Steel & Oil: Warhammer 32K

Big things tend to draw everyone's attention. Nearly half the firepower along the Astra Militarum line was drawn to that iron can, but every laser-bolt they fired was swallowed whole by the death-mega-can.

The lasguns of the Guard couldn't even scorch a focal point onto its rough, uneven armour plates.

Inside the sheet-metal cockpit shaped like a leering Gork-head, Gadda worked the controls of the death-mega-can and raised the enormous kannon mounted on its iron arm.

The cannon was thick and stubby, looking faintly ridiculous, but not a soldier dared underestimate its power. Certain the thing was about to spit out a high-explosive shell, they all ducked their heads back into the trenches, hoping to weather the coming blast. But Gadda's target wasn't them.

He levelled the kannon at a Leman Russ tank still holding the line against the Ork boyz' firepower, and pondered:

"I reckons dis one'll punch right through!"

The solid cannonball flew from the barrel — Gadda's own shot did have considerably better aim than anything a Gretchin could manage. The lump-of-iron round drifted lazily through its arc, and no one would have thought such a projectile could pierce the Leman Russ's thick frontal armour. And yet, this kinetic-deficient slug simply smashed a gaping hole into the Leman Russ and bored its way into the tank's interior.

With no time to react, the tank suffered a horrific sympathetic detonation. The force of the blast flipped the turret clean off, and the spray of metal shrapnel cut down the infantry sheltering behind the Leman Russ like a scythe through wheat.

The terrible disaster spread even to several Chimera transports parked nearby. Caught in the Leman Russ's explosion, their comparatively thin armour plates were perforated by flying fragments, and they too cooked off in chained detonations.

The Astra Militarum colonel at the front felt his mouth go bone-dry. "How is this possible?!"

He couldn't outright declare such a thing impossible, but in the view of any professional priest the probability of so many chain reactions occurring in sequence was no higher than 0.001%.

This was the Orks. Their "I-reckon" power could pile one coincidence atop another until they became a grim reality every commander was forced to face.

Gazing at the metal wreckage strewn across the defensive line, Gadda let out a satisfied roar. Such a major victory whipped the greenskins — who had been pinned down with their heads forced low only moments before — back into a frenzy.

"Boss, Boss, Boss!"

"WAAAGH!"

Lifting their choppas (blades) and shootas (gunz) high, they hurled themselves once more against the Guard positions.

Combat against Orks could never be judged by ordinary military reasoning, and unfortunately the Astra Militarum here lacked much experience fighting greenskins. The endless string of accidents the greenskins triggered threw their formations into chaos.

The first defensive line could no longer concentrate enough firepower to suppress the Orks, and the anti-air guns — momentarily silent as they reloaded — could no longer blanket the Ork meteors still raining down from the sky.

Asteroids kept slamming directly onto the defensive line, and the Orks that came spilling out tore the entire line to ragged pieces.

If the whole front were not adjusted in time, this defensive line was about to be punched clean through by the greenskins.

Although Lin's original tactical plan had been to let the enemy in first… apart from Admidel and Kurande, who had already crossed blades with these greenskins directly, everyone else — and Hays especially, as supreme commander of the Astra Militarum — had assumed that meant a feigned retreat in which the line would be deliberately surrendered.

Who would have thought that the greenskins' assault had only just begun, and the Astra Militarum at the front, even fighting with everything they had, were already unable to win?

In the command room, Hays — able through the Mechanicus's equipment to watch the front lines in real time — stared at the screen in disbelief.

Of course he had fought before against the greenskins that could be encountered all across the universe, but the Orks he had crossed swords with previously were mostly planet-bound feral beasts who had never left their worlds. Their performance had been nothing like the bizarre showing of the Orks now attacking them.

After all, the Orks' WAAAGH! energy was tied directly to their numbers, and Orks who had not yet built up to a sufficient scale really couldn't pull off so many improbable feats.

But when Hays glanced sideways at Lin, who looked utterly unruffled, he immediately felt as though he'd swallowed a calming draught.

"Don't tell me you anticipated this situation in advance?" he asked.

"Put it this way — if greenskins capable of building a battle-moon couldn't even apply this much pressure, that would be the strange thing."

"I'll use this battle to compile a profile of the kind of Orks we're dealing with… but before that."

Lin raised his head, and his gaze settled on Maximus Sorn and Kurande.

"Let's give those beasts a small taste of what we can do."

"I thought we'd be entering the field later than this," Maximus Sorn replied. "After all, the plan you drew up was to lure the enemy deep."

"An Ork Warboss commanding a force of this size will be more cunning than we imagine. He won't rashly drive deep into our lines from the outset."

Lin explained: "We have to first show him part of our hand as a probe — let the Warboss think he's already taken our measure. Only then will he commit boldly to a full-scale assault."

Maximus Sorn was an ancient warrior, but he had been recruited from Terra as a fresh inductee only after the Imperial Fists had become the Imperial Praetorians of Terra. Equally untested against beasts of this calibre, he could not be sure whether Lin was correct — but the man's air of absolute certainty was itself persuasive.

He gave a slight nod, and the two Chapter Masters together accepted the orders and departed.

The order to withdraw was passed down to the Astra Militarum.

The Imperium's armies rarely ordered a retreat while a line was still hotly contested, because the Imperium's poor command structure and abysmal communications turned every retreat into a rout that dragged subsequent defensive lines down with it. To preserve the integrity of the front, Imperial commanders would rather see their forward troops die where they stood.

But this was a Forge World — even if a low-tier one — and after the ion storms Lin had earlier stirred up had dissipated, the soldiers enjoyed better communications conditions than they were used to.

On top of that, the fortifications had been built in unhurried cooperation with the Imperial Fists, and so when the order to withdraw reached the front-line soldiers, the retreat proceeded with surprising order.

A portion of the soldiers were left behind as rearguard, while the rest fell back swiftly toward the second defensive line via the communication trenches. When the bulk of the Astra Militarum had reached the second line, they in turn organised covering fire to shield the rearguard's withdrawal.

The rearguard fell back as well, but a portion of the greenskins came howling on their heels. Robbed of the satisfying fight they'd been hoping for, they bellowed and made to plunge straight into the Astra Militarum's second line.

What greeted them was the roaring teeth of a chainsword.

The blade hummed as it tore the air, then dropped into the moaning whine of teeth in flesh. Cold-faced, Zebyrean kicked the headless Ork corpse aside and flicked the green blood from his chainsword.

The soldiers around him erupted in excitement, their eyes glowing with a delight greater than they'd have shown a coy beauty:

"It's an Angel of the Emperor!"

Zebyrean took no notice of the soldiers' joy. He only reminded them coldly:

"Blow the communication trenches."

Snapping out of their daze, the soldiers hurried to detonate the explosives buried beneath the trenches, and the greenskins still pursuing along them were swallowed at once by the collapsing earthworks.

With that, the greenskins' assault had its drums and banners broken. Zebyrean led his company forward to press on. According to the plan, they were to launch a limited counter-offensive against the Orks.

Ever since the Ultimate Wall, he had been dissatisfied with all these arrangements. He had to obey Maximus Sorn's orders — but every time he reflected that Maximus Sorn himself was now merely the mouthpiece of a higher authority, a knot of frustration with no outlet tightened in his chest.

The Exemplary Fists were supposed to be an independent Chapter!

But he could not openly question any of it, so he could only pour his anger into his sword and vent it upon the greenskins.

"Exemplary Fists!"

He cried aloud, "Attack!"

His voice rose above the surrounding clamour, and behind him a hundred warriors in yellow power armour advanced at his side, the Chapter badge on their shoulders — much like the Imperial Fists' own — clearly visible, except that beneath the fist sat a Codex Astartes as their lower badge.

"For the glory of Rogal Dorn!" the warriors answered, then squeezed the triggers of their bolters.

Zebyrean frowned. It was not that he didn't revere his gene-father, but that had decidedly not been the Exemplary Fists' war-cry before.

Ever since they had been folded into the Ultimate Wall, everything had changed.

Sheets of bolter fire cut down the greenskins still vainly charging forward. They screeched in defiance, but WAAAGH! energy could not shield them from bolt-shells.

Bolt-shells the size of a wrist tore their bodies apart with ease, and even those tenacious Orks who survived the storm of fire, half-dead, were ground beneath the magnetic boots of the Astartes without mercy.

Sour-hearted, Zebyrean charged at the nearest enemy at the head of his men. The chainsword shrieked through the air, and an Ork's head dropped at the sound. Then a second, a third. Through sheer skill he moved through the greenskin throng as though through empty space, green blood spraying everywhere.

But soon he hit an obstacle.

It was a being that towered visibly half a head taller than the other Orks, gripping a massive hammer that looked heavier than its own body.

Plainly, this was an Ork warlord.

No such opponent had appeared in the battle plan Lin had given earlier. Zebyrean glanced around — only then did he realise that in his rage he had charged too far ahead.

Lin had required that their limited counter-attack go no further than the original first defensive line, but he had already crossed it. Over the Ork warlord's shoulder, Zebyrean could even make out the death-mega-can looming closer and closer.

That was the chieftain of this Ork horde. Just by estimating the distance between himself and that figure, Zebyrean could deduce exactly how far he had pressed in.

By rights he should retreat at once — but a mistake is not always something other than an opportunity.

He resolved to act as Roboute Guilliman would.

Just as the Codex taught: when forced to choose, pick the lesser evil — and act without hesitation!

He hefted his chainsword sharply, faced the Ork warlord, and opened a sacred single combat!

Zebyrean knew that his chainsword's advantage over his foe lay in agility, so he struck first, intending to drive the chainsword straight through the Ork's guard and skewer the greenskin boss clean through the heart.

But the plan was seen through. The Ork warlord's muscles tensed; he flicked the haft of his hammer slightly upward to catch the chainsword's edge, parrying the killing blow with insulting ease.

Zebyrean's hearts skipped half a beat.

"Impossible!"

Warning runes flashed in Zebyrean's helmet; the electroactive musculature in his vambrace registered an abnormality. The Ork's strength far exceeded what he had expected — a single parry had left his wrists tingling and numb.

He looked up at the Ork, and in that gaze he read a cunning beyond his comprehension. The Ork loosed a deafening roar.

"'Umie, yer end iz come!"

He swept the great hammer up, the arc of the head tracing a lethal curve. Zebyrean threw himself aside as hard as he could, and the hammerhead only grazed half his flank — yet even that left a clearly stamped dent in his power armour.

His breathing turned ragged, and cold sweat was already running from his brow down inside the faceplate.

"Damn it, what kind of monsters are the Orks on this world?!"

The previously unstoppable Astartes found themselves locked in a bitter fight. More Orks closed in. Their excited "WAAAGH!" mingled with the Astartes' battle cries and echoed across the whole zone.

Just as Zebyrean was at his wit's end, a Power Sword he knew well punched through the Ork chieftain's chest.

The Ork warlord's corpse crashed down, and the figure now revealed before Zebyrean was the stern face of Maximus Sorn.

"Zebyrean!" Maximus Sorn demanded harshly. "Why did you not follow the plan?!"

Zebyrean bowed his head. He knew he had erred, but still he urged: "We're close to the Ork warlord now. Perhaps we could push in immediately and kill that warlord—"

Maximus Sorn cut the suggestion off without hesitation: "Withdraw. Now!"

Compared with a mere first-company captain, the orders of a Chapter Master were obviously the ones that carried weight. The Astartes of the Exemplary Fists began an alternating-cover withdrawal. But this only fanned Zebyrean's defiance higher.

"The Codex long ago decreed that a Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes has the freedom to act independently!" he demanded loudly. "Why must we operate according to that grease-stained mechanic's plan? If we can kill that Ork warlord, the rest of the greenskins are nothing but earthen chickens and pottery dogs!"

But his rage was met only with Maximus Sorn's deep, level stare:

"Withdraw, Zebyrean. I will not say it a third time."

Zebyrean swallowed the humiliation. He already understood what kind of punishment awaited him when he returned.

The Space Marines who had completed the counter-attack began to fall back, and the previously suppressed greenskins were rallied again. They wanted to keep pursuing, but Gadda called a halt.

"Tin-can 'umies…"

Gadda narrowed his eyes as he watched the retreating Space Marines. Although he had personally hacked down quite a few tin-cans back on Jingang, it was precisely because of that that he understood these tin-cans' real strength.

Ordinary boyz facing such tin-cans got nothing but a chopping; though an Ork boss could best these tin-cans, against the special 'umies with rings around their heads he came off no better either…

More important was the line of battle.

Though Gadda knew no maths, he understood that he had committed many, many boyz, yet had won only a tiny, tiny gain. Yes, he had taken the 'umies' first defensive line — but on the line he had captured, there weren't many of the 'umies' corpses to be found.

This was not the fight he had wanted. Carry on like this, and the many, many boyz would become very, very few — while the 'umies would not become very, very few.

Gork and Mork, were they to see this, would surely be displeased.

But he was a Big Mek, and given just a little time, these tin-can 'umies would be trampled flat beneath his teknolojy too!

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