result in violence.
‘It seems, my fellow Heroes of Da Revolooshun, dat one of us has started losing sight of our true purpose.’
A cloying silence hung in the air for many long heartbeats. It was broken when Snarl pointed a finger towards the cringing face of Gore Breach-Off.
‘Wot, Wall-Smasha, are da three core tenants of da Revolooshun?’
‘Uuuh… troof, freedom an’ equal lootin’ rights for all Grots?’ He stammered.
The boss nodded, to Wall-Smasha’s relief.
‘Dat’s right. Troof, freedom, and equal lootin’ rights, dat’s what we fight for. Equal lootin’ rights. Dat means that all the loot gets shared out between erryone, now don’t it?’
The various heads nodded quickly. Each of them was now considering the full extent of their takings this month, precisely how much had been reported and sent to the communal stockpile, and how much had been lost, misplaced or destroyed in that curious way where it is not dumped further down into the bowels of the station, but does in fact end up in some small, dark hiding place that only they know about.
‘I believe dat dere is one amongst us, Komrades, who ain’t been sharing ‘is loot all dat equally. Someone who’s been growin’ fat off da labour of ‘is people, rather than contributin’ the boons of dat labour to Da Great Revolooshun. Someone, my bruvvas in green, who has been hoardin’ teef.‘
The ceremonial hammer had gone now, secreted into some fold in the Gretchin’s robe. In its place he now held an old, wickedly sharp sickle, turned red with rust.
The Founder turned to face Krashtro. His fellow Splittas tried to looked aghast, shuffling their chairs away from him with as much dignity as possible. He lit another cigar.
‘What do you ‘ave to say for yourself, Freewheel Krashtro?’
The First Company of Da Revolooshonary Guards, grizzled veterans of many a struggle for freedom and equal looting rights, was concluding its twentieth clockwise patrol of the alleyways around the Kommittee Chambers when the attack began.
These Gretchin were the best of the best, each of them having learned the art of Waaagh from the mouths of the Founders themselves. They had been raised in a culture moulded by the truest interpretation of Da Red Gobbo’s word, free from the deviations and devolutions that plagued the other Gretchin in their small under-deck world. They had been trained hardest, pushed furthest, taught better than any other Grot, and that made them superior – at least, that was what Snarl and Spanglez had told them.
Yet, despite their pristine shootas, their shining stabbas, their perfectly synchronised marching and their impeccable knowledge of Centrally Planned Orkonomics, the company was helpless when the looming shape of a burnt-out Teef-Hurty-Two appeared at the top of the narrow ramp they were climbing and began to trundle downwards at speed.
Commissar Krumptov was the last to die, positioned as he was at the rear of the column, desperately flicking through his pocket copy of Da Red Gobbo’s Manifesto for any practical philosophy that might help. Although this particular issue was not mentioned, his training as a political officer of Da Revolooshunary Guards gave him the skills necessary to quickly adapt a more general strategic concept into a practical tactical manoeuvre.
With a great battle cry, the Commissar stood with his hands outstretched against the rushing wall of steel and attempted, as best he could, to seize the means of destruction.
The eyes that Snarl Marx levelled against Krashtro were as dark and full of threat as the barrel of Spanglez’s shoota, which was incidentally also pointing at him. The other Heroes were a patchwork of faces – Yellin and his cronies had the eager look of blood Squigs getting ready for a hunt, whilst Krush-Gob and Gore Breach-Off looked tense, ready to hit the deck as soon as the shooting started. His fellow Splittas were aghast, torn between the threat of guilt by association and the fear of having no political bloc to hide behind. They had scooted their chairs several feet away by now.
‘Dis accusation,’ Krashtro began carefully. ‘Is a load of zog. On what grounds am I, a recognised Hero of Da Revolooshun and sitting member of dis very Kommittee, bein’ accused of un-Grotly behaviour? Wot evidence beyond baseless rumour and hearsay can be presented against my many, many years of dutiful service to Da Revolooshun?’
‘Your fortunes as of late ‘ave aroused da sus-pishuns of our most senior members.’ Snarl said, indicating himself and Yellin with a sweep of the sickle. Krashtro shot a venomous stare at the smug leader of Da Olde Guard.
‘Every new rotation seems to bring new fortunes for Da Settlement of Santi-Orko,’ Snarl continued. ‘When all da loyal servants of Da Revolooshun seem to struggle wiv hard times, your gitz seem to grow stronger. Food, gubbinz, teef; once dese boons these flowed freely from your lands an’ into da great collective pile, but as of late dat river of loot ‘as dried up. You claim to face da same strugglez as da rest of us, yet as we all fight ta maintain order and keep da Revolooshun alive, your influence across Grot-kind only stretches out all da further.’
‘Yeah, like one o’dem great big gribbly buggers wot live in da canals.’ Yellin shot in. ‘Youz look all small an wimpy, but get a little closer an you’z gots ya tentacles wrapped around all of us!’
Snarl nodded slowly. ‘Dat’s right. Your prosperity ‘as far outstripped dat of yer fellow Heroes and exceeded even da best estimations of our current Five Month Plan. Da Manifesto of Da Red Gobbo provides us wiv only one possible explanation. Your success is a clear sign of corruption, Krashtro. It speaks of a betrayal of da worst kind. You ‘ave been misappropriatin’ da labour of your Grots, takin’ advantage of da sweat of da honest workin’ Gretchin for yer own enrichment. You ‘ave been hoardin’ teef.’
Krashtro rolled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and let out a deep sigh of frustration.
‘Is dat wot you fink of me? You take me for some hoarder, a tyrant no better dan a Runtherd, a common Loota? You fink me a traitor? A rot at da heart of Da Great Revolooshun? Pah, wot a load of zoggin rubbish. My lads thrive because I don’t waste ‘em. I take da sweat of dere brows and put it to da best possible use, regardless of wot dis Kommitee says. My territory is on da very edge of da Girdle, beneath da biggest and noisiest bunch of humies on dis entire station. My lads and me live on a da precipice of enlightened civilisation, so we’z gotz to be smart if we wants to live. Dat means we are careful, an’ we don’t just waste gitz, Squigs and teef on every zog-brained idea dat comes into our noggins!’
‘Oh dat is Squig piss and you know it! ‘ Yelled Yellin. ‘Dere ain’t no secret ta your wealth, Krashtro! You ain’t smarter den da rest of us. Youz lives under one of da biggest disposal outlets on da whole damn station. You is in da perfect spot ta get da best hauls of fuel, gear an’ gubbinz out of any of us! You don’t make nuffin’, you don’t barely fight nuffin’ neither. You is rich cos all you has ta do is open your big fat gob and scoop up whatever da humies flush down!’
‘Where woz your boyz during da last three raids, Krashtro?’ Snarl asked in a whisper.
‘Wadda ya talkin’ about? I sent down fightas, didn’t I?’
‘You sent down a few dozen gitz wot spooked at da first sign of danger and were barely able to hold a shoota. Most of dem got lost on da way to da Girdle, and the ones who did make it just got in da way of fings.’
‘Yeah, dey was hardly your elite, now woz dey?’ Snarlin’ said. ‘Wot happened to all dose Guerrill-Ork Fightas as you used ta brag about?’
‘Dey was all Red Gobbo Fanatics too, I might add.’ Krush-Gob piped up. ‘Dose Grots wot had been makin’ some concerns known about how you’ve been runnin’ things over in Santi-Orko. Da ones who thought dat you might’ve split ways a little too much from Da Red Gobbo’s word. Ain’t heard nuttin of them complaints since dat raid. Woz all of them wot you sent to die?’
‘What ladz I sent is my business, not yours.’ Krashtro growled to the emboldened Krush-Gob, but Da Squig Lord and his fellow New Wave leader refused to back down. ‘Those raids were minor smash an’ grabs, dey weren’t an essential step da Great Revolooshun, so all dat is required of any of us is ta send wot fightin’ gitz we deem sufficient. My Guerill-Orks were engaged in essential work against da forces of da Oppressors – work dat don’t concern da likes of youz. Besides, from wot I hear I would’ve just been throwin’ gitz away. Where’s da sense in sendin’ my best lads just ta die on some fool fing I’m da bilge-decks?’
‘Maybe we wouldn’t have failed if you’d actually been there ta pull yer weight!’ Snarlin’ roared.
‘All dat loot would’ve ended up in our hands if you an yer gitz hadn’t been muckin’ about.’ Grotsky said. Krashtro laughed.
‘Is dat so? An ‘ow would you know what I been up to, Grotsky? You been spyin’ on me? Maybe dat’s why I found some of your sneaky gitz skulkin’ about outside my turf last week.’ He let out a puff of smoke. ‘Proper good they woz too, I nearly didn’t see ‘em. Wot a shame dat dey never saw da landmines.’
A shade of red snuck into Grotsky’s green cheeks as his fellow Old Guard looked at him with anger. Krush-Gob and Gore Breach-Off still wore the look of righteous indignation, but he knew that was paper thin. Snarl’s icy stare hadn’t left his own face, and Spanglez was ready as ever to drop him at a word from his fellow Founder, but that word hadn’t quite come yet.
The other Splittas, however, didn’t seem convinced. They had both suffered from the botched raids of recent weeks, and his absence would surely have been noticed by his closest Komrades. His answers to the accusations were not strong enough to hold their political bloc together and each of them now appeared to be making a break for the relative safety of independence.
‘Growl, Teefo, for zog’s sake! I ain’t no traitor! We is Splittaz, ain’t we? Would I turn on you?’
The proud soldiers of Chairman Growl’s Gretchin Liberation Army were not entirely comfortable working alongside the rank amateurs from Corrosive Lotz-Teefo’s mob. Then again, as the Gretchin Liberation Army currently consisted in its entirety of Garkhull, Spannerz, Tarkis da Gutrippa and Mad Wee Magrat, they weren’t about to be picky.
Teefo’s lads weren’t doing much better, also represented by just four haggard-looking Gretchin who, judging by their innumerable scrapes and burns, had recently seen actions in the vents owned by the muties on the under-under decks. If either posse had shown up alone, the crews of the other Heroes would have laughed at them, which would, of course, warrant a biting retort, which would doubtlessly have resulted in a scuffle, which would certainly then escalate into a right proper krumpin’, which they would probably have lost. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and it was better for the two crews to show up together as a begrudgingly united front rather than comfortably separated and entirely vulnerable.
Besides, since they were all Splittas they should be able to get along just fine, easily working together as brothers in an enlightened revolution. The fact that both groups were currently sitting on opposite sides of their corridor, staring daggers from beside their respective campfires, was a minor point that shouldn’t be taken into consideration.
The meeting had been a long one tonight, but that wasn’t particularly unusual. No one had called for help, and so the two crews had slowly slipped into the kind of unfocused boredom known to guards of all clans, creeds, septs and species across the galaxy.
A few strange noises throughout the night provided some brief entertainment, giving the GLA boyz the chance to spook each other with guesses of what could be making them, but that was all over too soon. They hadn’t brought a deck of cards or a bottle of Squig-booze, and if Teefo’s lads had done so, then, they weren’t sharing. None of their numbers got a kick out of reciting passages from Da Red Gobbo’s Manifesto – not like those creeps that worked for Snarl and Spanglez – so by the time the various tollings of bells from distant decks and subtle changes in fluid density in the pipes around them indicated that it was around one in the morning, Garkhull could have blown his own brains out for boredom.
He wouldn’t need to, however, as at that precise moment, Tarkis da Gutrippa fell forward into the fire, the stump of his neck spurting blood at the spot where his head should be. Wee Mad Magrat let out a short giggle of surprise before his own head popped like an overstuffed squig thrown under the tracks of a tank. Garkhull and Spannerz were on their feet straight away, but unfortunately, they chose to lay the blame on the first potential foes they could see – the four members of Teefo’s crew, sitting around their own fire on the other side of the corridor and already reaching for their weapons.
The firefight was short and brutal. When the last gunshot had finished echoing off the gore-splattered walls, the only thing that moved in the corridor were the spent brass casings rattling across the floor and the two crackling fires, now piled high with a wetter sort of kindling.
The eyes of the heroes darted from Snarl to Krashtro, waiting to see which one would make the next move. The sickle was held ominously in Snarl’s hand, not close enough for a killing blow but filled with the promise of making its rusted surface a little redder. Krashtro still sat perfectly still, puffing on his cigar, no weapons drawn that they could see. Across the table, hands reached slowly and carefully beneath cloaks and jackets.
‘Dis is an affront to my status as a Hero of da Revolooshun,’ Krashtro said. ‘Dese accusations are beneath me. If you gitz are gonna persist in dis madness, I want no part of it. Maybe Krush-Gob can grow you all some brain Squigs before da next meeting.’
He began to stand up, and all around him, fingers tensed on triggers.
‘Wot makes you fink you can leave ‘ere alive?’ Grotsky said, waving his ice picks menacingly.
Krashtro looked the upstart Grot straight in the eye.
‘Try it, Grotsky. You’ve never been able to take me down before. Remember dat little incident at da Bay of Squigs?’
The Gretchin knocked his chair over and tried to leap on the table, held back only by the restraining arms of his fellow Old Guard. A pumping elbow crunched into Snarlin’s nose as he struggled.
‘Leave it, ya git!’ Yellin shouted. ‘He’s for Snarl ta krump, not you. Dis is da Kommittee Chambers, ‘allowed ground! Dats da law!’
‘Zog da law, I’ll gut dat bugger!’
A gasp went up from the table as a wild swing from Grotsky caught Yellin on the chin, sending his boss sprawling with a yowl. As the other Heroes erupted into cries of condemnation at Grotsky’s words, Snarlin’ snatched the spare ice pick from his Komrade’s belt and drove it deep into Grotsky’s ear.
The Gretchin collapsed without a sound. Stunned for a moment, Snarlin’ turned to address the silent room with a defiant yet somewhat embarrassed face.
‘Wot? You all ‘eard ‘im. He said zog da law! Dat’s a serious offence in dese halls, dat is!’
‘Yeah!’ Yellin screeched as he got up. ‘But it ain’t a krumpin’ offense ya daft git!’
The two surviving members of Da Old Guard descended into bickering. Snarl slapped a hand to his face in exhaustion.
‘Dat’s it, dis has gone on long enough.’ He pulled a handset from his jacket, ordering his guards to enter the Chambers and arrest Krashtro. The other Heroes did likewise, recognising a situation that was spiralling quickly out of their control. When the Founder was met with nothing but static, he turned to Spanglez in confusion and then to Krashtro in a blind rage.
‘Trouble wiv da vox?’ Krashtro asked with a grin.
Screaming his rage, the Founder leapt onto the table and swung his sickle at Krashtro with murderous intent. The Hero met the blow with his own stabba, driving it upwards as he, too, took to the table, knocking the red weapon clear over his own head. Snarl rolled with the momentum, his other hand bringing the ceremonial hammer around in a wide arc to whack Krashtro painfully on his torso. Feeling his ribs splinter, the wounded Hero drew his slugga and sent a burst of fire at Snarl, instead hitting Krush-Gob square in the chest and sending the Squig Lord sprawling over his chair. A pair of diminutive attack Squigs bounded out from where they had been sleeping beneath his cloak and immediately set upon their nearest target – the erstwhile Gore Breach-off, who was cowering under the table.
Snarl brought the sickle down in a vicious strike, but again, it met the cold black iron of Krashtro’s choppa and was turned aside. Spanglez shouted for his boss to hit the deck and give him a clear shot, but the Founder was lost in a zealous fury and only had thoughts for blood. Another burst from Krashtro’s slugga went wide as Snarl struck again and again, stronger and more vigorous than his frail body suggested, forcing the Hero back step by step until he stood with one foot on his own creaking chair.
Chairman Growl, desperate to get back in someone’s good books, charged forward with his choppa drawn. Precisely who he intended to stick with it, he still hadn’t decided when Krashtro ducked below Snarl’s swinging sickle, which caught the Chairman through the jaw and sent him reeling in a spray of blood. The momentum pulled Snarl over the table and down onto the floor, leaving Krashtro standing victorious.
Finally with a clear shot, Spanglez opened fire. All three barrels of his custom shoota spat death across the room as he swept it around at roughly the right height and direction to hit Krashtro. The bullets tore through the corrugated iron of the Kommittee Chambers, exploding light bulbs and obliterating filing cabinets filled with the blessed in a storm of smoke and shredded paperwork. The hammering of the weapon was deafening in the small confines, like a thunderstorm released all at once and right on top of the eardrum. Its familiar sound brought a ray of joy into Spanglez’s small heart – especially when a splatter of red blossomed through the haze. The force of the weapon threw the Founder in his wheeled chair across the small room, sending him cannoning into the bickering survivors of Da Old Guard and sending them all tumbling in a mess of limbs and curses.
Krashtro removed his hands from his head and looked up from the table, his small portion of which stood miraculously unharmed. Behind him, the remains of Corrossive Teefo dripped down the wall.
Spotting a struggling mass of Yellin, Snarlin’ and Spanglez as they fought each other to stand back up, he made a break for the door, but he barely got to his own feet when the hot and sickening pain of a hammer striking the back of his head drove him down again. The weapons fell from his nerveless fingers, and he rolled onto his back in time to see the sickle drive down into his shoulder, pinning him to the table. Through the pain, he saw the gore-splattered beard-Squig of Snarl Marx leer over him, rage burning in the eyes above it.
‘You lose, Splitta,’ the Founder snarled. ‘You an’ your whole damn settlement will burn for dis betrayal. Your part in Da Great Revolooshun is over. Ain’t no one gonna remember your name.’
The curses and growls grew clearer as the surviving Heroes moved in around him. It had been a long shot, but he had always known that the odds of making it out alive were against him. Five dead Heroes was good, but it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough.
The pain from where the sickle pinned him to the table stopped him from moving his head, so all he could do was stare blearily at the raving face of Snarl Marx as it continued its tirade.
‘Your page in Da Red Gobbo’s Manifesto will be torn out. Your place amongst our number will never be restored, whenever an’ however you return to us. For dis act of base Orkish treachery you will never again – wait, wot da Zog?’
With the rip of innumerable tiny mandibles being pulled from flesh, Da Founder tore the full and voluminous beard-Squig from Krashtro’s chin, revealing the miniature pict-recorder and vox microphone it had hidden. Terror in his eyes, he pulled open the false Hero’s jacket to expose the mass of wires, cylinders and blinking red lights it had concealed.
‘Wot in da name of… YOU BASTARD!’
Krashtro grinned up at his killers, feeling the cold embrace of death wash over him. Through bloody lips, he gasped out his last breath.
‘Veevuh… Da Revolooshun.’
Freewheel Krashtro, Last Hero of Da Revolooshun, stared down at the roiling fireball that consumed the Kommittee Chambers and filled the hallowed decks with the stench of melting plastic and burning flesh.
The Weird Git had been right when he said that the decoy would act just like him, right down to the imposing presence and fiery speech. He’d even put up a good fight against Snarl, a feat worthy of commendation itself. If the mind-scrubbed Grot who had taken his place hadn’t burned along with the rest of the Heroes, he’d be looking at one serious promotion.
The Guerill-Orks had done a good job, too, cutting down the rival gangs and leaving the Heroes isolated without ever raising the alarm. With their most loyal followers out of the way, there would be no organised resistance to his seizure or power. Flay Git-Vera had certainly trained them well – he’d be sure to keep a close eye on that one.
His chin felt cold and lonely without the comforting mass of his beard-Squig, but it had been a sacrifice worth making. As he left the smoke and stench of the burning Chambers behind him for the comforting seat of his wartrike, Da Krooza Libre, the words of the speech he would soon be giving began to fill his mind.
Da humies came at us all sneaky-like, durin’ a hallowed meetin’ of Komrades. Dey despoiled da blessed chambers wiv their step, just as me an’ da over Heroes woz all about to sign da next Great Five Month Plan, da best one yet! We fought hard, back to back as Da Red Gobbo intended, but wiv every git we cut down three more took ‘is place! Dey krumped all of our brave Heroes, even da mighty Founders. Only me and my boyz made it out, takin’ a great many ‘umies down on our way, but we survived ta krump again, an’ dat time will soon be ‘ere!
He smiled as he climbed the seat to his ride, his operatives emerging from the shadows on their own, smaller bikes. The words practically wrote themselves.
The others would return, of course. That was the nature of their role in all this. Like the spirit of the Red Gobbo himself, Da Heroes of Da Revolooshun always found their way back into the lives of the Gretchin aboard Tenebrum Octavis, manifesting in unlikely candidates across their society with neither rhyme nor reason. One day a grot would wake up and find himself able to read the blessed words of Da Manifesto, think up ingenious plans for Revolooshun, or inspire his fellows with speeches that roused the heart. Krashtro himself could remember more than a dozen sordid lives and grisly deaths, everything from the tearing of bullets and the ripping of knives to the scorching heat of explosions and the cold embrace of space.
It didn’t matter what he did, they would all return, and when they did, there would be …problems. But it would take time. Many months, maybe even a year, would pass before they would start to pop up again, and until then, he would be unopposed.
There would be resistance, of course – a few holdouts that would need to be crushed, pretenders that he would have to deal with, but those were small things. Most of the grots, whatever their previous allegiances, would recognise a Hero of Da Revolooshun and fall in line. And with all of grot-kind behind him, what could possibly stop him?
With a rev of engines Da Krooza Libre pulled away from the pyre of heroes and began its run back to Santi-Orko, flanked by his loyal fighters. He smiled and lit another cigar, watching its smoke mingle with the billowing clouds of ash that the vents high above were already sucking away, He chuckled, long and low, and savoured the taste of victory.
‘Veevuh Da Revolooshun.’
