Knebl Micro Works

BLOOD AXE VILLAGE
An Account of the Alleged Ork Infestation of Agean III (v1.83)
AGEAN III
Agean III had survived a century of volcanic winter, poisoned groundwater, fluorine contamination, sulfurous skies, toxic metals, agricultural collapse and the near-total destruction of its native ecology.
The Imperium eventually declared it HABITABLE.
There were qualifications.
Several thousand pages of them.
Certain regions were agriculturally questionable. Others were agriculturally inadvisable. A few were still agriculturally fatal. Some groundwater was approved for human consumption provided the human in question did not intend to consume very much of it.
Over the centuries, the official environmental designation had moved from:
UNSUITABLE FOR PERMANENT HUMAN HABITATION
CONDITIONALLY HABITABLE
SUITABLE FOR CONTROLLED RECOLONIZATION
and eventually, in all but official wording:
GOOD ENOUGH.
That last designation had never actually appeared in an Imperial document.
It didn't need to.
The Imperium briefly considered turning Agean III into a major colony.
Then someone noticed Fertiliax nearby.
Fertiliax had better soil, better weather, better infrastructure and far better agricultural output. It also had substantially fewer places where digging a drainage ditch required a toxicological consultation.
Agean III's grand colonization scheme was scaled back.
Then scaled back again.
Then renamed.
Then transferred to another department.
That department was dissolved.
Eventually, roughly one hundred thousand people ended up living there anyway. They occupied scattered farming communities, research stations, mineral-survey facilities, small settlements and modest industrial sites.
They grew things.
Measured things.
Catalogued rocks.
Tested soil.
Tested water.
Occasionally, they tested themselves after drinking the water.
And then they reported all of it.
Constantly.
Agean III's planetary government produced an astonishing amount of paperwork for a place where almost nothing ever happened. There were agricultural yield summaries, groundwater toxicity updates, population reconciliations, mineral surveys, equipment logs, road reports, weather reports, livestock reports, crop-blight reports, communications reports, fuel returns, forms certifying that the forms had been submitted and, where necessary, forms explaining why one had not.
The reports were mandatory. Not because anyone seemed to read them. Nobody on Agean III could remember a meaningful question, clarification or follow-up suggesting the information had survived whichever distant office received it. But if a report was late, that was noticed immediately.
A seventy-eight-page report saying crop production, groundwater quality, population, industrial output and planetary security were completely unchanged?
Silence.
Miss the filing deadline?
NOTICE OF ADMINISTRATIVE NON-COMPLIANCE.
The planetary government had learned the lesson centuries ago.
The contents did not matter.
Their existence did.
One clerk once suggested that the monthly civil-status return could probably contain the sentence:
THE EMPEROR IS A PLANTED AELDARI
halfway through page forty-three and nobody in the wider Imperium would ever notice.
Nobody laughed very hard.
Mostly because nobody was entirely sure he was wrong.
So Agean III continued reporting that nothing had happened in exhaustive detail, every week, every month, every quarter and every year. Somewhere, presumably, the Imperium continued not reading it.
Agean III became what the Imperium produced better than almost anything else:
A completely ordinary planet almost nobody important remembered existed.
Its principal connection to the wider Imperium was Macragge's Mercy Outpost, a supply facility on the southeastern coast.
Attached to it was Fort Agrippa, whose military importance could best be described as technically present.
Orbital supply vessels landed at Macragge's Mercy carrying food, medicine, fuel, industrial equipment, replacement parts, military stores, agricultural supplies and everything else a scattered planetary population needed.
The cargo was transferred to ground convoys.
The convoys went inland.
The settlements received their supplies.
The drivers came back.
This had been happening for years.
It was a functioning Imperial logistical system.
Nobody understood how.
Every now and then something meant for Agean III went to Fertiliax because an Administratum clerk had entered the destination as:
THE AGRI-PLANET NEARBY
This was considered understandable.
Everybody remembered Fertiliax.
Agean III was the planet people remembered immediately after somebody reminded them.
Then one convoy disappeared.
This did not constitute an emergency.
It barely constituted an event.
The Imperium continued.
Then another disappeared.
Then another.
After the fourth, an investigation was formally proposed.
The proposal went to the appropriate office. The appropriate office determined that it was not the appropriate office. It was forwarded to the correct appropriate office. That office requested the original convoy manifests.
Three could not be located.
This called into question whether the missing convoys had actually departed.
Another convoy vanished.
Then a fuel shipment.
Then medical supplies.
Then machinery.
Then a maintenance column.
Well over a Terran standard year passed from the first disappearance before the words something is happening started showing up in unofficial conversations.
The official wording remained:
STATISTICALLY UNUSUAL TRANSPORT NON-ARRIVALS.
There were other oddities.
Vox operators occasionally reported communications on frequencies that should have been empty. One settlement heard shouting. A technician described one voice as distinctly non-human. His supervisor asked how he could possibly know. The technician admitted he couldn't. He only knew he'd never heard a human speak quite like that.
Orks were hardly unknown to Imperial citizens. Their images appeared in propaganda, military warnings, schoolroom histories and cautionary material throughout the Imperium. Actually seeing one was another matter. On a backwater like Agean III, most people could live their entire lives without coming within a thousand kilometres of an Ork. Hearing one speak was rarer still.
The first recorded transmission consisted largely of:
ORK VOICE (ORK): "OI! YOU GIT! NOT DAT BUTTON!"
The operator described the voice as loud, guttural, angry and deeply unpleasant.
The transmission was classified as atmospheric interference.
Several weeks later another operator heard:
ORK: "WHO TOOK ME ZOGGIN' SPANNA?"
This became aggressive atmospheric interference.
A third settlement reported brief numerical exchanges.
Another heard something that sounded like cargo quantities.
Nobody connected any of it.
Not yet.
The planetary communications network also detected unidentified digital packets from time to time.
Its automated systems compared them with authorized Imperial protocols.
No match.
The packets therefore officially did not exist.
They were deleted.
The system was working as designed.
There were survivors too.
Very few.
Most emerged days after convoy disappearances injured, dehydrated, badly concussed or some combination of all three. Their testimony made the situation less clear rather than more.
Some remembered small attackers.
Some remembered very large ones.
Faces were obscured by cloth, metal, helmets, goggles. Others could barely remember faces at all.
Descriptions of size and build were all over the place.
The one consistent feature was confusion.
Eventually the missing vehicles, strange transmissions, unreliable witness statements and increasingly irritated planetary administrators reached the Astra Militarum leadership on Fertiliax. That was where Captain Konrad Knebl and Lieutenant Malina were stationed with the 132nd Striking Hawks.
For all practical purposes, Knebl and Malina were running the regiment.
Which was odd.
Captain Knebl was an Imperial Navy officer.
Under any sensible command structure, an Imperial Navy captain would not have found himself effectively running an Imperial Guard regiment. But sensible command structures were only one of the available options.
Years earlier, one personnel office had recorded him as Captain Konrad Knebl.
Another had him as Konrad Knebl, Capt.
A third office apparently decided these were two different people.
Later, someone attempted to correct that discrepancy and managed instead to merge the wrong service record into the 132nd Striking Hawks command roster.
From there it spread.
Orders arrived for Knebl.
Approvals arrived from Knebl.
Requests occasionally came back already authorized by some administrative version of Knebl whose exact status nobody could explain. By the time anyone noticed, the paperwork proving he wasn't supposed to be in charge was weaker than the paperwork saying he already was.
Knebl looked into fixing it.
Eleven forms.
Three separate commands.
Naval Personnel.
Militarum Personnel.
And written verification that he was not attempting to impersonate himself.
He stopped looking into it.
Malina considered that one of his better command decisions. So nobody had formally placed Knebl and Malina in charge of everything. People had simply noticed that when something complicated happened, they looked at Knebl. When something mechanical stopped working, they looked at Malina. When something complicated and mechanical happened, sensible people moved.
Knebl read the Agean reports.
The witness statements.
The summaries.
One Adeptus Mechanicus assessment concluded that because the communications traffic didn't correspond to any known system, it probably wasn't communications traffic.
Knebl set it down.
LT. MALINA (LtMal): "Well?"
KNEBL (Knebl): "We should probably go look."
LtMal: "Agreed."
That was essentially the planning meeting.
It may have been the shortest operational planning conference the Imperium had held in a millennium.
No committees.
No subcommittees to define the committees.
Nobody commissioned a feasibility assessment of the feasibility assessment.
No ceremonial seal.
No planetary governor.
No Tech-Priest praying over the map for thirty-six hours.
Knebl identified a problem and started requisitioning aircraft.
By Imperial standards, almost reckless.
During the temporary change-of-command rituals, Malina kept referring to their mission as Operation We Should Probably Go Look. It was never officially called that.
Knebl requisitioned three Valkyries, crews, maintenance personnel, reconnaissance packages, listening gear, auspex equipment, recording systems, long-range communications and modest armament. He even remembered porta-galleys, a small luxury whose value increased with every hour of a long reconnaissance mission.
Their offensive weaponry had to be kept modest. Even Captain Knebl, in his unusual position, would have had a hard time getting serious ordnance through the authorization chain for an intelligence mission to a peaceful planet few Imperial officials had ever heard of and fewer could find without help.
The Valkyries were equipped to defend themselves, not start a war. They were going to see things, hear things, record things and leave before anything objected.
That was the theory.
The three aircraft were loaded aboard a Warp-capable Imperial supply ship bound for Agean III.
The cargo manifest listed them as:
TEMPORARY AERIAL OBSERVATION ASSETS - NON-OFFENSIVE EMPLOYMENT INTENDED
Someone noticed the weapons.
A notation was added:
MOSTLY NON-OFFENSIVE EMPLOYMENT INTENDED.
Knebl signed it.
LtMal: "Is that wording doctrinally meaningful?"
Knebl: "It's meaningful enough to get the aircraft loaded."
Less than a Terran standard day later, after the usual impossible geometry, psychic unpleasantness, unexplained alarms and one crewman insisting the screaming was normal, the ship emerged in the Agean system.
Fertiliax and the Agean system were very close by interstellar standards, making the Warp transit unusually short. Short did not mean normal. Time still distorted. Knebl's brain had hurt when he realized Agean III had received notice of his arrival a full day before he decided to go. The consolation was that a jump this brief was about as safe as Warp travel ever became: less than one chance in ten thousand of something going catastrophically wrong. In the Imperium, this qualified as reassuring.
The Valkyries were unloaded at Macragge's Mercy.
Fort Agrippa promptly lost its collective mind.
FORT AGRIPPA
Knebl and Malina expected a sleepy Imperial installation.
They underestimated the problem.
Fort Agrippa was so bored that their arrival constituted entertainment.
News that two officers from the 132nd Striking Hawks were coming had spread well beyond the fort. By touchdown there had been serious discussion of holding a reception parade.
For the entire planet.
The commanding officer rejected the proposal.
Then reconsidered.
Then rejected it again after someone pointed out Knebl and Malina were there to investigate the probable violent deaths of Imperial citizens.
The parade committee protested. The band had rehearsed, several schoolchildren had won the privilege of shaking their hands, and the local civic club had already built a float they were supposed to ride on. Knebl learned all of this about ninety seconds after leaving the aircraft.
Knebl: "There was going to be a parade?"
ADJUTANT (ADJ): "Briefly, sir."
Knebl: "For us?"
ADJ: "Yes, sir."
Knebl: "Why?"
The adjutant hesitated.
ADJ: "Nothing else has happened."
Knebl looked toward the fort proper.
Something was missing.
Knebl: "Where's the planetary governor?"
ADJ: "That would be Governor Pritchard, sir. He isn't here."
Knebl: "Pritchard?"
A bad feeling began forming.
Knebl: "Any relation to the Governor Pritchard on Fertiliax?"
ADJ: "One and the same, sir."
Knebl stared at him.
Knebl: "The governor of Fertiliax is also governor of Agean III?"
ADJ: "Apparently."
Knebl: "Does he come here often?"
The adjutant considered it.
ADJ: "No, sir."
Knebl: "Does he come here at all?"
A longer pause.
ADJ: "Not that anyone remembers."
The adjutant lowered his voice.
ADJ: "To be fair, sir, there's so much confusion between us and Fertiliax that Governor Pritchard probably doesn't even know he's governor of this planet too."
Knebl had no immediate response.
The irritating part was that he couldn't pretend the confusion was entirely ridiculous. Knebl and Malina were assigned to Fertiliax. They knew the region, its military traffic, its supply routes and the administrative gravity that pulled everything nearby toward Fertiliax. When the first Agean III reports landed on their desks, even they needed a moment to remember which agri-world the reports meant.
Malina glanced at Knebl.
LtMal: "In fairness, we did the same thing."
Knebl: "Briefly."
LtMal: "You asked me if Agean III was a moon."
Knebl: "I was thinking of something else."
LtMal: "You were thinking of Fertiliax."
Knebl: "I withdraw my objection to the Governor."
LtMal: "That would explain a few things."
Knebl: "It explains considerably more than I wanted explained."
Knebl thought for another moment.
Knebl: "Then how do you get anything approved?"
The adjutant brightened slightly.
ADJ: "One of two ways, sir."
Knebl immediately regretted asking.
ADJ: "The first is that we stamp the request as coming from THE NEARBY AGRI-PLANET."
Knebl: "Which one?"
ADJ: "Exactly."
Knebl waited.
ADJ: "Governor Pritchard's staff generally assumes people mean Fertiliax, so those requests get signed."
LtMal: "You're impersonating Fertiliax."
ADJ: "Administratively, yes."
Knebl: "And the second way?"
ADJ: "We send the request directly to the Governor's office and mark it as originating from one of his local offices."
Knebl: "You pretend this planet is an office."
ADJ: "A local office, sir."
Knebl: "On another planet."
ADJ: "Yes, sir."
Knebl rubbed his forehead.
Knebl: "And nobody has ever tried to fix this?"
The adjutant's expression changed immediately.
ADJ: "Every decade or so."
LtMal: "And?"
ADJ: "Some new fellow arrives."
He paused.
ADJ: "Very enthusiastic."
Knebl: "I dislike where this is going."
ADJ: "He announces that the system is unacceptable, that Agean III must be properly distinguished from Fertiliax, and that all future requests will follow correct administrative channels."
LtMal: "Sounds reasonable."
ADJ: "It never goes well."
Knebl: "How badly?"
ADJ: "Badly enough that we usually lose contact with our supply lines for about a year while the Imperium sorts everything out. The new guy then gets a very thorough education in why he's the new guy."
Knebl looked at him.
ADJ: "Food shipments get delayed. Parts orders vanish from the system. Fuel goes somewhere else. Medical supplies are reassigned. Once we received three hundred agricultural servitors and no food."
LtMal: "Useful."
ADJ: "They were configured for vineyards."
Knebl: "Of course they were."
ADJ: "Eventually somebody starts submitting requests the old way again."
Knebl: "As THE NEARBY AGRI-PLANET."
ADJ: "Or as one of Governor Pritchard's local offices."
Knebl: "And then?"
The adjutant shrugged.
ADJ: "Things go back to normal."
Knebl looked around Fort Agrippa.
Knebl: "Normal."
ADJ: "Relatively speaking, sir."
Malina looked across the landing area.
Civilians crowded the perimeter. Someone had brought children. An elderly man had a folding chair. Several people had binoculars. A vendor was selling something fried.
Knebl: "Are they watching us unload luggage?"
ADJ: "Yes, sir."
Knebl: "Why?"
ADJ: "They've already seen everything else."
Malina turned away.
Knebl could see her shoulders moving.
Knebl: "You're laughing."
LtMal: "No."
Knebl: "You are."
LtMal: "No."
Knebl turned back to the adjutant.
Knebl: "What happened to the parade?"
ADJ: "Cancelled, sir."
Knebl: "Good."
ADJ: "Although the banners were already printed."
Knebl: "Banners?"
ADJ: "Yes, sir."
Knebl: "What did they say?"
The adjutant checked his slate.
ADJ: "WELCOME IMPORTANT PEOPLE."
Malina made a noise.
Knebl closed his eyes.
Knebl: "How many?"
ADJ: "Twelve."
Knebl: "Why twelve?"
ADJ: "Discount for volume. And they let us choose the font."
Malina gave up pretending.
Knebl: "This planet is going to kill me."
LtMal: "Statistically, the environment has been trying for centuries."
THE WITNESSES
Knebl and Malina did not immediately fly north.
Knebl was already a rarity in Imperial service: an Heir to the Shattered Gate, a veteran officer of the Navis Imperialis, long billeted to the Astra Militarum, who was neither dead nor maimed. A lot of that came down to his habit of thinking clearly when things became dangerous. It had probably also slowed his advancement.
The Imperium valued initiative.
Just not too much of it.
They spent several days investigating.
Convoy routes were reconstructed. Manifests compared. Attack sites inspected. Dispatch records checked. Constables interviewed. Communications staff questioned.
Then came the survivors.
There were only a few worth interviewing directly. Most had been beaten, concussed, dehydrated or all three. The first survivor had been riding in a cargo convoy when it was ambushed. He was lucid enough to answer questions.
Mostly.
Knebl: "What did the attackers look like?"
SURVIVOR ONE (S1): "Different."
Knebl: "Different how?"
S1: "Sizes."
Knebl: "Can you be more specific?"
S1: "Some little. Some big."
Knebl: "How little?"
The survivor held his hand vaguely somewhere below his chest.
Knebl: "How big?"
The same hand went upward.
LtMal: "Very scientific."
Knebl ignored her.
Knebl: "Faces?"
S1: "Covered, mostly."
Knebl: "With what?"
S1: "Stuff."
LtMal: "What kind of stuff?"
S1: "Helmets. Cloth. Metal. Goggles. I don't know."
LtMal: "Colours?"
S1: "Dark."
LtMal: "Everything?"
S1: "Some."
LtMal: "Some what?"
S1: "Some not dark."
Knebl wrote nothing.
Malina stared at the ceiling.
S1: "They were shouting."
Malina came back to life.
LtMal: "What were they saying?"
S1: "No idea."
LtMal: "Anything you remember?"
S1: "Numbers."
LtMal: "Numbers?"
S1: "Yeah."
LtMal: "What numbers?"
The man looked irritated.
S1: "I don't know. I was getting kicked."
Knebl: "Reasonable."
S1: "Something about boxes."
LtMal: "What kind of boxes?"
The survivor stared at her.
S1: "Box-shaped ones."
Knebl turned slowly toward Malina.
LtMal: "I was bored."
The witness also remembered voices from somewhere he couldn't see.
LtMal: "A vox?"
S1: "Maybe."
LtMal: "Could you make out anything?"
S1: "Something about fuel."
Knebl: "Fuel?"
S1: "Yeah."
Knebl: "Anything else?"
S1: "Somebody was angry."
LtMal: "That narrows it down considerably."
Knebl gave her a look.
She folded her hands and made an effort.
By the end of the interview they still had very little certainty about who had attacked the convoy. There was the beginning of a pattern: apparently different sizes, obscured faces, shouted instructions, some kind of communications system and a strong interest in cargo, fuel and equipment.
It was not much.
Among the locals, the popular theory was some mix of bandits, scavengers, raiders or anything else that allowed everyone to assume the problem would eventually wander off. Nobody had a convincing explanation for why nomads were apparently interested in vehicle documentation.
Another survivor caught Knebl's attention.
Older. Bruised almost everywhere. Both hands bandaged. One eye completely swollen shut, the other not much better. He'd been driving a ridgehauler train when his convoy was attacked.
Knebl: "What happened to your vehicle?"
WHEELCHAIR SURVIVOR (WS): "They took it."
Knebl: "Destroyed?"
WS: "No."
Knebl: "Damaged?"
WS: "No."
Knebl: "Stolen?"
The survivor shook his head.
WS: "Took it."
Knebl: "How much could you actually see?"
He tapped carefully near the swollen eye.
WS: "Not much by then. Mostly heard them."
That changed things.
After the attack, several assailants climbed into the cab and started tearing through it while beating the victim. They never spoke to him. Didn't question him. Didn't demand anything. As far as he could tell, they barely cared he was there, the beating apparently being incidental to the search.
They searched.
Compartments opened. Cupboards slammed. Loose items hit the floor. Metal scraped against metal.
LtMal: "What were they looking for?"
WS: "No idea."
LtMal: "Did they seem to know where things were?"
WS: "Some of it."
He paused.
WS: "I heard the glove compartment open."
Knebl: "And?"
WS: "Paper."
Knebl: "Paper?"
WS: "Yeah. Lots of it."
He shifted in the wheelchair.
WS: "My eyes were mostly gone by then, but I could still make out shapes. I saw the ownership papers."
Knebl: "You're sure?"
WS: "Yeah."
Knebl: "Vehicle registration?"
WS: "Yeah."
Knebl: "What else?"
WS: "The manifest."
LtMal: "Cargo manifest?"
WS: "Whole thing."
LtMal: "And?"
WS: "Operation manual."
Knebl leaned forward.
Knebl: "The vehicle operation manual?"
WS: "Yeah."
Knebl: "You saw them take it?"
WS: "Mostly saw the cover. They stuffed all of it into a musette bag. Ownership papers. Manifest. Manual. Whatever else they found."
Knebl made a note.
LtMal: "What are you writing?"
Knebl: "Documents deliberately removed from vehicle."
LtMal: "Deliberately?"
Knebl: "They didn't throw them away."
WS: "Bagged them."
That landed differently.
Not random destruction.
Not blind looting.
Someone had gone through the cab and collected paperwork.
Then the survivor added:
WS: "They took the whole vehicle apart anyway."
LtMal: "Was it damaged?"
WS: "No."
LtMal: "Operational?"
WS: "Perfectly."
LtMal: "Then why dismantle it?"
WS: "They took everything."
Knebl: "What exactly?"
WS: "Engine."
Knebl: "Fine."
WS: "Wheels."
Knebl: "Yes."
WS: "Doors."
Knebl: "Yes."
WS: "Radio."
Knebl: "Yes."
WS: "Seats."
Knebl: "Yes."
WS: "Mirrors."
Knebl looked up.
Knebl: "Mirrors?"
WS: "Both. They argued about those."
LtMal: "Argued about what?"
WS: "One had the left mirror. Other had the right. Started shouting about whether they were the same part number."
Knebl: "They were debating part compatibility?"
WS: "Sounded like it."
Knebl: "What happened?"
WS: "Third one got sick of listening. Grabbed both mirrors and smashed them."
LtMal: "And then?"
The survivor smiled faintly.
WS: "He said, 'D'ere. Now dey boff da same.'"
Knebl put his stylus down.
LtMal: "Organized."
Knebl: "Something organized."
The interview ended a few minutes later.
The survivor started rolling toward the door.
Halfway there he stopped.
WS: "One more thing, Captain."
Knebl looked up.
WS: "They took apart a perfectly functioning vehicle and carried it off. Why would they do that?"
Knebl looked at the notes.
The documents.
Manifest.
Manual.
Musette bag.
Working vehicle taken apart.
Both mirrors.
Something clicked.
He smiled.
Only slightly.
The light caught his eyes at the right angle and a faint purple sparkle flashed across one.
Malina noticed.
LtMal: "What?"
Knebl: "Who else would disassemble and then salvage everything from a perfectly serviceable Imperial industrial vehicle?"
Malina stared at him.
Then both of their expressions broke into the same sudden grin.
KNEBL AND LT. MALINA (Knebl & LtMal), voices rising together in sudden realization: "Orks!"
The survivor stopped.
Looked back at them.
Slowly nodded.
WS: "Yeah. That'd explain it."
He rolled out.
For the first time since they had arrived, the investigation had a suspect.
Malina looked at the closed door.
LtMal: "One thing still bothers me."
Knebl: "The voices?"
LtMal: "They heard them shouting. More than once. Nobody recognized the language as Orkish."
Knebl: "Don't forget, most people in the Imperium have never actually heard an Ork voice."
LtMal: "They know Orks."
Knebl: "They know of Orks."
He thought about it.
Knebl: "We've both been around the crusade-happy lunatics at West Seven Kilo. If one we'd never spoken to before started shouting through a damaged vox from behind a wall, could you identify him as an Astartes by voice alone?"
Malina considered it.
LtMal: "Probably not."
Knebl: "And we've actually worked with a few of the gene-seed aristocracy."
LtMal: "Point taken."
Knebl: "Hell, Malina, you taught me this one yourself. Hooves mean horses until something gives you a reason to start looking for zebras."
It was one of the rare occasions Knebl used her first name. Usually that meant he was either being unusually sincere or about to use her own logic against her. In this case, both applied.
LtMal: "That explains the witnesses."
Knebl: "And why nobody connected the transmissions."
LtMal: "Until now."
MALINA FINDS SOMETHING
Once Orks became a possibility, several useless pieces of information stopped being useless. Especially the communications anomalies.
Malina disappeared into Fort Agrippa's signal archives. For several nights. Knebl found her asleep beneath a console on the third morning.
Knebl: "Comfortable?"
LtMal: "No."
Knebl: "Bed?"
LtMal: "No."
Knebl: "Breakfast?"
LtMal: "Maybe."
Knebl: "Progress?"
Her eyes opened.
LtMal: "Yes."
That ended the conversation. Knebl had survived long enough to know that interrupting Malina in this mode was alligator wrestling, except the alligator kept records.
She had correlated the interference reports with convoy disappearances.
Signals before attacks.
Signals afterward.
Not always.
Often enough.
The Imperial network had received parts of the traffic. It didn't recognize them. So it threw them away. Malina regarded this as deeply Imperial. She recovered what fragments she could and started working through the underlying system.
Technology came easily to Lieutenant Malina. Imperial, civilian, alien, improvised, forbidden, possibly possessed. If it had wires, gears, signals, moving parts or some identifiable relationship between cause and effect, she usually got there eventually.
This was one of the reasons the Adeptus Mechanicus despised her - even though they would have burned almost anyone else as a heretic for doing half the things Malina did routinely. The Mechanicus believed technology should be approached reverently. Malina preferred whichever side exposed the screws.
The Mechanicus had sacred unguents.
Malina had penetrating oil.
The Mechanicus had binharic prayers.
Malina had profanity.
Most offensive of all, Malina had a habit of repairing things they had declared mysterious. Her relationship with the Priesthood of Mars had never recovered from an Enginseer once telling her a machine's interior was forbidden to the uninitiated.
ENGINSEER (ENG): "The interior of this device is forbidden to the uninitiated."
Malina examined the casing.
LtMal: "Why did the Omnissiah use Phillips-head screws?"
Relations never recovered. Malina despised the Adeptus Mechanicus. She also coveted access to their technology. Both things could be true.
The Agean transmissions were genuinely clever.
That bothered her.
Frequency hopping.
Variable packet lengths.
Patterns disguised as noise.
They looked irregular until she stopped assuming whoever built them thought like an Imperial engineer.
Then the structure appeared.
Requests.
Acknowledgements.
Responses.
Status.
Commands.
Conversation.
Knebl was there when she finally got it.
LtMal: "Oh."
Knebl knew that oh.
Knebl: "What?"
LtMal: "That's clever."
Knebl: "How clever?"
She didn't answer.
Knebl: "Imperial clever?"
LtMal: "No."
Knebl: "Mechanicus clever?"
She gave him a scowling look.
Knebl: "Alien clever?"
LtMal: "No."
Knebl: "What kind?"
LtMal: "Ork clever."
Knebl stared at her.
Knebl: "Those words should not fit together."
LtMal: "They do now."
She got inside the network.
Nobody else on Agean III had even known it existed.
Not Fort Agrippa.
Not Macragge's Mercy.
Not the planetary authorities.
Not the Mechanicus.
The network had been operating beneath Imperial communications for months, perhaps years. The earliest missing convoy report was already more than a Terran standard year old. It could have been there before anyone saw a pattern. All the while, Imperial monitoring equipment had efficiently deleted evidence of it.
Once Malina knew what she was listening to, the traffic was unmistakably Orkish.
Shouting.
Threats.
Arguments.
Arguments about arguments.
Requests for equipment.
Accusations someone had stolen the equipment.
Counter-accusations that somebody else had stolen it first.
A disturbing amount concerned fuel.
One extraordinarily long exchange seemed to be entirely about a missing wrench.
Malina listened for four minutes.
Knebl: "Well?"
LtMal: "They have logistics."
Knebl: "That's not funny."
LtMal: "I wasn't joking."
More importantly, the traffic had geography. Many of the source transmissions seemed to converge north, toward the old Ork ruins marked on Imperial maps as Orkton. The site predated the Agean Atmospheric Recovery Period.
Orkton had originally been infested before the planet's volcanic decline, when Agean III was still considered broadly habitable. The settlement had been abandoned and/or killed off during the volcanic winter and ecological collapse that followed. By Imperial recolonization, the ruins were already old. By current standards, they were ancient.
Nobody had considered the site relevant for generations. Which, Knebl was beginning to notice, was becoming a pattern. He looked at the map, then the missing convoy routes, then Malina's intercept analysis.
Knebl: "Time to use the aircraft we dragged through the Warp."
LtMal: "That was the idea."
ARCHER FLIGHT
The three Valkyries rolled out of Fort Agrippa's hangars with their reconnaissance and listening gear fitted and tested. The flight designation was Archer.
Archer 1.
Archer 2.
Archer 3.
Knebl and Malina flew aboard Archer 2.
Knebl sat forward.
Malina sat directly behind him.
This continued an absurdity Malina had enjoyed for years. Whenever Knebl piloted an Imperial aircraft, his call sign was Archer. His own ship was named Archer Too. Somewhere in the bureaucracy, somebody decided this meant his operational call sign should be Archer 2. The error had reproduced across enough records that fixing it would probably require proving words and numbers were separate concepts. Knebl had stopped trying. Malina had not stopped mentioning it.
LtMal: "Archer 2 again."
Knebl: "Yes."
LtMal: "In Archer Too."
Knebl: "Yes."
LtMal: "You realize somebody somewhere thinks they finally got it right."
Knebl: "I try not to encourage them."
The plan was deliberately cautious: wide reconnaissance pattern, roughly five kilometres maximum separation, mutual support, record everything, investigate nothing personally, make no hostile contact.
Intelligence only.
Knebl covered it in the briefing.
Knebl: "No heroics."
The crews acknowledged.
Knebl: "No strafing runs."
More acknowledgements.
Archer 3 (A3): [mockingly] "No flying closer to something dangerous because somebody wants a better look."
Malina raised an eyebrow behind Knebl.
LtMal: "That's oddly specific."
Knebl: [mockingly] "It's SPECIFICALLY you."
LtMal: "I don't fly the Valkyrie."
Knebl: "You influence people."
They departed Fort Agrippa and zig-zagged their way roughly towards the ancient Ork settlement.
For several hours, they scanned, searched, looked, recorded and saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.
Then Archer 3 called.
A3: "Archer 2, Archer 3. We're being painted."
Knebl: "Archer 3, Archer 2. Confirm."
A3: "Intermittent radar illumination. Source unknown."
Knebl: "Archer 3, Archer 2. Range?"
A3: "Unknown."
Knebl: "Archer 3, Archer 2. Bearing?"
A3: "Negative."
Malina was already watching the sensor returns behind him.
LtMal: "Target acquisition?"
A3: "Maybe."
Knebl: "Maybe is not helpful."
LtMal: "It's considerably more helpful than definitely."
A few seconds later:
A3: "Archer 2, Archer 3. Lost it."
Knebl keyed the flight.
Knebl: "All Archer elements, Archer 2. Maintain pattern. Eyes open."
A few quiet minutes.
Then:
A3: "Archer 2, Archer 3. Painted again."
Less casual this time.
Knebl: "Archer 3, Archer 2. Same source?"
A3: "Same signature. Stronger."
Knebl: "Archer 3, Archer 2. Break east two kilometres."
A3: "Copy."
Archer 3 moved.
A3: "Archer 2, Archer 3. Lost it."
A pause.
A3: "Archer 2, Archer 3. Got it again."
Knebl stopped liking the situation.
The radar was following them.
Not scanning.
Following.
Knebl: "Archer 1, Archer 2. Close spacing. Archer 3, return toward Archer 2."
A minute later the vox exploded.
A3: "Archer 2, Archer 3! CONTACT! CONTACT! Archer 3 TAKING FIRE!"
Knebl's thumb hit transmit.
He stopped himself.
Nobody being shot at needed a superior officer reminding them to defend themselves. He could already picture Archer 3's cockpit. Warnings screaming. Chaff and flares cycling. The crew throwing the Valkyrie into violent high-G turns before the inertial dampeners had time to catch up. Harnesses cutting into shoulders. Vision narrowing. Hands moving faster than thought. The last thing they needed was Knebl occupying their headset.
Static burst across the channel.
A3: "Archer 2, Archer 3! Hit! We're hit!"
Knebl could see the resultant smoke over the nearby canyon.
Knebl: "Archer 3, Archer 2. Status."
A3: "Damage-engine-control response-"
Static.
A3: "Losing altitude!"
Knebl: "Archer 3, Archer 2. Can you hold her?"
A3: "Negative."
A3: "Archer 2, Archer 3. We're going in."
Knebl: "Archer 3, Archer 2. Beacon on touchdown."
A3: [mic click]
A few seconds later, a new smoke pyre erupted farther along the valley they were rushing toward.
Nobody spoke.
Then Knebl keyed the flight.
Knebl: "Archer 1, Archer 2. Form on me."
Intel only was over.
Now it was Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR).
Archer 1 moved alongside.
The two Valkyries formed left echelon and headed toward the crash.
They stayed tight until the site.
Then split.
Archer 1 left.
Archer 2 right.
Two directions.
Two sets of eyes.
Hopefully two aircraft leaving afterward.
Archer 1 called first.
Archer 1 (A1): "Archer 2, Archer 1. Multiple radar beams. Multiple sources painting us."
Malina worked the sensors behind Knebl.
LtMal: "Several."
A1: "Archer 2, Archer 1. Different bearings. They're tracking."
Knebl: "Archer 1, Archer 2. No orbit. One pass. Find the crew and leave."
A1: "Copy."
Archer 2 crossed the ridge.
The wreck appeared.
Neither Knebl nor Malina said anything.
Fifteen minutes.
About fifteen minutes since Archer 3 hit the ground.
The wreck still burned.
Smoke poured from the broken fuselage.
Through the smoke and torn-open sections of the aircraft, Archer 3's crew were visible.
None were moving.
Even from the air, there was no ambiguity.
They were dead.
CSAR had become recovery.
And the Orks were already taking the aircraft apart.
There were dozens.
Then hundreds.
Not swarming.
Moving in a line.
A stream of them stretched from the crash toward the north. Creepily, there was almost a rhythm to them. Malina magnified the imagery and started sending marked objects to Knebl's multi-function display (MFD).
Am******on box.
Armour plate.
Landing gear.
Wiring.
Avionics.
A fire extinguisher.
LtMal: "Why does he want the fire extinguisher?"
Knebl: "Do not ask questions you don't want answered."
Another Ork came out with a pilot's seat over his head.
Behind him, a smaller Ork (likely a Gretchin) dragged a rectangular object.
Malina zoomed in.
LtMal: "No."
Knebl: "What?"
LtMal: "One bona-fide Valkyrie flight operations manual."
Knebl: "Please tell me that one can't read."
LtMal: "I have no evidence either way."
Knebl: "Lie to me."
LtMal: "He definitely can't read."
Knebl: "Thank you."
LtMal: "He may have someone who can."
Knebl: "Malina."
LtMal: "Sorry."
The Ork conga line continued.
Metal.
Weapons.
Hydraulics.
Electronics.
Hull panels.
Storage compartments.
Then another Ork dragged something from the wreck.
Knebl zoomed in.
Knebl: "Is that the galley basin?"
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Why would they take the galley basin?"
LtMal: "Are you trying to say they're taking everything including the kitchen sink?"
Knebl: "Apparently literally."
LtMal: "That feels unnecessarily committed to the metaphor."
She watched the procession.
LtMal: "Leaf-cutter ants."
Knebl: "What?"
LtMal: "They strip useful pieces from something and carry them back to the colony."
Knebl watched.
It was exact.
Except leaf-cutter ants did not generally possess anti-aircraft weapons.
Knebl: "Fifteen minutes."
LtMal: "They were ready."
That was what mattered.
They weren't looting.
They were following a process.
Aircraft down.
Site secured.
Salvage deployed.
Material separated.
Material transported.
Knebl looked at the line again.
Knebl: "We haven't been losing shipments."
LtMal: "No."
Knebl: "We've been delivering them."
LtMal: "Technically."
Knebl: "Never say technically after something like that."
Archer 1 cut in.
A1: "Archer 2, Archer 1. Radar intensity increasing. Recommend immediate withdrawal."
Knebl: "Archer 1, Archer 2. Agreed."
The surviving Valkyries turned south.
Behind them, Archer 3 kept disappearing one piece at a time.
For several minutes after the crash site was gone, neither Knebl nor Malina spoke.
Eventually:
Knebl: "Did you know them?"
Malina pressed her transmit key once.
One click in his headset.
That was enough.
Yes.
She knew them.
And she was grieving.
Every guardsman lost friends eventually. Often enough that everybody developed a way of handling it. Some joked. Some prayed. Some drank. Some buried it. Some just kept moving until there was time to feel something later. Malina had hers. Knebl had his. Neither needed to explain it. They flew the rest of the way back to Fort Agrippa in silence.
SECOND LOOK
Knebl did not go back immediately. There was a difference between courage and handing the Orks another free Valkyrie. The next sortie would be Archer 1 and Archer 2, both properly armed. The aircraft had arrived configured for reconnaissance: enough weapons to discourage trouble, not enough to deliberately return to a Blood Axe settlement that had already killed the third bird. So Knebl went looking for weapons and armed troopers. Fort Agrippa's quartermaster took them to the armoury, explaining that the planet's small militia was used for local security and the occasional gang in the wild.
Knebl stopped cold in the doorway.
Malina stopped too.
The place was enormous.
Am******on.
Missiles.
Autocannon rounds.
Heavy bolter am******on.
Aircraft ordnance.
Replacement weapons.
Explosives.
Stores stacked high enough to require ladders.
Knebl: "You have all this?"
QUARTERMASTER (QM): "They keep sending it."
Knebl: "Who?"
QM: "Someone."
Knebl: "For what?"
The quartermaster thought about it.
QM: "No idea."
Malina walked past a stack of sealed crates.
LtMal: "How much do you actually use?"
QM: "Almost none."
LtMal: "Then why do they keep sending more?"
QM: "Clerical calculation."
Knebl: "What calculation?"
QM: "There's some formula somewhere that says what Fort Agrippa is supposed to need."
Knebl: "Based on?"
QM: "No idea."
Knebl: "Threat level?"
QM: "Maybe."
Knebl: "Population?"
QM: "Maybe."
Knebl: "Previous expenditure?"
QM: "Could be."
Knebl: "Actual requests?"
The quartermaster laughed.
QM: "No."
He waved at the stores.
QM: "Been going on longer than I've been alive. My predecessor said his predecessor complained about it. Ever since this planet became properly habitable again, somebody somewhere has apparently believed Fort Agrippa is preparing for the largest war in the sector."
LtMal: "Nobody questioned it?"
QM: "Of course we questioned it."
He pointed toward another storage bay.
QM: "We've got so much toilet paper my department got permission to use it as decorations on our float for your parade."
Knebl stared at him.
Knebl: "Your department had a float?"
QM: "Every department had a float."
LtMal: "I really am beginning to regret missing this parade."
Knebl: "I am not."
The quartermaster kept going.
QM: "Every few months another shipment. Am******on, weapons, ordnance. Whatever the calculation says we need."
Knebl: "But you don't need it."
QM: "No."
Knebl: "Nobody checks."
QM: "No."
Knebl: "You tried telling them to stop."
QM: "Yes."
Knebl: "What happened?"
QM: "They sent me a form asking how much am******on we required to remain adequately supplied."
LtMal: "What did you put?"
QM: "Zero."
Knebl: "And?"
The quartermaster's face changed.
QM: "I got absolutely buried for it."
LtMal: "For requesting nothing?"
QM: "Apparently zero was outside the acceptable procurement range."
Knebl: "Of course it was."
QM: "Then they sent the next shipment anyway. I refused it and sent the whole lot back."
Knebl: "That worked?"
QM: "Six weeks."
LtMal: "Then?"
QM: "Same shipment came back."
Knebl: "Why?"
QM: "No explanation."
He paused.
QM: "Just a stamp."
LtMal: "What did it say?"
QM: "THE OTHER AGRI-PLANET."
Knebl closed his eyes.
QM: "After that the regular shipment sizes resumed."
Knebl: "So somebody tried to send your unwanted am******on to Fertiliax."
QM: "Or Fertiliax sent it back."
LtMal: "Which?"
QM: "No idea."
Knebl: "Anyone know?"
QM: "Apparently not."
He shrugged.
QM: "They think we need it."
Malina smiled.
LtMal: "For once, Imperial bureaucracy is helping."
Knebl: "Do not say that too loudly. It may hear you."
A few hours later Archer 1 and Archer 2 carried substantially more than modest defensive armament. Knebl and Malina were both impressed by how efficiently the local ramp rats worked. For the first time in Fort Agrippa's history, a clerical error had become tactically useful.
They were not ceremonially armed.
Not technically armed.
Not "the weapons systems were installed when the aircraft left the manufactorum" armed.
Properly armed.
Although the crews had taken Archer 3 personally, none of them would let it leak into their performance. Such is the legacy of the Astra Militarum.
The objective was simple.
Scout the settlement.
Find out what was there.
Do not get shot down.
The last part wasn't written down.
Nobody needed it written down.
The crews finished loading the ordnance and ran their checks. Malina had also tinkered with the communications systems so both aircraft could listen directly to the Ork network. Now the two birds were lethal.
They launched north towards the ancient Orkton marked on a probably wrong ancient map produced with the efficiency only the Imperium can provide. For several hours the flight was quiet with each crew member attending to their stations.
Then the radar warnings began.
Orkton wasn't even visible yet.
A1: "Archer 2, Archer 1. Painted."
Knebl: "Archer 1, Archer 2. Single source?"
A1: "Negative. Multiple."
LtMal: "They see us."
The beams moved with them.
One radar handed them to another.
Then another.
Knebl waited for weapons fire as his finger hovered over the countermeasures keypad. Knebl knew better than to order his wingman to defend if necessary. Nothing happened. No active seeking warnings, no smoke trails, no tracer rounds. They kept going. Still nothing.
Knebl: "Archer 1, Archer 2. Weapons indications?"
A1: "Negative."
Knebl: "Archer 1, Archer 2. Launch activity?"
A1: "Negative."
Knebl: "Archer 1, Archer 2. Anything?"
A1: "They're watching."
LtMal: "That's odd. Their weaponry seems to be idle, if I’m reading this right."
Knebl: "Very."
LtMal: "They shot at us yesterday."
Knebl: "I remember."
LtMal: "Today they're not."
Knebl: "I've noticed."
LtMal: "Maybe somebody told them not to."
Knebl disliked that.
Knebl: "I liked them better when they were stupid."
Then Orkton appeared.
Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.
The ruins weren't ruins anymore.
Some of the structures were clearly ancient. Weathered walls and half-collapsed towers from the original settlement still formed the bones of the place. Everything else had simply been attached to them. Fresh armour plate covered old stone. New pipework ran through ancient openings. Modern Imperial components had been bolted onto structures that had probably been standing before Agean III became uninhabitable.
The Blood Axes had not rebuilt Orkton.
They had resumed it.
Malina tagged something on Knebl's MFD.
LtMal: "Promethium refinery."
Knebl: "They're drilling?"
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "For promethium."
LtMal: "That's generally why one drills for promethium."
Knebl: "Don't get technical."
Pumps worked beside crude tanks.
Pipes carried fuel.
Vehicles queued.
Knebl: "The Orks have an oil industry."
LtMal: "Looks that way."
More tags.
LtMal: "Vehicle maintenance."
Another.
LtMal: "Power generation."
Another.
LtMal: "Communications."
Another.
LtMal: "Storage."
Another.
LtMal: "Squig farms."
Knebl looked down.
Large fenced compounds held squigs. Orks moved among them carrying feed.
Knebl: "Are those farmers?"
LtMal: "Apparently."
Knebl: "Ork farmers?"
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Farming squigs."
LtMal: "Correct."
Knebl: "On purpose."
LtMal: "That is how farming generally works."
Knebl: "I need you to stop helping."
Then she found the salvage yards.
Material had been separated.
Metal here.
Electrical components there.
Mechanical parts elsewhere.
Malina zoomed in on several enormous containers and sent the image forward.
LtMal: "You have got to be kidding me."
Knebl: "What?"
LtMal: "They labelled them."
The containers read:
BITZ
WIREZ
GUBBINZ
GOOD GUBBINZ
And off by itself:
DON'T TOUCH SKEETER'S GUBBINZ
Knebl stared.
Knebl: "They have inventory segregation."
Malina said nothing.
Knebl: "Malina."
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Tell me they don't have inventory segregation."
LtMal: "They have inventory segregation."
Knebl: "I asked you to tell me they didn't."
LtMal: "I'm not very good at lying."
Knebl: "You were excellent at it when I asked if that Ork could read."
Then she spotted the sign.
Huge.
Painted.
Impossible to miss.
She put it on Knebl's display and started laughing.
Knebl: "What?"
LtMal: "Read."
STONETOOF SEZ YOOFS IZ DA FOOOTCHER
Knebl read it twice.
Knebl: "They have a youth-development policy."
LtMal: "They have a slogan."
Knebl: "About children."
LtMal: "Apparently."
Knebl: "About the future."
Malina highlighted the spelling.
LtMal: "Very approximately."
Knebl: "The refinery bothered me less."
A little farther on, Orks stood outside a workshop.
In a line.
Knebl noticed.
Knebl: "What are those doing?"
LtMal: "Waiting."
Knebl: "For?"
LtMal: "Repairs."
Knebl: "That's a queue."
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Orks do not queue."
LtMal: "These do."
Knebl: "Why aren't they fighting?"
One Ork tried to cut in.
Another punched him unconscious.
The queue closed around the body.
LtMal: "There you go."
Knebl: "Good. Still Orks."
Then a large Grot came out of the workshop, pointed at the next vehicle and shouted something.
The queue advanced exactly one position.
Knebl's relief disappeared.
Knebl: "Oh, no."
LtMal: "What?"
Knebl: "They have procedures."
That was worse.
The radar warnings continued.
Multiple beams.
Multiple positions.
Constant tracking.
Still no shots.
The Orks knew exactly where the Valkyries were. They had weapons capable of killing them. They'd already demonstrated that. And somebody had decided not to fire.
Discipline.
Or orders.
Neither belonged comfortably inside Knebl's understanding of Orks.
Something bigger was clearly going on.
He keyed the mic.
Knebl: "Archer 1, Archer 2. Weapons tight. Kodak rolling."
A1: "Archer 2, Archer 1. Wilco."
After several unmolested reconnaissance runs by each Valkyrie, they headed back to Fort Agrippa
STONETOOF AND SKEETER
Malina's access to the network started putting names to things.
Stonetoof was easy.
Huge.
Violent.
Loud.
One spectacularly large tooth.
And a stolen Imperial officer's cap.
He was Blood Axe leadership in its purest form: an Ork trying to look like an Imperial officer while remaining several hundred kilograms of heavily armed fungus. Malina intercepted a propaganda image and sent it to Knebl's MFD. Stonetoof pointed directly outward.
STONETOOF WANTZ YOU
Below it:
JOIN YER WAAAGH!
Knebl: "They have recruitment advertising."
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Professional recruitment advertising?"
LtMal: "I wouldn't go that far."
Knebl: "The fact they have recruitment advertising at all is worrisome."
LtMal: "Technically, so do we."
Knebl: "I am banning that word."
LtMal: "What word?"
Knebl: "Technically."
LtMal: "Under what authority?"
Knebl: "My tacit authority."
LtMal: "Fair."
Stonetoof was straightforward.
Big Ork.
Find artillery.
Apply artillery.
Repeat until smaller Ork.
Skeeter was worse.
Skeeter was a Mekboy.
And Skeeter understood Imperial technology.
Not Ork understood.
Actually understood.
He repaired systems.
Adapted them.
Combined them.
Read technical information.
Malina found maintenance data inside the network.
Then went very quiet.
Knebl heard the change in her breathing behind him.
Knebl: "What?"
Nothing.
Knebl: "Malina."
Still nothing.
Knebl: "Machine face."
LtMal: "Shut up."
Knebl: "What happened?"
LtMal: "That little green bastard."
Knebl: "What did he do?"
Malina flicked a few buttons. A technical diagram appeared on Knebl's display, displacing flight information she absolutely should not have been able to overwrite from the rear seat. Knebl knew this represented a breach of Imperial security. He also knew Malina far too well to mention it. He studied the diagram. It remained a technical diagram.
Knebl: "I have absolutely no idea what I'm looking at."
LtMal: "Imperial power controller."
Knebl: "Broken?"
LtMal: "No."
Knebl: "Stolen?"
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Modified?"
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Explosive?"
LtMal: "No."
Knebl: "Then what?"
LtMal: "He fixed the voltage regulation problem."
Knebl: "Was there a voltage regulation problem?"
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Did we know about it?"
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Did the Mechanicus know?"
LtMal: "Yes. Those incense-addled cogheads missed it in the STC caution notes. All they had to do was read the damn thing. The warnings were right there in the index."
Malina was already disappearing into one of her Mechanicus grievances. Knebl knew the signs and yanked her back before she achieved orbit.
Knebl: "Malina! Has ANYBODY fixed it?"
LtMal: "No."
Knebl looked toward Orkton.
Knebl: "The Ork fixed it."
LtMal: "The Ork fixed it."
Knebl: "Better than ours?"
She took too long.
LtMal: "Marginally."
Knebl: "How marginally?"
Silence.
Knebl: "Malina."
LtMal: "Seventeen percent."
Knebl: "The Ork improved Imperial technology by seventeen percent?"
LtMal: "Don't say it like that."
Knebl: "How should I say it?"
LtMal: "I don't know. Less offensively."
Knebl: "I'm definitely not putting that in the report."
LtMal: "Oh yes you are."
Knebl: "Why?"
LtMal: "Because somewhere on Agripinaa a Tech-Priest needs to read it."
Knebl: "Personal?"
LtMal: "Deeply."
Knebl knew exactly what he was doing. An angry Malina focused beautifully.
The intercepted traffic got worse.
Maintenance schedules.
Work assignments.
Fuel allocation.
Parts requests.
Shift changes.
Salvage priorities.
Equipment allocation.
Then:
LtMal: "No."
Knebl: "What now?"
LtMal: "Preventive maintenance."
Knebl: "Stop."
LtMal: "Scheduled."
Knebl: "Stop."
LtMal: "With completion records."
Knebl: "Malina."
LtMal: "Someone is tracking fuel usage."
Knebl: "Enough."
LtMal: "And I think they have procurement."
Knebl: "For what?"
LtMal: "Things they haven't stolen yet."
Knebl stared at the settlement.
Knebl: "Dear God."
LtMal: "What?"
Knebl: "They have operations management."
That frightened him more than the anti-aircraft weapons.
Guns could be bombed.
Processes spread.
Knebl started sweating.
There were several thousand Orks down there already. Possibly more. And more growing. Each new generation arrived carrying instincts the last one had already paid to learn.
Squig farms meant food.
Promethium meant fuel.
Salvage meant parts.
Workshops meant repairs.
Hydrocarbon processing meant industry.
The hidden network meant coordination. And the Blood Axes possessed large quantities of contemporary Imperial technology. The local constabulary had no chance.
There were simply too many Orks.
And they were armed to the teeth with contemporary Imperial tech.
Not just carrying it.
Using it.
Repairing it.
Maintaining it.
Modifying it.
And, in one case Malina refused to stop mentioning, improving it.
Removing this settlement would require an actual military campaign. Infantry, armour, aircraft, artillery, logistics, sustained operations, replacements, probably naval support.
Definitely paperwork.
Possibly more paperwork than am******on.
Knebl understood what the military requirement was. What he didn't know was whether anyone would authorize it. Agean III was not only insignificant and often forgotten, the few brainiacs who knew about the mission still considered the whole matter alleged. That was not going to help.
And the planet's insignificance was exactly why the Blood Axes had been able to grow. Nobody watched. Responsibility had been successfully distributed until no individual office could be blamed for possessing it. Convoys vanished for more than a year before anyone of any significance came to look. During that time the Imperium had effectively supplied Stonetoof's Blood Axes with vehicles, fuel, weapons, machinery, communications equipment and technical manuals.
Malina intercepted another message on the flight south.
LtMal: "They need cable."
Knebl: "Of course they do."
LtMal: "They're expecting it from the next convoy."
Knebl: "They've scheduled the theft?"
LtMal: "Looks like it."
Knebl: "Cancel the convoy."
LtMal: "Obviously."
The word came back sharp enough to remind him she did not need instructions on keeping people alive.
Another message appeared.
Malina read it.
Then laughed.
LtMal: "No."
Knebl: "What?"
LtMal: "They're complaining."
Knebl: "About?"
LtMal: "Mu*****ns delivery delays."
Knebl: "Our mu*****ns?"
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "The mu*****ns they steal from our convoys?"
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "They're dissatisfied with the reliability of the service?"
LtMal: "That would be one interpretation."
Knebl leaned back.
Knebl: "I hate this planet."
LtMal: "No, you hate Skeeter."
Knebl: "I contain multitudes."
On the return toward Fort Agrippa, Knebl opened his preliminary intelligence report. The system automatically populated the existing classification:
SUBJECT: ALLEGED ORK INFESTATION - AGEAN III
He stared at it, fully aware that Malina was watching what he wrote from the seat behind him. He didn't ask how she had mirrored his report. Some questions only created more paperwork.
Knebl: "Alleged."
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "We've personally observed thousands of Orks."
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "They destroyed Archer 3."
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "They dismantled Archer 3."
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "They stole the manual."
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Promethium production."
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Encrypted communications."
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Heavy weapons."
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Maintenance schedules."
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Recruitment campaign."
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Youth-development slogan."
LtMal: "Yes."
Knebl: "Why is the infestation still alleged?"
Malina considered it.
LtMal: "Independent corroboration requirement?"
Knebl: "Archer 3 doesn't need corroboration."
LtMal: "Apparently the paperwork disagrees."
Knebl looked at the heading.
Knebl: "Can I change it?"
LtMal: "Probably."
Knebl: "What happens?"
LtMal: "Form."
Knebl: "Which one?"
LtMal: "I don't know."
Knebl stared at ALLEGED.
Knebl: "Leave it."
He started writing.
The Agean III constabulary could no longer eliminate the Ork presence. That opportunity had passed. Orkton was an established Blood Axe stronghold with thousands of Orks, industry, organized logistics, Imperial armaments and a technical leader with a dangerously sophisticated understanding of Imperial systems. Eradication would require a full military campaign. The problem was getting one.
Would his superiors believe him?
Even if they did, would the Imperium commit substantial force to save a world it had spent generations treating as an administrative afterthought?
Knebl kept writing.
Malina went quiet behind him.
Then:
LtMal: "I did make an actual mistake."
Knebl stopped typing.
Knebl: "Only one?"
LtMal: "Don't ruin this."
He waited.
LtMal: "When I translated the data streams, I interpreted the location references as one main transmitter here at Orkton communicating with its various salvage teams."
Knebl: "Reasonable."
LtMal: "Except Orkton isn't really a proper name."
Knebl's fingers stopped over the controls.
LtMal: "It translates more literally as Ork Town."
Most of the transmissions had originated from where they thought.
Not all.
That bothered Malina in a way only Knebl would really understand. She didn't make mistakes often. When she did, nobody punished her for them as effectively as she did herself.
LtMal: "Which means Orkton isn't the name of this town."
Knebl got there before she finished.
Knebl: "It's what it is."
LtMal: "Exactly."
Knebl started cursing.
Because Ork Town did not identify this Ork settlement.
It identified AN Ork settlement.
More Orktons.
Knebl: "Leave it to an Ork to call everything Orkton."
Malina made a quiet sound behind him.
Then Knebl remembered something.
Knebl: "That explains the complaints."
LtMal: "What complaints?"
Knebl: "The ones about 'wrong town.' The dispatches you decoded had quite a few of them."
Malina went quiet.
Knebl: "I thought they were routing errors inside the settlement."
LtMal: "They weren't."
Knebl: "Wrong town. Wrong delivery. Wrong fuel dump. Wrong workshop."
LtMal: "Wrong Orkton."
Knebl exhaled.
Knebl: "It fits."
One Blood Axe settlement with several thousand Orks was a military problem.
More than one was something else.
Knebl: "Malina."
LtMal: "Yes?"
Knebl: "How many Orktons are there?"
She didn't answer immediately.
That was worse than an answer.
Knebl looked at the report again.
He had been wondering whether the Imperium would commit enough force to destroy one insignificant Ork settlement on one insignificant world.
Now there was another question.
What exactly had they found?
His MFD chimed.
The latest intercepted Ork message appeared.
Malina had already opened it.
LtMal: "You wouldn't have believed me if I told you, so I'm showing you."
Knebl read it.
Then again.
NEED MORE CLERK GITZ FER DA STORES RECORDZ.
Knebl: "Does that mean what I think it means?"
LtMal: "They've discovered clerical staff."
Knebl: "No."
LtMal: "I'm afraid so."
Knebl: "No."
LtMal: "Knebl-"
Knebl: "We bomb it."
LtMal: "We need authorization."
Knebl rarely got angry in the cockpit.
Knebl: "We bomb it now."
Malina watched him for a moment.
LtMal: "Ordo Hereticus."
CRACK.
Something on Knebl's console ceased to be Imperial property.
Silence.
Knebl: "They have clerks, Malina."
LtMal: "I know."
Knebl: "They're one step away."
LtMal: "From what?"
Knebl answered with genuine horror.
Knebl: "Accounting."
For once, Malina had nothing reassuring to add and it was a quiet flight back to Fort Agrippa.