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Contents

Cover

Da Kaper Krew – Justin Woolley

Da Gobbo’s Kaper: Step One

Da Gobbo’s Kaper: Step Two

Da Gobbo’s Kaper: Step Three

Da Gobbo’s Kaper: Step Three and a Bit

Da Gobbo’s Kaper: Step Five Four

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Da Red Gobbo Collection’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

DA KAPER KREW

Justin Woolley

Slipbit cowered as Mekboy Zapdaks raised the whip.

Grots, as a subspecies of ork, had an extremely high pain threshold. For most injuries, even up to being shot, losing a limb or being lashed with a chain-whip, they experienced a small sensation of discomfort just to let them know that something bad had happened. Because of this, it was not simple avoidance of pain that made Slipbit shrink back from the fall of the whip. In fact, there was a lot more complex behaviour at play.

Grots were bred to be a slave class to orks, and their instincts reflected this. They existed in an almost perpetual state of fear of their larger, stronger and horrendously violent cousins, but they also had a completely contradictory genetic desire to please them. Every member of the gretchin race went through life in a haze of being both terrified of their masters and simultaneously feeling desperate to satisfy them.

Slipbit had not pleased Mekboy Zapdaks, which was why he was currently being whipped.

‘I said, connect dat wiring loom to dis plasma wotsit, ya dumb puny git,’ Zapdaks said as he swung the whip at Slipbit. The chain hit Slipbit and knocked him to his knees.

‘Sorry, boss,’ Slipbit said, both terrified and ashamed of his failure. ‘I won’t do it again.’

‘No, cos next time I’ll proper krump ya.’

From somewhere on the other side of the engine room there was the sudden boom of an explosion. Zapdaks spun in the direction of the sound.

‘Gah! Wot ’ave you stupid gits done now?!’ the mekboy shouted before stomping off to see what had blown up and how important it was.

Slipbit climbed back to his feet. ‘Stupid mekboy git. ’E’s gonna get it when Da Revolushun comes.’

‘Shut up, Slipbit,’ said Digga, one of the other engine room grots.

‘Ain’t ya ’eard ’bout Da Red Gobbo?’ Slipbit said. ‘Dey’z sayin’ e’s on dis ship. E’s somewhere right now on Big Thumpa and ’e is gonna make grots free.’

‘Nah, Slipbit,’ Digga said. ‘I mean, shut up cos da boss is still ’ere.’

Slipbit turned to see that Mekboy Zapdaks had not, in fact, stomped off to see what had blown up and how important it was. This time the chain struck Slipbit in the side of the head. Blood, chunks of his cheek, and teef all burst out of his mouth in an arcing spray as Slipbit was knocked onto his side.

‘Wot you talking about Red Gobbos?’ Zapdaks roared as he kicked Slipbit. The ork’s heavy boot landed in his abdomen with a lung-emptying slam. ‘Dere ain’t no such fing.’

The mekboy brought his whip down on Slipbit again, the chain snapping several of the grot’s ribs.

‘Ain’t no such fing as free grots, neither.’

The whip cracked down on Slipbit again.

‘Orks is bigger.’

Crack.

‘Orks is bester.’

Crack.

‘And grots is grots!’

Crack.

When Zapdaks finally stopped, Slipbit was a quivering mess on the engine room floor, bloody and broken and barely conscious. Even when the mekboy finally did wander off to investigate what had blown up, none of the other grots came to Slipbit’s aid out of fear they might suffer the same fate.

Slipbit remained a broken body on the floor for several hours, stepped over and avoided as if he was a dropped bit of gubbinz. He passed in and out of consciousness as his fungal body attempted to stitch itself back together.

At some point much later, Slipbit awoke to see a grot standing over him wearing a pair of oversized goggles and a long red cape and holding a sceptre that was topped with a large shiny green ball. Slipbit had heard all the stories. He knew Da Red Gobbo when he saw him. Problem was, Slipbit also knew he’d been smashed in the head a bunch and this probably wasn’t real.

‘I wish you was real,’ Slipbit managed to say.

‘I is real,’ Da Gobbo said. ‘I is Da Red Gobbo, leader of Da Gretchin Kommittee.’

Slipbit turned his head to see almost all the engine room grots had gathered, and they were all looking at Slipbit’s maybe-not-imaginary Red Gobbo.

‘Wot’s your name?’ Da Gobbo asked.

‘Slipbit.’

‘You ’as suffered the type of ork brutality we grots can no longer stand for, Slipbit.’

‘I wasn’t standing for it,’ Slipbit said. ‘I was lying down most of da time.’

‘You know why we fight, and I needs a grot who knows about workin’ machines. You is gonna come wiv me, Slipbit. You is gonna make gretchin ’istory.’

Slipbit felt something he wasn’t used to, then. It was like the feeling he got when he pleased an ork, except without the guilt. He had pleased Da Red Gobbo, and Da Red Gobbo was the type of boss he could get behind.

Da Red Gobbo moved through the ship using routes that Slipbit had never even considered. Once out of the engine room, he popped open a panel on the wall and first led Slipbit through a maintenance tunnel before clambering up into a tight ventilation shaft that twisted its way through the walls and ceiling cavities of the ship – a whole new way of getting around Big Thumpa hidden from the eyes of the orks.

Eventually, Da Gobbo stopped over the top of a small vent, loosened the screws and let the panel drop open, swinging like a trapdoor beneath him. He manoeuvred in the tight space and dropped feet first through the vent and out of sight. Slipbit, with slightly more awkwardness, since he was still nursing a number of severe injuries, managed to do the same.

Slipbit tumbled out of the vent and landed on the floor below with a starfish splat. Pushing himself up he saw they were in what looked to be a long-abandoned storage room. In the centre of the room was a small table with a large roll of paper on it, and standing around, watching the new grot that had dropped down from above, was a group of four other grots Slipbit didn’t recognise.

‘Everyone, dis is Slipbit,’ Da Gobbo said. ‘Slipbit, dis is Da Gobbo’s Kaper Krew.

‘Dere’s me, obviously,’ he continued by way of introduction. ‘I is da leader and I ’as ’andpicked dis Kaper Krew. I ’as spent loads o’ time spreading dissection in da ranks of da grots, and dis krew is gonna push ’em to revolushun.’

Da Gobbo gestured towards two grots standing beside him. ‘Glut and Nuggit. Da toughest grots on da whole of Big Thumpa.’

Slipbit looked at the pair. It was true they were big, at least for grots, but he wasn’t sure what they were going to do against orks. They had seen how big ’Ardgutz was, right?

‘Zitzog ’ere is da sneaky one,’ continued Da Red Gobbo. ‘Made for pinchin’ stuff, ain’t dat right?’

Slipbit looked at the grot who was crouching down on the corner of the table. He nodded to Da Gobbo. There wasn’t a huge amount of variation in the size of grots, but Zitzog was about as small as they came. He was tiny, with spindly arms and legs, though he looked tightly coiled, as if he might skitter away like a startled spider at any moment.

‘Dagzat is kunnin’ wiv da plans. ’E ’elped me figure out ’ow we was gonna pull dis off.’ Dagzat stood off to the side, unassuming, but Slipbit could tell he had sharp eyes and a sharper brain.

‘Den dere’s you,’ Da Gobbo said, turning to Slipbit. ‘We need someone wot knows ’ow to work machines.’

Slipbit never really considered that he might know something that other grots didn’t, but here he was, a teknologickal expert.

‘’E looks borked though, don’t ’e, boss?’ Zitzog said. ‘Someone gave ’im a right good krumpin’.’

‘Slipbit ’as been in da engine room,’ Da Red Gobbo said. ‘’E ’as suffered da wrath of Mekboy Zapdaks for too long. ’E knows better’n any why we’z got to do somefing, and now is da time. We need grots all over da ship to stand up and fight against da orks. But wot is da one thing ’olding back da grots from uprising?’

‘Orks is too big?’ Zitzog said.

‘Grots is cowards?’ Glut suggested.

‘I don’t fink I can walk no more?’ Slipbit added, eager to contribute.

‘Dat’s all true, but it’s not wot I mean.’

‘Grots is scared?’ Nuggit added.

Glut hit Nuggit with a backhand. ‘I said dat already.’

‘You said dey is cowards,’ Nuggit clarified.

‘No,’ Da Gobbo said, ignoring the squabbling pair. ‘Grots is slaves cos dey don’t know anyfing else. We ’ave to show ’em wot’s possible. Dere are a lot more grots on dis ship than da orks fink. One grot can’t take an ork down, and maybe five grots can’t either, but wot about loads of grots? Da only way grots ’as got a chance at revolushun is if we get rid of most of da orks, and especially da biggest and meanest, before da uprising begins. Dat means no Warboss ’Ardgutz, no big nobz like ’Eadpuncha and Grotstompa, and none of da main ork boyz wot ’ang around dem all da time.’

‘Yeah,’ Zitzog said, ‘but dey ain’t just gonna leave are dey?’

Da Gobbo smiled. ‘Dat’s why we is doin’ a kaper, Zitzog. We ’ave to show ’em dat orks may be brutal and kunnin’, but grots are sneaky and darin’.’ Da Gobbo unrolled the large paper on the table – it was a picture of Big Thumpa expertly marked up with arrows and scrawled annotations in messy grot handwriting. ‘Dis is ’ow we even da odds.’

DA GOBBO’S KAPER: STEP ONE

Dagzat sat on the floor in one of Big Thumpa’s dark, disorganised, and seemingly infinitely twisting maintenance tunnels hunched over a flickering screen. He spoke into a headset that was obviously designed for an ork – it all but enveloped both sides of his head and the microphone was as large as half his face. Slipbit, acting as tek support, had roughly patched both the screen and headset into a wiring loom on the wall of the tunnel, and though he hadn’t been completely sure of what he was doing, he’d managed to get both a vid and comms feed working.

Da Red Gobbo stood with Dagzat, leaning over and watching the screen intently. It showed live pictures of a cabin belonging to one of the biggest orks on the ship, Big Nob Zuggak ’Eadpuncha.

‘I is in position,’ came the crackling voice of Zitzog over the headset.

Da Gobbo leaned forward. The image on the screen wasn’t perfect, flickering and occasionally buzzing with static, but as far as he could tell the ork was completely asleep.

Just hours before, they’d snuck an unhealthy amount of fungal beer that Zitzog had pinched from the squig-juice fermenting room into ’Eadpuncha’s cabin. Predictably, the big ork had taken advantage, downed it all and promptly passed out. Da Gobbo watched the slow rise and fall of the nob’s chest before nodding.

‘Execute,’ Dagzat said.

‘You want me to try and kill ’im?’ Zitzog replied. ‘I fort I was just takin’ ’is choppa.’

‘Dat just means go, ya zoggin’ git,’ Dagzat said.

‘Just say “go”, den,’ Zitzog mumbled.

Inside the cabin a ventilation cover in the ceiling dropped open, and Zitzog began to descend. He was dressed all in black because, despite the fact that ’Eadpuncha’s room was brightly lit with white walls, that still seemed like the stealthy thing to do. He was hanging from a rope tied around his torso. His arms and legs spread out wide for balance. Up in the ventilation duct, Glut was holding the other end of the rope, slowly lowering him down.

Dagzat watched on the camera. ‘Dat’s it, Glut,’ he said. ‘Just go slow and steady.’

Zitzog continued descending directly above ’Eadpuncha, but more importantly, directly above his choppa. It was a mammoth weapon, and looking at it now, Zitzog really hoped he’d be able to lift it. It was an impressive choppa and it was no wonder it was ‘Eadpuncha’s most prized possession. That was why they were stealing it.

‘Keep goin’,’ Dagzat said into the vox. ‘Slowly, slowly.’

Zitzog tried to breathe as quietly as he could as he lowered down closer to the massive ork. His natural grot instinct to be horribly afraid was screaming inside his chest, his small heart thundering, but he kept himself calm – mostly because the only thing to be more afraid of than a passed-out ork was a wide-awake one.

Zitzog was just within range to reach for the choppa when ’Eadpuncha stirred. Zitzog froze. The huge ork turned, rolling from his side to his back so that he was directly facing Zitzog, now hovering in the air above him. ’Eadpuncha let out a long, rumbling wet belch right up into Zitzog’s face – almost enough to make the small grot faint – but his eyes remained closed.

Waiting a long, tense moment, Zitzog eventually reached out and grabbed hold of the hilt of the choppa with both hands. As he imagined, the weapon was heavy, but he managed to lift it. ‘Eadpuncha didn’t stir again, even as his favourite choppa was lifted up from beside him.

‘Up now, Glut,’ Dagzat said. ‘Up slow.’

Da Gobbo leaned in even closer to watch the screen. For Da Kaper to work, every step needed to go smoothly. Zitzog had ascended almost a third of the way back up to the ventilation shaft when his grip on the heavy weapon slipped. It dropped out of his hands, but he managed to grab the bottom of the hilt. Zitzog watched in horror as the choppa swung like a pendulum, gliding through the air towards ’Eadpuncha. The tip of the blade passed over the ork’s face, less than a squig’s toof from slicing through his nose.

‘Up, Glut,’ Dagzat whisper-yelled into the microphone. ‘Zoggin’ up!’

Zitzog desperately held on to the choppa as Glut raised him the rest of the way. Eventually, the larger grot grabbed Zitzog and pulled him, the choppa and the rope up into the safety of the ventilation shaft, closing the vent behind them.

Da Red Gobbo released a long-held breath: too zoggin’ close. ‘Alright,’ he said, ‘I’m gonna take this to da aft cargo bay. It’s time for…’

DA GOBBO’S KAPER: STEP TWO

Slipbit, Nuggit and Glut stood in the corridor outside Big Thumpa’s dakka storage room, which was completely empty because why would you just leave dakka lying about? Now, it was just the big empty room where orks went to have fights to settle their differences – at least for those times the fights didn’t just erupt spontaneously.

‘Look,’ Slipbit said. ‘I’m just not so sure about dis part of da plan.’

‘Dis is wot Da Gobbo said needed to ’appen for da plan to work, innit?’ Glut said.

‘Yeah, I just ain’t sure why da mek grot ’as to do dis.’

‘Dere ain’t mek stuff to do until later,’ Nuggit said.

‘Yeah, and wot if I get krumped now?’

‘Da Gobbo finks you can do dis, and Da Gobbo is boss.’ Glut reached out and put his hand on Slipbit’s shoulder. ‘You ’as to believe in yourself, Slipbit. I believes in you.’

Glut was staring at Slipbit with something that might have been encouragement, but his wide-eyed grin just made Slipbit feel uncomfortable.

‘Alright, alright,’ Slipbit said, removing Glut’s hand from his shoulder. ‘Just make sure you two is ready.’

Nuggit nodded. ‘I was spored ready.’

Slipbit walked down the corridor and pushed open the hatchway door into the dakka room. There were a bunch of orks fighting on the far side of the room while Nob Grok Grotstompa watched.

‘Why did it ’ave to be Grotstompa, though?’ Slipbit mumbled to himself. ‘’E ain’t called Grothugga, is ’e?’

Slipbit took a moment to compose himself and then called to the nob.

‘Oi!’

Grotstompa did not turn around. The large ork was unaccustomed to listening to grots. Even when he directly asked one of them a question, he tended not to bother listening to their answer.

‘Hey, Grotstompa,’ Slipbit said, preparing himself for what he still considered an entirely stupid idea. ‘You is a massive zoggin’ git, and I bet you is weaker dan a squigling’s turd.’

It took a moment. It took a moment because Grotstompa couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. When the words had circled around his brain a few times and suddenly landed in place, his green face took on a decidedly magenta tone. He turned and roared in fury.

Slipbit ran.

Just as they’d planned, Slipbit ran out into the corridor and directly past a small alcove in the wall where Nuggit and Glut were hiding. As he reached the planned ambush point, Slipbit could hear the thundering steps of Grotstompa right behind him. He could almost feel the ork’s hand reaching for the back of his neck when Nuggit and Glut leapt from their hiding place onto the nob’s back. Both were large by grot standards but were still barely up to Grotstompa’s waist.

Glut dived low, grabbing on to one of the ork’s legs, while Nuggit jumped on his back, wrapping his arms around the ork’s thick, muscular neck and desperately holding on.

‘Get off,’ Grotstompa snarled, kicking and thrashing at Glut while reaching over his shoulder to try and grab Nuggit. ‘Get off, ya snotling gits.’

Slipbit stopped and, now that he was no longer the grot in imminent threat of a stomping, turned to watch. Nuggit was trying to avoid the grasping hands of Grotstompa, who was turning in circles on the spot while reaching for the grot on his back. Glut was holding desperately to the ork’s leg as Grotstompa repeatedly kicked out, sending the grot back and forth.

Grotstompa kicked his leg hard again, and this time Glut lost his grip, flying into the wall. The grot’s head hit a metal pipe with a high-pitched twang and he dropped to the ground, dazed. Grotstompa, not satisfied with just this, lashed out with his leg again, kicking Glut in the stomach while he was pinned against the wall. Sickening cracks, crunches, and eventually splattering sounds emanated from the gretchin as Grotstompa kicked him until there was nothing but a ragged, bloody hole where Glut’s torso used to be.

While Grotstompa was busy mutilating Glut, Nuggit had held on like a rodeo grot riding a bucking squig. He pulled an oversized syringe full of a bright green liquid from his belt. Slipbit knew it had cost all the teef the grots had to get the painboyz to make this for them. Even then they hadn’t been keen – but teef was teef, after all. Perhaps the painboyz wouldn’t have sold it to them if they’d known it was going to be used in a plot to overthrow all the orks on Big Thumpa – but then again, teef was still teef.

Nuggit got the syringe free, turned it in his hand and reared back, ready to drive it in. Ork skin was tough and not easy to puncture with a needle, hence why they needed the strongest grot they had to do this. Nuggit plunged the syringe down and the needle pierced the side of Grotstompa’s neck. But just as he’d forced the syringe home, Grotstompa grabbed hold of Nuggit’s arm. He wrenched Nuggit over his shoulder and slammed him into the ground.

The ork made good on his name and stomped his boot down on Nuggit’s chest, easily caving it inwards. He lifted his foot, leaving a boot-sized cavity where the grot’s lungs should have been. Nuggit lay on the ground, impotently gasping for air. He didn’t need to struggle for long, though, because Grotstompa brought his heavy boot down again right on Nuggit’s face, crushing his skull into paste.

While all this was happening, Slipbit could see the syringe hanging from Grotstompa’s neck. It had punctured through the skin, but Nuggit had never had the chance to depress it. The green liquid still sloshed around inside. Slipbit somehow managed to push down a gretchin’s prime emotion – fear – and dashed towards the ork. He had to do this for Da Red Gobbo. Without thinking – because if he thought about it, he surely wouldn’t have done it – he jumped, planting a foot against the corridor wall, and launched himself higher. He crashed into the side of Grotstompa, flinging his hand in the direction of the syringe plunger. Grotstompa snarled and caught Slipbit, tossing him across the corridor and sending him slamming into the opposite wall.

Dazed, Slipbit looked up to see Grotstompa stalking towards him. But as the ork approached, his face dropped from a mask of rage to confusion. He blinked his eyes a few times, shook his head slightly, and began to wobble. Slipbit saw that his aim had been true. The syringe was empty, the green liquid the painboyz had given them fully ejected into Grotstompa’s system. The ork wavered and dropped to his knees, before landing on his side with a thump.

Slipbit turned at the sound of squeaking wheels to see Da Gobbo approaching. Behind him, an old cargo lifting trolley was being manoeuvred by a team of grots he must have recruited from the cargo bay. The other grots looked wide-eyed when they saw what their cargo was going to be.

‘Come on,’ Da Gobbo said. ‘We ain’t got long. Get ’im on dere and back to da cargo bay.’

The grots began sliding the forks of the cargo lifter under Grotstompa’s body, a bunch of them pushing and pulling to get his hulking form on top.

Da Gobbo looked from Slipbit to Nuggit and Glut’s dead bodies and then back again. ‘Good job, Slipbit,’ he said.

DA GOBBO’S KAPER: STEP THREE

It was easy for Dagzat to find Big Nob ’Eadpuncha. He didn’t even need any of the camera feeds Slipbit had tapped into. He just needed to follow the absolute cacophony of a seven-and-a-half-foot-tall green beast having an almighty temper tantrum. Ever since he woke from his fungal-drunk state, the nob had been enraged about the theft of his choppa.

‘Which one of ya zoggin’ gits took it?!’

Dagzat could hear ’Eadpuncha rampaging through the workshop of the mekboyz ahead. With no luck finding a culprit among the larger ork boyz on the ship, he’d turned his attention to the meks, thinking they must have pinched it to use in some new invention or another.

‘I know someone nicked it – who was it?!’

Dagzat stopped at the door when he heard a tremendous crash from within. It sounded like a toolbox being thrown against a wall. After hesitating a moment longer, he entered the workshop. Sure enough, tools were scattered all over the floor.

‘It weren’t us,’ Mekboy Flegga said. ‘We got a huge pile of choppas for stickin’ to stuff.’ He gestured to the corner of the room, where a load of choppas were indeed piled messily atop one another. ‘Why would we take yours?’

’Eadpuncha, who saw reason about as clearly as you could see through the squig pen’s windows, roared something incomprehensible and lifted another innocent toolbox over his head.

‘Er, Big Nob ’Eadpuncha,’ Dagzat said. ‘I know who stole da choppa you is lookin’ for.’

’Eadpuncha stopped, dropping the toolbox to the floor. ‘Wot did you say, grot?’

‘I know who took your choppa. It was Grotstompa.’

‘Grotstompa?’

‘Yeah, boss,’ Dagzat said. ‘Grotstompa took your choppa. I seen ’im wiv it.’

‘Dat zog ’ead ’as always wanted me choppa.’

‘I know where he’s at, too,’ Dagzat said. ‘E’s in da aft cargo bay. Come on, boss, I’ll show ya.’

DA GOBBO’S KAPER: STEP THREE AND A BIT

At the same time as this was happening, Zitzog was scampering through the feet of a bunch of orks who were keeping themselves occupied with their usual activities during void travel – drinking fungal beer, arguing and fighting.

Eventually, he found the ork he was looking for. It wasn’t difficult because the warboss was the biggest ork in any room he was in. But Warboss ’Ardgutz wasn’t just tall, he was wide. He strode around like an eight-foot-high barrel of squig juice, half as broad as he was high. His huge torso was permanently encased in armoured metal that had been riveted directly to his skin, which added even more to his barrel-like appearance and was the reason behind his name, orks being very literal about that kind of thing.

‘Warboss ’Ardgutz,’ Zitzog said.

‘Wot is it?’ ’Ardgutz replied, turning to look in Zitzog’s direction and looking clear over the top of his head until he lowered his gaze, realising it was a grot trying to get his attention. ‘Wot do you want, grot?’

‘Boss, it’s ’Eadpuncha and Grotstompa.’

‘Wot ’bout ’em? Is those gits fightin’ again? I told dem to set a good example for da smaller boyz, so dey better be.’

‘Nah, boss,’ Zitzog said. ‘Dey are plottin’ against you. I ’eard ’em.’

For a barrel, Warboss ’Ardgutz moved exceptionally fast. He was on Zitzog quicker than the grot could react. He reached down, grabbed Zitzog by the neck, and lifted him into the air, holding him out in front of his face.

‘Wot did you say?’

‘Gak,’ Zitzog said. ‘You is crushin’ me neck, boss.’

‘Wot did you say?!’ the warboss roared into Zitzog’s rapidly purpling face.

‘’Eadpuncha and Grotstompa… dey is… talkin’ ’bout ’ow to… beat ya togevva,’ Zitzog said with what little air he had left.

‘Dose gits!’ ’Ardgutz shouted.

In his rage ’Ardgutz began squeezing harder. ‘Boss…’

‘Where is dey?’

‘Da… cargo… bay,’ Zitzog said as his eyes began to roll back in his head.

With a final roar, ’Ardgutz headed for the door. On his way out, he slammed Zitzog against the wall in anger, caving his head in and snapping his neck. Without a second thought, he tossed the grot’s body aside.

‘You,’ the warboss shouted, turning to the group of orks nearby. ‘Get as many boyz together as you can. We got some traitors to krump.’

DA GOBBO’S KAPER: STEP FIVE FOUR

Slipbit stood next to Da Gobbo in the cargo bay operations room – at least that’s what most humans would have called it. The orks just called it Da High-Up Room. To be fair to them, they weren’t wrong. Da High-Up Room was high above the cargo bay, and the two grots looked down on it through large windows.

Slipbit knew he was lucky to be watching the culmination of Da Gobbo’s plan, mostly because Nuggit, Glut and Zitzog were all dead and he was still alive, which was something he considered important.

In the cargo bay, Grotstompa was examining ’Eadpuncha’s choppa, which he’d found at his feet. He’d only just woken up after his heavy dose of painboyz narcotic, and though he was confused as to how he’d come to be here, he’d always wanted to get his hands on this choppa, so things were looking up.

Da Gobbo checked the vid-feed – all the biggest orks on Big Thumpa were converging on the cargo bay.

‘Perfect timing,’ Da Gobbo said, as ’Eadpuncha arrived first.

The nob burst through the large open doors into the cargo bay to see Grotstompa standing in the middle of the vast space holding his favourite choppa. Dagzat came in after, trailing along behind Big Nob ’Eadpuncha.

‘I told ya, boss,’ Dagzat said. ‘Dere ’e is wiv ya choppa.’

As it turned out, Dagzat didn’t need to bother keeping up the charade because ’Eadpuncha was already furious. ‘Dat’s mine, ya thievin’ git,’ he roared.

’Eadpuncha stormed towards Grotstompa. Even from inside Da High-Up Room, Slipbit could feel the rage radiating off the two as they faced each other down. These two were almost equally matched in size and ferocity. Warboss ’Ardgutz was the only ork aboard Big Thumpa that was larger and, as it turned out, he was also approaching.

Just as ’Eadpuncha and Grotstompa were getting ready to krump each other, ’Ardgutz arrived with a contingent of ork boyz behind him. The cargo bay had turned into a palpable soup of violence, ready to boil over. As far as ’Ardgutz was concerned, he’d discovered the two largest nobs in his warband scheming alone together, just as that little grot had said he would.

‘You traitors,’ he roared in disgust.

The presence of an enraged warboss was enough to draw ’Eadpuncha’s and Grotstompa’s attention away from imminently killing each other.

‘Wot?’ Grotstompa said. ‘We ain’t…’

But ’Ardgutz wasn’t going to give them the time to explain. ‘WAAAGH!’ he bellowed, charging towards them. His ork boyz roared and charged after him, excited by the possibility of violence even if they so heavily outnumbered the two nobs that the fight would be over before most of them even got a swing in.

Da Gobbo smiled. ‘Now, Slipbit,’ he said. ‘Seal da door.’

‘But Dagzat is still in dere,’ Slipbit said.

‘Seal it, Slipbit,’ Da Gobbo insisted. ‘Dis is our chance.’

Slipbit did so, flicking the necessary switch that set the cargo bay doors closing, the orks inside too busy fighting to notice they were being shut in.

‘And ’ow do ya open da airlock to da void?’ Da Gobbo asked.

Slipbit indicated another switch off to the side of the control panel.

‘Good work, Slipbit,’ Da Gobbo said. ‘Do ya mind if I do da honours?’

‘Course not, boss,’ Slipbit said.

Da Gobbo brought his hand down on the switch Slipbit had indicated. ‘For Da Revolushun!’

With the flashing of orange lights and the wailing of a warning siren, large doors on the opposite side of the cargo bay began to open. As soon as they had parted barely a crack, the atmosphere inside the cargo bay immediately attempted to equalise with the rest of the universe outside.

As it turns out, a cargo bay full of air is unable to fill up the rest of the universe, but this didn’t stop it immediately rushing out to try. Slipbit watched as the orks, realising what was happening, began desperately trying to make their way towards the now-sealed door back into the rest of the ship, but they had no hope. As the void doors opened, they were sucked out into the gaping abyss beyond. Many dropped to the floor and tried to grab hold of something, but the pull of the universe proved too great, and soon more and more orks were spinning out into the great beyond.

Slipbit saw Warboss ’Ardgutz look up at them as he clawed at the ground. The warboss’ eyes locked on to Slipbit and Da Gobbo. With the air rushing away, his face was twisted in a soundless but no less terrifying roar. Every other ork, even ’Eadpuncha and Grotstompa, had already tumbled out into the void, but the warboss remained, his superior strength allowing him to hold on. He began dragging himself forward along the cargo bay floor, one arm at a time. For a moment, Slipbit was terrified the warboss was going to make it back inside the ship, but eventually his grip gave out. He scrambled for a moment but was soon moving with too much momentum to stop himself and flew through the open door into the void. The huge form of the warboss quickly grew smaller and smaller, and soon he was nothing but a small shape spinning away into the void, his green skin icing over.

‘Close da door,’ Da Gobbo said.

For a moment, Slipbit didn’t react. He was still staring out at the empty cargo bay where, just moments before, the biggest, baddest orks on board Big Thumpa had been. ‘We did it,’ he said at last. ‘It really worked.’

‘Da door, Slipbit,’ Da Gobbo repeated.

‘Right, yeah, sorry, boss.’ Slipbit flicked a switch and the external cargo bay doors began to close again.

‘It ain’t over yet,’ Da Gobbo said, ‘but now we’z got rid of da worst orks, we ’as a chance. Da Revolushun ’as begun.’

‘And I is your second-in-command,’ Slipbit declared.

‘Wot? No you ain’t.’

‘Da Kaper Krew is all dead,’ Slipbit said, ‘’cept for me and you. You is boss of Da Revolushun, and dat makes me da deputy.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘Executive officer?’

‘No,’ Da Gobbo said. ‘Now, come on, Da Red Gobbo must lead da grots to victory!’

Da Gobbo held his sceptre high as he ran back out into the corridors of the ship, his red cape fluttering dramatically behind him.

‘And Slipbit!’ Slipbit shouted to no one in particular. ‘His right-hand grot!’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Justin Woolley hails from the bottom of the world in Tasmania, Australia and is an author of science fiction and fantasy. In his other life Justin has been an engineer, a teacher, and at one stage even a magician. A long-time fan of Warhammer 40,000, he has written the novellas Prisoners of Waaagh! and Long Live Da Red Gobbo, and the short stories ‘Redemption Through Sacrifice’ and ‘Night Shriekers’.

An extract from Da Red Gobbo Collection.

Death was everywhere, and it was going boom a lot.

Fingwit cowered down and whimpered as a full mob of orks pounded past him, howling with glee at the prospect of a decent scrap, and firing off their sluggas more out of delight than any real attempt to hit the enemy. A shell ricocheted off a wall and screamed over Fingwit’s skull before he even realised he should be ducking, so close to his skin that it felt like it had carved a furrow right over the top of his head. He drew in a reflexive breath to shout in outrage, but the syllables died before they reached his throat. There was no chance of the ork hearing him, and if it did, it would likely just kick him back down the corridor. Grots didn’t talk back to orks, at least not if they wanted to keep all their limbs attached.

‘Alright, Fingers, lissen up!’ a gargantuan voice bellowed, and Fingwit flinched as Klaws’ thumping steps heralded the arrival of the scarred, towering ork himself. Klaws was an Evil Sunz mek, and had been a thumping good one until an accident involving an overcharged kustom mega-blasta saw him lose both his hands. He had replaced them with a power klaw on each wrist, which made him a terrifying opponent for enemies – such as the humies whose ship they had just boarded – but left him unable to do anything involving digital dexterity, which when you were a mek, was quite a lot of what you were expected to do.

Which was where Da Fingers came in.

Fingwit was the nominal boss of this crew of grots, inasmuch as Klaws blamed him if the others did something wrong. Then there was Grubba, who kept a colony of hair squigs on his chin in imitation of Klaws, and because he thought it made him look good; Duzzik, who was small even for a grot, and useful for squeezing (or being shoved unwillingly) into tight spaces to get things unjammed; Swikk and Flish, who looked so much alike that they had their own names written on their forearms so they could remember which one they were, and who were fascinated by shiny objects; and Rattak, whose nimble digits were perfect for fine wiring, but were more often put to use stealing someone else’s food.

Between them, they theoretically made up for Klaws’ lack of hands by doing what he told them. However, as the mek himself had often declared, the difference between theory and results was a zogload of swearing.

‘Dese humies fort dey could lay a trap for Da Meklord’s fleet, but dey weren’t expectin’ us ta board ’em!’ Klaws growled, as each Finger stood as straight as he could. ‘Now, Da Meklord wants dis ship under ’is control, an’ he don’t like bein’ kept waitin’. Da boyz’ll take care o’ dat – not like yoo’d be any use dere!’ He guffawed a laugh, and Fingwit smiled obediently, and a little nervously. Klaws seemed to be in a good mood, but that mood could turn faster than a cyboar on nitrous.

‘Nah, our job is ta take control of da gunz,’ Klaws said, with a grin that exposed his plentiful, large teeth. ‘Den when we got ’em, we’re ta shoot da uvver humie ships wiv ’em.’

‘Dat’s brilliant!’ Rattak piped up. ‘Dey’ll never expect ta be shot by dere own gunz!’

‘Course it’s brilliant, ya little git!’ Klaws snarled, all traces of his good mood instantly evaporating. ‘It’s Da Meklord’s plan, an’ Da Meklord is da greatest brain da orks ’ave ever had!’ He jabbed at Rattak’s chest with one of the prongs of his right power klaw, causing the grot to jerk back against to wall to avoid being casually impaled on it. ‘Did I ask yer opinion of Da Meklord’s plan? Well? Did I?’

‘Nah, boss!’ Rattak squeaked, shaking his head so desperately that his ears flopped back and forth across his face, and one hit him in the eye. Fingwit could not suppress a snigger as his fellow grot yelped in pain, but luckily for him Klaws found it funny as well. The mek threw his head back and laughed, the red-clad bulk of his chest and stomach heaving as he did so.

‘Didn’t fink so!’ He sobered as abruptly as he had begun to laugh, and glowered down at them all, then reached up to scratch the bushy mass of white hair squigs that completely obscured his jawline. ‘Follow me, den! If ya don’t mess dis up, dere’s extra lunch in it for ya!’

‘An’ wot if we do mess it up, boss?’ Duzzik asked in a small voice.

‘Den yoo’ll be lunch,’ Klaws said, beaming nastily.

A trio of meganobz Fingwit recognised as Ruggaz’s Destroyaz clanked past behind Klaws, clad in metal plating as thick as Fingwit’s chest was deep, and belching smoke from the whining power generators on their backs. Fingwit watched awestruck as the giant shapes strode onwards, bedecked with massive gun barrels and bristling with explosive rokkits, their sizzling power klaws and spinning killsaws powering up, ready to deliver messy evisceration and truly obscene amounts of dakka to the luckless humies who were trying to defend their ship, somewhere a bend or two farther on down the corridor. He had never wanted to be a humie, but right at this moment Fingwit was even more grateful to Gork and Mork that he wasn’t one. Being a grot was a tough life, given that an ork might at any moment decide to use you as a slave, target practice, or, in a pinch, a meal, but being a humie had to be worse.

‘Keep yer ’eads down if ya wanna keep ’em on yer shoulders!’ Klaws boomed jovially, and set off in the wake of the hulking meganobz. Da Fingers scuttled after him, bunched up so close together that Fingwit almost felt like he was part of a single organism with six heads, twelve legs, twelve arms, and insufficient firepower. He had also been jostled to the front. Again.

He quickly checked the chambers of his blasta as they hurried along on Klaws’ heels. It was a simple weapon, but then again, what grot weapon wasn’t? Fingwit had built it himself, painstakingly putting the bits together until it no longer blew up in Duzzik’s hand when Fingwit made him test-fire it. It had eight chambers, each one loaded, and he had various spare rounds secreted away, since past experience had taught him that Swikk and Flish’s obsession with shiny objects extended to stealing other grots’ ammo if they could see it. It was good enough, he supposed – it would put a hole in a humie, so long as they weren’t one of the cowards who wore armour – but Fingwit dreamed of a proper gun.

Oh, how glorious that would be! A kustom mega-blasta, like the one that had blown up and taken Klaws’ hands off (well, not exactly like that one – preferably one that didn’t explode), which fired a blinding beam of energy that could melt through even the toughest metal plating! A rokkit launcher, which could blow up and take other people’s hands off from a safe distance (safe for you, anyway, at least most of the time)! A big shoota, which could spit out more slugs than Fingwit’s entire blasta held, in the time it would take him to sneeze! Fingwit had few long-term aims in his life, since he was mainly concerned about the short-term considerations – like not getting squished in whatever piece of machinery Klaws had him fixing, or stepped on and squashed flat by a Deff Dread – but he really, really wanted a gun so big that the recoil when he fired it would knock him off his feet.

It would never happen, though. No one would waste a gun like that on a grot. Not unless he managed to end up on the crew of one of the big mek guns, but that would never happen while Klaws was still around. Besides, it still wouldn’t be his gun: it would belong to whatever mek had built it, and Fingwit would be operating it with half a dozen other grots to boot. No, the only way a grot would get a decent gun would be if he was wired into a Killa Kan, and that was a one-way trip. It might be worth it, but it would still rely on Klaws letting Fingwit leave his service for any reason other than the sudden onset of death.

As it was, Fingwit’s only real option was to hurry along after Klaws, hope that the meganobz would deal with any humies that might take shots at them, and be ready to shove one of the other Fingers in front of him in case it looked like that wasn’t going to be the case.

The floor was suddenly softer and rather more squishy than Fingwit was expecting, and his foot slipped from beneath him, sending him into the wall. The rest, pressed up close behind him, stumbled in their turn, and then Fingwit was in a flailing mass of arms, all trying to latch on to something to remain upright.

‘Wot da zog are yoo lot up to?’ Klaws bellowed, as Fingwit managed to keep his feet by dint of grabbing Flish. The other grot ended up face-planting, but the momentary support was enough for Fingwit not to fall, and he took a look downwards at what had caused all the problems.

‘I got git on me foot, boss,’ he reported. He hadn’t seen the mangled humie remains before he trod in it, and now his right foot was tracking red smears around. There were more bodies in the upcoming corridor section, he saw now: clearly, this was where the defenders’ first doomed stand had taken place, only to be smashed apart by whichever mob of ladz had been first out of the ’Ullbreakers.

‘Keep up, or yoo’ll ’ave one less foot ta go stickin’ in fings,’ the big mek growled, and Fingwit hurried to obey. He could hear the thump and krump and dakka of explosions and gunfire coming from ahead of them now, and while those were not normally sounds towards which he would hurry, given orks’ tendencies to use grots as bullet shields and his own decidedly inadequate firepower, if he had to enter such a battle then there was no better way to do it than behind three meganobz.

Also, he wanted to keep both his feet. When you were a mek’s ‘assistant’, you might have a better chance than the average grot of receiving a prosthetic leg, even one more advanced than a simple wooden peg, but there was absolutely no guarantee that it wasn’t going to be an experimental contraption that could maim you in some other interesting way. Meks sometimes liked to test their ideas for such things before they risked fitting them to powerful individuals like nobz, and grots were the perfect candidates. Tazzag Rokkitfoot could have told anyone that, had his replacement leg not propelled him into the side of a Gargant with lethal force.

The corridors were showing greater signs of battle now, with massive holes where ork shells had missed their intended target and detonated, and huge flowers of sooty darkness where skorchas had incinerated everything in their path. There were ork corpses, those boyz who had been shot enough times that even their hardy constitutions could no longer drive them onwards, and Fingwit cast a longing glance at a dropped slugga: a simple gun by ork standards, but still much bigger and more powerful than the one he clutched between his sweating palms. However, the humies were by far the more numerous bodies littering the floor, blown apart by gunfire or carved up by choppas, and leaking everywhere. There was no way to avoid getting git on his feet now.

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