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Chapter 11: They're Finally Here!
"Brothers! Let the enemies across the stars witness the unstoppable might of the Ork race!"
Francis stood atop the mechanical colossus's shoulder, bellowing encouragement to the greenskins laboring below. The irony wasn't lost on him, a Primarch of the Imperium rallying xenos with their own battle cries.
'If only the new High Lords could see me now.'
"Brothers, if we are to reach the far side of the void, this war machine must be transformed into a voidship capable of stellar travel!"
The Orks paused, scratching their heads in collective confusion. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, they exploded into frenzied activity.
Massive workshops built from salvaged scrap towered overhead. Smoke billowed, sparks cascaded, and the air grew thick with promethium fumes and coal dust.
"Did ya catch wot da Boss said?" A Mekboy with crude optical enhancers squinted at another Ork stacking materials.
"Nah. 'Alf dose words don't make sense." The second Ork shrugged. "You understand 'im?"
The Mekboy adjusted his goggles. "Not a clue. Anyone else?"
"Asked around. Nobody gets it."
"Thought it woz just me." The Mekboy grinned, showing yellowed tusks. "Ah well, let's get buildin'!"
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
Oil-stained, muscular Ork engineers hammered battlefield wreckage into increasingly improbable configurations. They ignored every principle of engineering Francis remembered from his previous life, no rivets, no proper welding, just brute force and absolute confidence.
Any Tech-Priest seeing this would have an aneurysm, Francis thought, watching them press metal sheets together with their bare hands and call it "fixed."
Yet somehow, it worked. When Orks collectively believed in something, when they unleashed their "Waaagh!", reality bent around their conviction. Scrap became functional machinery through sheer bloody-minded determination.
"Brothers," Francis called out, switching tactics, "this voidship needs massive mechanical appendages. Think... enormous grabby arms to seize enemy vessels!"
Several Orks immediately perked up.
"Grabby arms? Like dis?" One Ork made grasping motions with his hands.
"Dat's it!"
"Easy!"
They dismantled a rusted chainsword and half a Battlewagon, hammering the pieces into crude cylinders before welding them to the main hull. The result looked like industrial gas tanks with stubby fingers.
"Oi! You'z doin' it wrong!" Another Mekboy approached, hauling an elaborate contraption of impossible complexity. "Use dis instead!"
The goggle-wearing Mekboy bristled. "Yourz iz rubbish! Ourz iz better!"
"You'z da rubbish! You whine like a stepped-on Gretchin!"
"Wot did you just say?!"
"You 'eard me! Want a scrap?!"
Within seconds, every nearby Ork had formed a circle around the two Mekboys, cheering and placing bets. Francis shook his head, grinning despite himself. At least they're predictable.
While the Orks brawled, Gretchin scurried about preparing meals from their primary food source: Squig. The versatile creatures were skewered over open flames, marinated in fungal wine, or stir-fried with mushroom slices.
Thanks to Francis's influence, the local Gretchin had developed an obsession with feeding their pet Squig, transforming what was once a dog-sized creature into a three-meter-tall behemoth that followed Francis around like a loyal hound.
Francis examined their finished "voidship", a massive grenade-shaped monstrosity with two cylindrical arms ending in bulbous digits. Can those things actually grab anything?
"Boss! Guaranteed to work!" The Orks gave him enthusiastic thumbs up, displaying what they considered winning grins.
Francis's eye twitched. After seven days among the greenskins, he'd experienced unprecedented freedom. Ork psychology was refreshingly simple: unhappiness meant fighting, happiness meant fighting, boredom meant fighting. Combat solved everything, and win or lose, survivors always celebrated.
During peaceful moments, Gretchin attended them—scratching itches, preparing meals, providing entertainment. For a brief, treacherous moment, Francis wondered what permanent residence here might be like.
...
Deep in the forest shadows, Imperial watchers maintained their vigil.
"Tell me your Primarch isn't considering staying, with these xenos" Custodian muttered, golden armor glinting between the trees. "Look at his expression."
"He seems... content." Captain Lysander of the Soul Drinkers clenched his fists. "Throne preserve us, he actually looks happy."
The Custodians felt sweat dampen their grips on guardian spears. Should a Primarch embrace xenos corruption, the response would be swift and absolute: Exterminatus to obliterate all evidence.
"Impossible," Lysander whispered. "He must have a plan. We cannot lose another Primarch."
"The gene-father moves," another Soul Drinker reported. "He's boarding their vessel."
Francis raised his voice to address the assembled Orks: "Brothers! I shall carry our glory to distant stars and plant the seeds of our race among enemy worlds!"
Thunderous cheers erupted as Francis piloted the "Super Grenade" toward the valley containing their damaged strike cruiser.
Both Custodians and Soul Drinkers received Francis's transmitted message: "Return to the Heracla Fenrir immediately. We depart for Prospero. right now."
Horror dawned on their faces. "He doesn't intend to transport us in that... that thing, does he?"
Meanwhile, in the abandoned Ork camp:
"Da Boss iz gone. Wot now?"
The head Mekboy puffed out his chest. "Since da Boss ain't 'ere, I'z da ranking—"
"Rubbish! You think you'z Boss material?" Another Ork cracked his knuckles. "Let's settle dis proper! WAAAGH!"
Organization collapsed instantly. The briefly unified confederation fragmented into warring factions, each Ork claiming leadership through violence.
Gretchin darted between the chaos, desperately seeking new masters. Only Squig remained on the high ground, whimpering as he gazed toward Francis's departure route.
In the deep valley, Leman Russ stared at the approaching Ork vessel with barely concealed horror. It dwarfed their damaged strike cruiser and looked like a child's toy built from refuse.
"You propose," Russ said slowly, "using that thing's mechanical arms to grab our ship, then translate through the Warp?"
Francis clapped the Wolf King's shoulder. "Exactly!"
Russ's mind went blank. Were this anyone else's plan, he'd suspect enemy infiltration.
"By the blessed Omnissiah!" The attending Tech-Priest pressed himself against the hull, caressing every surface with reverent devotion. "Behold this miraculous fusion of impossible technologies! Two additional conduits where theory demands none could exist!"
"Priest," Russ interrupted with pointed throat-clearing. "Is this plan actually feasible?"
The Tech-Priest reluctantly climbed down, resuming his aloof demeanor. "Technically... yes. The concept could work, though I cannot explain how—"
"If it's feasible, we proceed immediately," Russ decided. "The Heracla Fenrir cannot be repaired within acceptable timeframes."
As preparations concluded, Francis opened the red button's protective cover. "Everyone secure your harnesses. Departure is imminent."
Several crew members scoffed at the precaution. Francis pressed the button anyway.
WHOOSH.
The Super Grenade, clutching the Heracla Fenrir in its mechanical embrace, subjected everyone to instantaneous Warp translation. Tremendous gravitational forces slammed them into their seats while creating an atmospheric vacuum on the planet's surface.
"Forgot to mention," Francis called over the chaos, "this vessel rotates during transit."
"Emperor's blood!"
The entire flotilla began spinning at violent speeds.
In the Warp
A cluster of Neverborn had been resting peacefully in the Immaterium's depths. Recent days had been most agreeable, few ships dared traverse their territory.
Suddenly, two voidships hurtled through their realm at impossible velocities, obliterating them into ethereal pulp before they could react.
Inside the spinning vessels, Leman Russ felt the hull shudder. "Francis! What was that?"
"Nothing significant," Francis replied cheerfully. "Completely unimportant."
All obstacles proved insignificant before Ork engineering superiority.
Within moments, they exited the Warp and crashed directly into a pyramid on Prospero's surface.
"ENEMY ATTACK!"
[End of Chapter]
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