Green Air

McGogg felt eyes on him. It was impossible to get any work done around Zardsnark's camp--and the zapp kannon on his work bench wasn't going to repair itself. McGogg poked a grimy finger deeper into the cracked, fused worky bits deep in the guts of the kannon, and waited for whomever it was to go away. They didn't. "Wot?!" he demanded. A bigger-than-average grot in the grease-smeared remains of worker's overalls stood in the doorway of McGogg's workshop. The little git swayed from foot to foot, refusing to make eye contact.

"Sumpthin's goan on at da fly strip," the grot said guiltily. Its eyes darted left, right, left again.

McGogg glared at the dirty little orkoid. " 'Sumpthin' meaning what?"

The grot refused to snitch. "Sumpthin," it said again.

McGogg knew that when more than two orks occupied the same general area, sumpthin was bound to happen. And sumpthin always meant mischief. McGogg had no time for mischief. Especially not down at the zoggin' fly strip. He headed for the door, pausing to pick up a driver with a chewed up bit. He tossed the worn-out tool to the grot, causing the little wretch to beam at McGogg like he was the git of Gork. McGogg hoped the small gift would distract the grot from thoughts of pilfering the workshop in his absence.

A short--but hot and plenty sweaty--walk later, McGogg approached the main hanger at the fly strip. Most of the ground krew was gathered in the shade of the rusting, corrugated tin building, watching Grod, the mob's newest--its only, really--fly boy bossing around some ammo runts as they labored to arm his plane. Every time Grod turned his back, the orks of the ground krew dug their elbows into each others' ribs and kept rubbing their faces, smearing the dirt around while attempting to hide insolent grins. Yar, McGogg thought. Mischief. McGogg strode over to the bright red aircraft, running his rough hand along the leading edge of a wing. The bomm doors in the belly of the plane stood open. Two empty bomm karts stood shivering in the heat ghosts rising from the black tarmac, and the ammo runts were pushing a third, fully loaded kart toward the plane. McGogg felt the blast-furnace sun beating down on his shoulders. His hand left the fighta-bommer's wing and he batted it in front of his face experimentally. The air was thin... tricksy. More Mork than Gork. He pointed to the laden bomm kart.

"Nar. That's enough bommz."

Grod turned and stared at him. Then he frowned. "Wot? I still got room." The fly boy slouched over and duck-walked underneath his plane, where he stuck his arm up into the open bomm bay and banged his knuckles around inside. "See? Ords of room." Grod impatiently waved the ammo runts over. "Fill'er up with boom."

McGogg bent over and joined Grod beneath the ork craft. He reached out with his right hand, grabbed a handful of filthy coverall, and casually flung one of the ammo runts away from the bomm kart. Then he wrapped the arm around Grod's shoulders, just tight enough so that the smaller ork could feel the crushing power it could deliver, and steered the fly boy toward the ladder leaning against the plane's side.

"Air's tricksy today. Thin, shivery. See?" McGogg pointed down the fly strip. The checkered flags marking the strip's far end hung slackly in heat, but mirages hovering over the baking tarmac made them appear to quiver and dance. "Air today won't hold you up with three karts of bomms. Now climb up there. There's a good lad."

Grod climbed the ladder and slid the canopy back. McGogg watched as the fly boy put two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly, waited, then cautiously reached into the cockpit. The ripper squig guarding the cockpit launched itself from wherever it had been hiding (under the pilot's seat most likely), coiled itself around Grot's arm, and sank its teeth up to the gums in the fly boy's arm. Grod stood on the ladder and looked at the squig as it gnawed and quivered, little more than a mouth full of needle teeth propelled by two vestigial legs. Then he swung his arm and smashed the squig against the fuselage. Twice. The weighty THUNKs of the squig's skull rebounding off the plane triggered a round of guffaws from the ork ground krew, but one of them pulled a sack from his belt and approached the plane. Grod pulled the profoundly stunned squig off his arm and tossed it to the krew ork, who quickly stuffed the gribbly little monster into the bag and tied the open end with a length of cast-off wire. Grod settled into the cockpit, and a moment later, a whine started up somewhere in the depths of the fighta-bommer.

McGogg climbed the ladder before one of the ground krew could take it away. Grod still had the canopy open, and when he noticed McGogg looking into the cockpit, he peeled his lips back and showed the Big Mek his teeth. Grod wanted to be shut of the earth. The speed fever was already on him. He didn't want any more advice.

McGogg pointed a claw at the go needle mounted at eye level on the rudimentary instrument panel. "Yer yank number today is 90," he shouted as the port turbofans caught and began rumbling.

"Yank number's 80. Ya told me that yerself."

McGogg slapped Grod on the helmet. "Tricksey air, remember? You yank the stick at 80, she'll throw a wobbly. Ya might fly, but ya won't fly enough. Today, yer yank number is 90."

Grod glared at him, but then he reached up and rapped his knuckles against his crash helmet. The gesture was ork for I understand you. I have it up here, in my nog. McGogg nodded, slide the cockpit forward on its rails until it locked with a clunk, and descended the ladder. Now, he had to trust Grod's proven flying skills but also his questionable judgment to bring the fighta-bommer back in one piece.

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