NationStates Jolt Archive

For centuries, the Forge World had been in the hands of the Green Tide. Countless technological advances were ruined, mere shadows of their potential in the hands of the Orks. The Legio Titanicus stationed there had been crushed, and parts from their ruined hulks were salvaged, used again in the Orkish Gargants. The planet was awash with the Orks, an army that had never been defeated.

Until now.

The Orkish armada in orbit had been crushed, Khurganate vessels blasting them to pieces with coordinated lance bombardments and teleport attacks. Kill Kroozas floated dead in space, venting atmosphere, choking the greenskinz within. Hulks burned, their precious air serving only to feed the flames that consumed the crew. And among them, the Khurganate Armada floated, cleansing the final stains of green from orbit.

Now, with the orbital defenses cleansed, the planet itself was defenseless. The greenskinz below could now be purged. In one single moment, thousands of drop pods rained from the sky, breaching Ork defenses. Thousands of Changeling transports dropped down, bringing with them fire and death to the Orks, beginning the systematic obliteration of the green tide.

The final seige of Tigrus had begun.

Green corpses littered the halls of the Manufactorium. The Legionaires leaned against the walls, their naval autoguns at their sides. This sector had been purged, this Manufactorum the last bastion of Orkish resistance. Resting, the Legionaires watched the Tech-Magos they had been assigned to protect manipulating an arcane machine, a data storage device. Grunting, the Sergeant stood, moving to the side of the Tech Priest.

"How much longer are we to be here, Magos? My men grow restless. Orks could return soon."

"Not much longer, my friend. I have ascertained the purpose of this facility. It is a tank manufactorum, for the Vanquisher pattern Leman Russ. Not the place we are looking for, but valuable none the less. I have voxed for a Collegio Technologicus force, they should arrive shortly to ensure that our forces hold this structure. We shall move out shortly to continue our search."

The Sergeant grunted his assent, and turned back to his men.

"Alright Legionaires, prepare to move out. This ain't the target, so we'll continue the search. Grab your guns and lets go."

~tag~

The manufactorium was deserted. The fighting seemed to have missed this building, no Greenskin corpses littered the factory floor, no blood soaked the conveyor belts. The squad looked around carefully, keeping an eye out for hidden Orks. Finding none, the Sergeant smiled. This might be easier than he thought...

"You can come in now, Magos. The building is clear."

Flanked by a pair of bodyguard Servitors, the Magos marched onto the floor. Looking around, the heavily augmented Tech Priest spotted the control panel that overlooked the production center. Walking up to it, he plugged several of his mecha-dendrites into the appropriate sockets. Immediately, his replacement eyes went black, his body slackened. He had begun to commune with the building's machine spirit.

The Sergeant jumped as he heard the static squeal of a disused intercom system springing to life.

"Yes, this is the place. This is the production center for the Hunter Shells. I am capturing the Machine Spirit as we speak, we may leave this place as soon as I have finished. The Warmaster will be most pleased with us..."

The Sergeant turned back to his men, preparing to give the order to pack up, when all hell broke loose.

The horridly loud barking of Ork sluggaz roared in the confined spaces of the Manufactorum floor. Two of the Legionairres went down immediately, huge bullets tearing gaping holes in their bodies. The rest took cover behind conveyor belts, returning fire with their large-bore naval autoguns. The Sergeant could see twelve of the greenskinned bastards, running wildly towards his men. Firing up his chainsword, the Sergeant charged, wildly hacking at the larger Orks.

"FOR CHANGE!"

The passage of the Khurganate vessels through the Warp had caught the attention of a certain black sphere.

The sphere's sentience had been sent into the Warp as an Exploratory mission, build by the Concordiat autofactories and installed into the Datanet. Different from the Outside, however, the Warp cut off the Datalink. The Sentience alone drifted amongst the crushing forces and raging storms of the Warp, and contact with several beings had been made. These beings were certainly not mechanical...their response times, when they responded, were not measured in nanoseconds. Their responses, generally, consisted of blather and incoherent data.

These newcomers to the Warp, however, offered the Sentience a way out. He followed them, through their own warphole, out again into Normal space. He still could not reinsert himself into the datalink, however, so the Sentience had determined that it was at least 3x10^6 lightyears away from the nearest Concordiat vessel, probe, or construct of any kind.

After witnessing a battle in which the newcomers were successful (and obviously so, the enemy was of little coherent design), the Sentience endeavoured to make contact with any sort of intelligence aboard the ships.

The thirty-meter sphere uncloaked and flared its engines, attempting a coherent pattern, because electronic communications were still non-functional.

"Tzaanlord, we have an unidentified craft just exiting from Warp. Your orders?"

"Make contact with it. If it is hostile, blow it out of the sky."

"Affirmative."

____________

"Unidentified Craft, this is the Changer of the Ways. State your purpose in Khurganate space."

"Tzaanlord, we have an unidentified craft just exiting from Warp. Your orders?"

"Make contact with it. If it is hostile, blow it out of the sky."

"Affirmative."

____________

"Unidentified Craft, this is the Changer of the Ways. State your purpose in Khurganate space."

The Sentience was shocked for a full 12x10^-4 nanoseconds. A barrage of electromagnetic radiation, once thought to be some sort of weapon, was truthfully a communications form. The Sentience piggybacked they photons, and attenuated the SWIFT transmitter within it from the extraspatial frequencies into the smaller electromagnetic wavelengths.

"I am...of..the...concordiat."

The sergeant weaved through the Orks, his chainsword roaring, mono-molecular teeth sliding easily through the flesh of his foes. He ducked a blow from a cleaver, redirecting a lethal chop from another choppa into a nearby Ork. The greenskin howled, lashing out at its comrade, disembowelling him. Grinning, the Sergeant brought his blade around in a lethal arc, decapitating another of his foes.

A burst of autogun fire brought down several of the Orks at the edge of the fight, provoking the Greenskins to return fire, glancing shots bursting ancient containers lining the walls. Somehow, one of the containers burst into flames, which began to spread down to the Manufactorum floor.

Gutting another foe, the Sergeant turned his gore-splattered face towards the flames behind him.

"Feth! Magos, those flames are going to reach the oxy-phospho dumps! We need to get out of here, NOW!"

"I almost have it. I only need a bit longer..."

"Make it snappy, Magos, we don't have much longer!"

Leaping back from another slash, the Sergeant riposeted perfectly, his blade spilling the entrails of the last Ork. Running to the Magos, he pulled hard, mecha-dendrites popping from their sockets. Boosting the protesting Magos over his shoulder, the squad of Legionairres ran as if Nurgle himself was after them.

With a wave of force that knocked even the bodyguard servitors off their feet, the Manufactorum detonated, spraying flaming chunks of siding across the hive-block.

Scrambling to his feet, the Sergeant jogged over to the Tech-Magos.

"Did you get it?"

"No thanks to you, Sergeant Quixos, I was able to coax the Machine Spirit from its home. It now resides in my body. We have been successful, Quixos, be glad. The Khurgan will reward us for our service."