27: Chapter 27 The Defense of Vulcan-IV (2)

They (Orks) began to "organize" for battle.

Without officers or a chain of command, they brawled frantically amongst themselves, relying on size, volume, and the hardness of their fists; whoever won was the boss.

A big Boy—half a meter taller than the average Boy, draped in crude metal plates with beast tusks hanging around his neck—finally climbed out of the drop pod. With a casual punch, he drove the head of a Boy who had just defeated a comrade deep into his chest cavity, blood spraying everywhere.

"I'm da boss now!" he roared at the surrounding Boys. "Follow me! Smash dem metal bits!"

The other Boys had no objections whatsoever.

The one killed was too weak and deserved it; the new boss was strong enough and should be followed.

In this manner, a single impact crater "elected" dozens of minor bosses within minutes. Each boss led dozens to hundreds of Boys, disorganized yet united in purpose, as they began moving toward the industrial cities of Icarus.

"They aren't waiting for everyone to gather," Gluck noted keenly. "The first to land are the first to charge."

"Standard Ork tactics," Helmut's voice came through the communicator (patched in from the control room), accompanied by a hint of static. "They don't care about 'fighting when ready'; they prefer 'preparing while fighting' or 'getting ready as they go.'"

"Then we..."

"As planned," Helmut's tone was firm. "Let them charge. Have the defense towers open fire."

Then he asked, "Icarus?"

Icarus's voice immediately cut into the channel, calm and concise: "Mathematical model confirmed. The first wave consists of 520,000, with a predictive error of ±3%. The defense system will activate once the first batch of Orks enters range."

"How much longer?" Gluck asked.

"31 minutes."

Gluck cut the communication and moved from the observation post to the front lines.

The Skitarii were in position, hunkered down in trenches with weapons readied, observing the movements ahead from afar—the looks in their eyes beneath their helmets were alert and somber.

The orders given by Icarus were clear: they only needed to watch; the defense duties were left to the automated defense towers. They were to conserve their firepower, dealing only with stray Orks that broke through the tower array or guarding against infiltrators.

Icarus could no longer comprehend the Orks' behavioral patterns, especially with the reinforcement of the WAAAGH! Field. These greenskins were always capable of actions that defied its common sense, forcing it to lower the filtering depth of its cognitive modules.

The Skitarii had now become the backup measures Icarus was forced to employ.

Since the cognitive conflict, Icarus, which relied on logic and mathematics, had developed an inexplicable wariness toward these green creatures that The Main Brain called "Big Brains."

Heaven knew what other strange methods these green things had to bypass physics and engineering—like sudden spatial displacements and other such nonsense.

"Sir," a Skitarii veteran said—there were three deep claw marks on his face, scars left by an Ork Power Klaw during the last invasion.

He walked up to Gluck, his voice kept extremely low. "Those greenskins... the numbers aren't right."

"What's not right?"

"There are too many."

The veteran's voice was low, carrying an irrepressible heaviness. "I've fought through three Ork invasions. The first time, there were fifty thousand; we held for seven days and lost a third of our positions. The second time, a hundred and twenty thousand; we held for three and a half weeks, and half our brothers stayed in the trenches forever. The third time, two hundred thousand; we held for half a year, and the entire Hive City was ruined."

He raised his hand and pointed toward the horizon, where incandescent flashes of drop pod impacts continued to light up, each flash accompanied by a slight tremor of the earth.

"This time, two hundred and fifty thousand dropped within half an hour. How many more are behind them? Can we hold?"

Gluck didn't answer.

But he knew Icarus's prediction: a first wave of 520,000, with a total force of 3 to 5 million.

He also knew the figures from the Battle of Calumus through the Archmagos's records: 180,000 landed on the first day, and eventually, both sides kept pouring in reinforcements for a total of fourteen months.

And now, the landing volume on the first day at Vulcan-IV might be about three times that of the early stages of the Battle of Calumus.

He didn't know if he should answer or how to answer; in the end, he only managed to squeeze out: "We are different."

Then he added,

"We have Icarus."

His words naturally carried a hint of self-consolation—he himself wasn't entirely certain.

The veteran glanced at him with a complex look—the numbness and helplessness unique to someone who had seen too much death and experienced too many defeats, a look that said, "I'm listening, but I don't believe you."

"That mecha," the veteran paused, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing his Chainsword.

"It said the mathematical model is confirmed."

"Mathematics?" the veteran repeated, his tone full of bitterness.

"My son liked math too. He studied math at the Tech-priest Academy—learned how to calculate shell trajectories, Void Shield stress limits, and energy distribution."

"Then he died in the last Ork invasion. He didn't miscalculate the shell trajectories, nor the Void Shield's limits."

"But the math didn't account for an Ork Warbeast flanking them and tearing apart his augmented body." (The mechanical body after Adeptus Mechanicus modification)

He whispered it again, sounding like a murmur and a question: "The math didn't account for a Warbeast flanking them. Can it... can it account for that irrational Ork Logic inside an Ork's head?"

Gluck remained silent.

The veteran also remained silent.

In the trenches, only the wail of the wind over the mechanical armor and the faint, distant roars of Orks remained.

The veteran turned and walked back to his post, his silhouette appearing hunched in the dawn light, every step seemingly treading on the bones of the past.

Gluck opened his data pad and pulled up the detailed statistics of Icarus's first wave landing, the cold blue light reflecting on his face:

[First Wave Landing Statistics (Real-time Update)]

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Total: Approx. 520,000 Orks (Error ±3%)

Composition:

- Boyz Infantry: 450,000 (Carrying crude Sluggas and Choppas, fanatical and aggressive)

- Nobz Elites: 50,000 (Clad in heavy scrap armor, wielding custom chain-axes, combat power far exceeding normal Boyz)

- Warbeasts: 200 (Size comparable to Knight-class mechs, a fusion of biology and machinery, highly destructive)

- Mekboyz: 20,000 (Responsible for repairing equipment and modifying weapons; capable of creating items that defy physics through Ork Logic)

- Gretchin Laborers: Massive quantities (Responsible for hauling and digging; low combat power but huge numbers)

Equipment:

- Trukks: Approx. 3,000 (Scrap-welded, fast but unstable, some mounted with simple cannons)

- Artillery Platforms: Approx. 800 (Crude but effective, shells mostly cast from scrap metal, devastating power)

- Flying Units: Small number (Unstable but dangerous, mostly cobbled together from scrap and engines by Mekboyz)

Note: They are in a hurry. In a hurry to die, or in a hurry to kill us. — Icarus

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"In a hurry," Gluck repeated softly, his fingertips lightly tapping the data pad, where scratches from a previous battle still remained.

He looked toward the north.