"Of course, Colonel." Alexander smiled, took a document he had prepared in advance from inside his coat, and laid it on the table. "This is my preliminary plan for the operation. There is only one core idea: turn our greatest 'disadvantage' into our greatest 'advantage.'"
Colonel Valeus picked up the document, puzzled.
"Our greatest disadvantage is that we have few men and poor equipment, and everyone looks down on us as 'dregs.' So we have no hope of fighting a conventional positional battle," Alexander explained. "But that also means the Orks will look down on us. To them, we're nothing more than an insignificant appetizer. They'll be arrogant. They'll underestimate us. And that is our opening."
"We will abandon the open plains on the outskirts and concentrate all our forces at a single point. A strategic position that's easy to defend and hard to attack, and that will infuriate the Orks as much as possible-the Iron Temple in Agricultural Zone 7."
"The Iron Temple?" Colonel Valeus frowned. "That's the largest grain processing and storage center in all of Viridia. A steel fortress made up of countless gigantic silos and processing plants. That place... is practically a meat grinder."
"Exactly." Excitement gleamed in Alexander's eyes. "It will be the 'hearth' we've prepared for the Orks. We'll be the flames inside it, and the millions of tons of grain dust stored in those enormous silos... will be our final 'surprise' for those hulking idiots."
Twelve hours later, as the 99th Regiment's dozens of rust-streaked transports belching black smoke lurched out of the asteroid's gravitational field like a swarm of hornets driven from their nest, Alexander stood on the flagship's bridge and delivered his second formal address to the entire regiment since taking command over the wide-area communications network.
His image appeared on the screens in every compartment of every transport.
"Soldiers! My brothers!"
His voice traveled through the circuits into every corner. The noisy, crowded compartments instantly fell silent. Every soldier, whether cleaning his weapon or praying under his breath, raised his head to watch the young figure on the screen.
"I just heard a joke. Someone said we're going to our deaths. Someone said we're garbage thrown out by the Imperium, sent to buy time so those truly 'noble' regiments can deploy at their leisure."
His words made many veterans breathe heavily. This was precisely the humiliation and resentment buried deep in their hearts that they least dared to touch.
"Yes! They're right!" Alexander abruptly changed tack, his voice rising sharply. "In their eyes, we are garbage! We are the lost souls of Cadia, the dregs of the Hive City, the rusted parts in the war machine! They abandoned us, forgot us, and despised us!"
"But!" He paused, every word striking the soldiers' hearts like a heavy hammer. "They forgot one thing!"
"What does garbage become when you set it alight?!"
"Flames!"
"What does rusted steel become when you reforge it in the hearth?!"
"A blade!"
"Today, we forgotten pieces of 'garbage' will become a wildfire that burns everything to ash! We rusted 'parts' will become a knife driven into the Orks' heart!"
"We're not going to our deaths! We're going for revenge! Revenge for our dead families! Revenge for our lost homes! And above all, to prove to everyone who looks down on us-the flame never went out! It was only waiting for a bigger hearth!"
"Viridia will be our hearth! The Orks will be our firewood! We will use their blood to set ourselves ablaze! We will make their screams the accompaniment to our battle song!"
"Remember! Who do we fight for?"
"Our families!" Sergeant Orik was the first to raise his arm and shout inside the compartment.
"Our families!!!" A thunderous response burst from tens of thousands of throats at once, the fervent roar making even the transports' hulls faintly resonate.
"What is the name of our home?"
"The 99th Regiment!!!"
"Who is the head of our family?"
"The Emperor!!!"
Alexander looked with satisfaction at the faces on the screen, flushed with excitement and fervor. He knew the first fire in his hearth was now well and truly lit.
"Move out!" He gave his final order. "Let's go... and stoke the Emperor's fire!"
Meanwhile, in orbit over Viridia Prime, a green carnival was unfolding.
The Ork warlord, Bonecrusher Grak "Ironjaw," sat on the bridge of his flagship, the Big Smash, which had been cobbled together from countless warship wrecks and pieces of space junk, idly picking strands of meat from between his tusks with an enormous metal wrench.
Grak was a typical Clan Ork. Huge, thickly muscled, and simple-minded, he revered pure strength and the most direct violence. He had become the leader of this Waaagh! not because he possessed any brilliant strategic mind, but because he was the biggest, loudest, and best fighter among all the Orks.
The raid had gone exceptionally smoothly. So smoothly that he felt a little... bored.
The "humies" on this planet were too weak. The planetary defense troops in their gaudy uniforms were practically made of paper before his Boyz, crumpling at the first charge. He had not even gotten a chance to go down himself and smash a few "tin cans'" heads.
"Boss," a Gretchin with one enormous eye, who handled communications, came scrambling up to his iron throne and shrieked, "We... we picked up a humie signal! Looks like... looks like new humies are comin' to this planet!"
"Eh?" Grak took the wrench out of his mouth, two jets of hot air spurting from his enormous nostrils. "How many? Are they tin cans?"
"N-no tin c-cans..." The Gretchin trembled all over in fear. "The signal's a mess. Looks like... a bunch of... scrap?"
"Scrap?" Grak furrowed brows thicker than city walls.
"Yeah, Boss! Their ships look like stuff we just dragged outta the scrapyard! They're flyin' slow and crooked, and they're smokin' too! I reckon they'll fall apart on their own before we even fire!" another Gretchin on lookout duty chimed in.
"Ha!" Grak opened his huge mouth and let out a thunderous laugh. "A bunch of broke humies ridin' scrap ships? They dare come fight me, Grak 'Ironjaw'? Have they come to give me their teef?"
The surrounding bosses joined in with deafening laughter.
"Boss is right!" shouted a boss waving an enormous cleaver. "Let me take a mob of Boyz and smash those scrap ships right outta the sky!"
"No need!" Grak waved an arm thicker than a Gretchin's waist. "Let 'em land."
A look of cruel anticipation appeared on his face.
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