The Foulnest Rackets Part 17: The Shift Before Fistmas

'Twas the shift before Fistmas, and all through Foulnest,

The creds were now counted, the gangers took rest;

The rackets were claimed, much blood had been spilt,

Rivalries kindled, and turf kingdoms built.

The Dreadhooks held court down at old Dogsump Dock,

And Foulnesters feared the Rustgaters' knock,

These crews above all were top of the pile,

Winthrop without mercy, Ray Void with a smile.

Still, others had prospered and plotted revenge,

(Or at least to lop off the last limb of Jo Genge):

The Smokestack Needles held the smuggling routes,

Which, along with the ghast trade, filled their Escher-made boots;

The Carrion boys and their ally stimm-lords

Offered prayers to the Emprah for ill-got rewards;

The cold trade was run by the Veiled Cartel,

With melta in darkness they raised merry hell;

The Guns of Jonn Gunn some vexation felt

As they strained at their bond to the Mercator Gelt;

And Precinct 13 were the heroes unsung

As they upheld the law - or elsewise took a bung.

(Doyle the captain was pleased as can be,

For he had Gunn himself under tight lock and key;

Now the Guns were a-planning a jailbreak bold.

But that downhive tale is still yet to be told...)

The pickings were rich and the gangers felt blessed,

This truly was boom time in New Old Foulnest!

The markets were teeming, the furnaces lit,

The wagers and blood filled the old fighting pit.

But for each cred the gangs took, the Guilders got five,

There's the sour-born wisdom running right through the hive:

From spiretop to sumpbed, it scans e'er the same,

The Guilds grab the credits, the gangs take the pain.

What can you do? That's underhive life,

All scrapping and scragging and violence and strife;

Yet there's wildsnake to swallow and stimms to be sniffed,

Happy Fistmas to all, and to all a good shift!

The Foulnest Rackets Part 16: The Scrag Trade

To say that Jonn Gunn was dissatisfied with his treatment at the hands of Coiner Guilder Lymeris Van Scultis would be like saying that Hive Primus is somewhat tall. Ever since his crew had been outlawed, Gunn had been trapped in a web of obligation to the Guilder, the promise of bounties revoked keeping him compliant even as his hard-won reputation was dragged through the sump. It rankled with him, painful like a gutshot wound.

But the grizzled venator figured he had a way out: the second chrono-crystal that the Guns had acquired during the Great Power-Down. It would surely be of interest to Van Scultis, perhaps enough to persuade her to issue writs of pardon. The tricky part was gaining an audience with the Guilder – all contact with the Guns was conducted at a remove by Skinflint Devinscar, and Gunn didn't want to risk revealing his hand too soon. There was only one option: sneak into a Guild mart and confront Van Scultis in person.

This was what brought Gunn, Drifter Zensen and Ashman Gwalt to the secure zone in Foulnest Core that shift. The op was to infiltrate the market, locate Van Scultis, and strike a bargain. Simple enough, but there was bound to be an enforcer presence, not to mention other guns-for-hire who might fancy claiming a bounty or two. Gunn's Guns came scrap-ready, but were keeping their hardware hidden under capacious robes.

Drifter convinced one of the perimeter guards to look the other way for a few clicks, and the Guns entered through a heavy blast portal. Inside, the secure zone was teeming with activity. The side chamber they'd entered connected to the main hallway of the market, which was well-lumened by underhive standards, and notably so in contrast to the gloomy side chambers. Room here for all kinds of trade, overt and secretive. From previous trips here, before the outlawing, Gunn knew that Van Scultis would be holding court at the far end of the hallway, off to the left. Up ahead, a shame-mob was in full swing, with a sonorous-voiced preacher driving a gaggle of Cawdors in a righteous beat-down of some poor chained-up sinner.

'Gwalt,' said Gunn, 'we'll be needing a distraction, something to draw eyes towards that shame-mob. See if you can't get involved, stir up a little dust.'

'Spire-straight, chief,' nodded Ashman, and darted forwards.

He sidled into the edge of the mob and aimed a clumsy slap at the chained recidivist. 'Take that, ya scum!'

The Cawdors cheered his efforts, but the gaunt preacher was running a tight affair – he dashed over to Ashman and gripped him firmly by the arm.

'Son,' he said, 'your enthusiasm is most welcome. Let me ask you, have you truly heard the redeeming word of Him-On-Terra?'

Ashman squirmed. 'Well, aye, sure I do, I have. I mean, he's the big guy, the big ol' Emprah.'

The preacher fixed Ashman with a steely gaze. 'And blessed are we all to bask in his radiant light. But there is the coarse belief of the common man, and there is the utter devotion of the unstinting believer. So again, I ask you, have you truly heard his redeeming word?'

Gunn and Drifter watched as Ashman continued to squirm in the preacher's grasp, and the Cawdors continued to pummel the prisoner.

'Well that's not quite how I scanned it,' said Gunn. 'But we're on a clock here. Come on.'

They moved to the edge of the main hall, stopping behind a cluster of mercs and merchants who were passing the time of shift and taking a vague interest in the shame-mob. Gunn eyed the hallway.

'Fragdammit.'

'What's up, boss?' said Drifter.

'See over there, that fella in purple, the fancy uphive clothes?'

'With the hat? So what?'

'That's only Slash Memento. Bounty hunter, a good one, too. I know him, and he knows me. He scopes me, that's the sneak job down the pipe, and there'll be blood.'

'Right, right,' said Drifter. 'But he doesn't know me...'

Gunn caught Drifter's drift. 'Alright, get over there, get him talking or something, see if you can keep him from looking my way while I move on.'

Drifter nodded and stepped out across the hall. The blast door off to the right, beyond the shame-mob, rumbled open, and Gunn glimpsed grey and red armour. Precinct 13. The game had just got far riskier for the Guns, but what choice did they have?

''Scuse me, sir,' said Drifter, tapping his mark on the shoulder, 'but ain't you Slash Memento?'

The bounty hunter turned, looking askance at this rag-draped scummer who's accosted him. 'So what if I am? Who's asking?'

'Ah, I thought it was you, I seen picts. I gotta say, sir, I am a big, big admirer of your, er, work.'

Drifter was laying on the blather like he had with the doorman. Gunn seized his chance and shuffled off past the cluster of traders. As he passed, he overheard snips of their chatter, talk of how this was a usual shift at the mart: guns-for-hire looking for work; docs offering their services in Cutter's Corner; thronebotherers looking to talk to anyone who'd listen. Apparently, it was worth steering clear of the chambers the other side of the main hall – Goliath and Orlock crews facing off there over some longstanding bad blood. And, of course, the wares for sale, the offers, counteroffers and back-and-forth haggling. Nothing Gunn hadn't heard before.

Ashman had prised himself away from the preacher and was now parallel to Gunn on the other side of the hall. Gunn was edging past three hooded Cawdors and heading into a shadowy side corridor when the crackle of an enforcer helm-vox sounded: 'Hey, you!'

Shrinking back into the shadows, Gunn glanced back up the main hall. One of the Precinct 13 officers had used his riot shield to bash his way through the shame-mob and was advancing on Drifter and Memento.

Drifter grimaced. No choice but to brass it out.

'Officer! Ah, um, glad to see you! Can I maybe introduce you to one of the finest – no, er, the finest venator this side of the heat sinks? This is none other than Slash Memento. Slash – you don't mind if I call you that, right -, meet Officer, er, sorry, I didn't catch your...'

'Officer Malone and myself are acquainted, as it happens,' said Memento drily as the enforcer loomed over them.

'O, I scope it, right right,' said Drifter, grinning weakly. 'Well, in that case I'll leave the two of you to catch up on all the goings-on. Who's hot on the wanted list, and all that...'

He stepped away, fixing to head back the way he'd come, but he didn't get five paces. Shouldn't have mentioned the wanted list.

'Freeze, creep!' barked Officer Malone. 'You're one of Jonn Gunn's boys, ain't you?'

Drifter would have broken and run, but he was penned in between Malone and a new enforcer arrival – Rin the cybermastiff, who powered through the Cawdor crowd up the hallway. In a few clicks, they had Drifter Zensen pinned and magnacled on the deck. The shame-mob preacher bustled over, keen to lay the word on this poor recidivist and maybe bag a new convert to his cause.

If Rin was in the zone, Captain Doyle himself wouldn't be far away, and there was real toxy blood between the enforcer captain and the Guns. Even less time on the clock than Jonn Gunn had expected. He ducked down the shadowy passage, hoping to loop round and reconnect with the main hall right next to Van Scultis and her entourage. The sound of shots echoed through the mart, presumably those Orlock and Goliath rivals throwing down; Gunn prayed to Terra that it'd distract the enforcers and draw them away.

He ghosted through the gloom, rounding a corner and clocking Ashman, who'd similarly dodged being recognised by the coppers, at the lit junction ahead. Just a fat merchant and his bodyguards to muscle past, no problem. It was all down to these last few metres – if he could reach Van Scultis and claim sanctuary from her, Precinct 13 would have to back down.

But then there was commotion over beyond the junction: two Orlocks ran into view, shoving past Ashman and the merchant crew. As they dashed by, Gunn heard one of them: 'That Ray Void, fragdammit, he's crazy!'

Back on the other side of the junction, a couple of bloodied Goliaths were running the same way as the Orlocks, but they didn't get as far. Shots rang out, and the Goliaths dropped. The fat merchant, panicked, had his crew hustle him out of the line of fire.

As bodies cleared out of the way, Gunn gazed across the junction, past Ashman on the corner, far into the chamber beyond. There was Raymond Void, strolling forwards with a smirk on his face, bolter muzzle smoking.

But he wasn't the only rival boss on the scene.

'Jonn Gunn!' The amplified vox echoed down the corridors. 'This is Captain Doyle. I know you're there, you damned dirty skuthead, and I'm taking you in, dead or alive!'

No point in the disguise any more. Gunn cast off his loose robes, revealing his battered armour. Ashman did likewise.

Ray Void. doubtless accompanied by some of the Rustgate OMC, was a wild card here. Sure, there was bitter history between the crews, running back to the long trek across E-Sec all those cycles ago, but the Guns and the Rustgaters had worked together before, at the Battle of Foulnest. Plus, they were fellow outlaws. Surely that would count for something?

'Void!' called Gunn hoarsely, 'We've got the heat right on us here! What say we set our iron on them together?'

Void was approaching the junction, but still out of sight of the approaching coppers. He called back over his shoulder, to one of his crewmates out of sight, 'Hey, Jo! I got Gunn himself here, he wants to strike a truce! Whaddaya think?'

Gunn couldn't quite hear Old Jo Genge's answer. But, whether or not he'd listened, Void's decision was immediately clear – he levelled his bolter and took Ashman down in a hail of shells.

So much for an alliance.

Malone was striding forwards over prone, bleeding Ashman. With him was Officer Riggs, clipping a fresh clip into her bolter. Gunn glimpsed Ray Void darting around the corner behind them, heading straight for an audience with Van Scultis, and no doubt a deal of his own. The enforcers must have clocked Void's presence, but it looked like Jonn Gunn was the only outlaw on their wanted list this shift. Ragged sheen birds were coming home to roost.

With his crew out of action and Van Scultis beyond reach, Gunn realised that all he could do was run.

He turned back down the shadowy corridor, ducking as Riggs's boltershells ripped into the bulkheads around him. He was hit: the shots tore up his armour and drew blood. Malone was on him, stimmed up and hammering down with his shield, but Gunn had his power knife out, the blade keening as it dug into the enforcers armour and put him down. With one smart stab, Gunn finished the job.

No time to take satisfaction, though. Gunn took another step the way he'd come, but the lumenlight from the main hall way was smeared out by a towering silhouette. Captain Doyle.

'You're not walking away this time,' snarled the enforcer. He'd slung his shotgun and drawn his stubber for close-up scrapping. Gunn didn't doubt it was loaded with dum-dums.

'Let's see about that,' said Gunn, smoothly reversing his grip on the knife.

The two men traded blows, but each was a veteran of countless downhive death duels. Doyle sidestepped Gunn's knife swing with alacrity that belied his bulk; Gunn turned Doyle's stubber aside with his elbow and ducked beneath the enforcer's jabbing fist. Gunn dragged the knife back, but Doyle twisted to the side and the energised blade only scraped his armour. Doyle fired blind, point blank, but the dum-dum merely grazed Gunn's ear.

This could have run on all shift, but Riggs was muscling in, looking to back up her captain. Gunn's attention was split between his two attackers, and Doyle pressed the advantage. He drew his fist back, shifted his weight and threw a punch that connected squarely with Jonn Gunn's jaw, sending him reeling onto his back.

The scrap, the op, perhaps Gunn's life as a free man - all over in less time than it takes to reload a las clip. Enforcer Captain Doyle laughed grimly and unclipped the magnacles on his belt as he loomed over the fallen venator.

'You're nicked, my scum.'

The Foulnest Rackets Part 15: Get Glaw

Gunn's Guns heard tell that the Veiled Cartel and their rogue noble benefactor, Lady Astrid Glaw, had been scoped in the lower levels of Foulnest – this was tattle that demanded an armed response. There was a lingering score to settle, particularly with Glaw herself, but with Jonn Gunn otherwise occupied, it fell to Noomena Greyz to lead Snags, Mumbles and Lazko, as well as allied mercs Kayles Djyf and Bludgeoner Borb, on a takedown op.

The Guns tracked the Cartel down to a stretch of tunnels overgrown with aggressive vegetation – the Delaques were on the hunt for tox-sap and other derivatives which might make for good blade venom – and experience warned that the badzone plant life was liable to be as much a threat as the opposing gang. Scragging Glaw was the priority, and the plan was to split in two and pincer the crew she was running with. The op called for swift action – Glaw's entourage was small, but reinforcements were doubtless nearby and would turn up quickly once things got hot.

Noomena, Snags and Borb started moving through the tunnels, straight towards Glaw's last-scanned position. Snags was back in action after the chrono-crystal incident, which had affected him worse than any of the Guns except poor dead Ratbite. Considering how much he'd aged, Snags was looking remarkably spry, scuttling ahead and brushing aside the grasping tendrils of a stand of tangleweed that had shambled into his path.

'Take it easy, geez,' said Noomena, peering into the flickering gloom beyond. 'The Cartel are wily fraggers.'

'Heh, don't I know it!' said Snags, his face doubling its wrinkles as he grinned. 'I've scrapped with these creeps enough times to know what to expect.' He paused, unsure. 'Wait, have I already? Or is that's what we're here for?'

Noomena shrugged and moved past him. She could sympathise with his confusion, having endured a less intense but still confusing blast of time-displacement from the shattered crystal. 'I dunno, old man – but let's keep our scopes on the prize.'

Borb the Bludgeoner, scum for hire, shuffled along behind them, wondering what the frag these people were blathering about.

A tunnel or two over, Mumbles and Lazko were following Djyf into the gloom. They moved carefully so as not to trigger a barb-flurry from the jagged row of shardwrack spines that lurked in the corridor behind them.

Djyf suddenly stopped with a sharp intake of breath. He stared ahead into the dim lumenlight.

'What?' said Lazko. 'What is it, man?'

'Cicero...' hissed Djyf.

'Hrrrgh?' said Mumbles.

'I didn't think I'd cross paths with him again...' said the Delaque merc. Without warning, he sprinted off into the chamber beyond.

'Hey, baldy! Wait!' barked Lazko. 'Ah, skut, there goes the plan...'

And then the lights went out.

'Hrrgh hrr-rr,' said Mumbles.

'Plan beta is right,' said Lazko, turning back. 'Just as well we figured these creeps would pull something like this.'

Plan beta was for Lazko's sub-crew to drop their pincer move and reinforce Noomena and the rest on the main line of attack. There were bound to be more Cartel members in the zone now; better to scrape some safety in numbers than stay dispersed and get picked off piecemeal in the darkness. Lazko and Mumbles turned back the way they'd come, leaving Djyf to his fool vendetta – a showdown with the Cartel's resident spyker which ended with the bounty hunter on the deck, twisted in mind-wrought agony as Cicero floated over and slipped a dagger between his ribs.

Meanwhile, Noomena, Snags and Borb had muscled their way past the grappleweed to a heavy blast door. The zone's ancient security array was just about still running, and the venators clocked a staticky vid-display on the wall: Glaw and two of the Cartel were just the other side of the blast door, likewise advancing past grappleweed and shardwracks.

Noomena and Snags hadn't worked together that many cycles, but, perhaps aided by the skewing effects of the chrono crystal, they'd hit on a decent understanding of each other's tactical thinking: both favoured the high-risk move. Bludgeoner Borb had no such insight, which was why he was taken aback when Snags readied his shotgun and Noomena abruptly pressed the control switch for the blast door.

A lot happened in just a few clicks. The crews were close enough that it barely mattered that the lumens were out. As Noomena and Snags had expected, bloodthirsty Astrid Glaw was unable to resist charging, her expansive skirts billowing as she vaulted over a rough barricade and into combat with Snags. Perhaps it was his time-warped battle-nous, perhaps just sheer luck, but he weathered the rain of digiblasts with ease. Noomena darted fluidly into the fray, discharging her plasma pistol and lashing out with her stiletto blade. A sharp play which could have worked, but the Guns hadn't reckoned on Glaw's displacer field. As Noomena's blows landed, Glaw blinked out and reappeared a few feet away – just behind Snags and Noomena, and just next to Borb.

The scummer was utterly surprised by the noble teleporting in half a metre away. Borb's whole body twitched in alarm, his finger wrenching the trigger of his sawn-off shotgun, which fired jerkily. And blasted Lady Astrid Glaw's head clean off.

The disgraced uphiver stood for a moment, her towering wig balanced precariously on what remained of her skull, before dropping like a lump of rockcrete, her skirts settling on the rusty deck.

Op accomplished – but the Veiled Cartel were still on the prowl. Glaw's bodyguards were in the doorway. One of them, veteran Delvin, levelled his web pistol and fired an expanding tangle of goop that wrapped around Noomema, Snags and Borb. All three dropped to the floor, writhing as the web-chems constricted them.

Back around the corner, Mumbles and Lazko were sneaking forward, still looking to bolster their crewmates.

'Hhhm hhhrrr grrrh.'

'Yeah, I can't raise them on the vox either,' said Lazko. 'Something's gone sumpwards.'

Mumbles, a step ahead, peered out into the gloom. He couldn't make out anything. Then, there was a sharp hiss which built from silence to searing crescendo in a split click. Mumbles was on the deck, screaming through his rope gag before slipping unconscious. A solid melta hit, which could mean only one thing: the notorious Lucien, mastermind of the Veiled Cartel, was out there nearby, in the darkness.

But this wasn't Lazko Ozwik's first gang fight, not by a long stretch. Bitter-borne instincts kicked in and he levelled his plasmagun in the direction where, judging by the sound and Mumbles's reaction, Lucien was most likely to be lurking. He flicked the blast limiter off and opened fire, full power.

The scene was briefly fully lit as the plasma blast caught Lucien in the arm, cooking his hand. He didn't scream, but as the plasmalight faded, Lazko saw him drop. Job done – but then he felt a stab at the base of his spine. It wasn't a Delaque dagger, but a jabbing knot of grappleweed. Lazko gasped and went down, tendrils of weed wrapping themselves around his limbs.

Noomena was likewise entangled as she fought against the web that was digging into her flesh, drawing blood. She could just about see that Delvin and his crony were holding back, but she couldn't figure why. There was a grim moan behind her, and she twisted round. Just enough light to see that Snags was free of the web. Only it wasn't Snags. There was something clamped to his head. Another peril of scrapping in a jungle badzone. A brainleaf.

'Ah, skut,' growled Noomena as not-Snags lurched forward and fell on her. She just about had enough time to scan through what would happen next – provided he didn't bite her throat out straight off, the leaf on Snags would slough off a copy of itself onto her, and then she'd be...

Devlin held his gangmate back as the ancient man and sharp-haired woman – now drooling brainleaf zombies, lurched to their feet. Word had just come through on the Cartel's whispervox that Lucien was down and needed recovery, but actioning that depended on what the zombies did next.

To the Delaques' relief, they turned and staggered over to the still-webbed Borb, who'd used up his luck with the killshot on Glaw.

'That's that,' muttered Delvin. 'Let's grab the maestro and vanish.'

The Veiled Cartel vacated the badzone.

Half a shift later, the lumens were back on, the jungle had calmed down, and the brainleaves had withered and dropped off Snags and Noomena. Lazko, who'd frred himself from the grappleweed and was half-carrying the badly-burnt Mumbles, found them slumped against the blast door near what was left of Borb the Bludgeoner.

'You folks okay?' said Lazko.

'Aye,' said Noomena, wincing as she rubbed her scalp where the leaf had dug in. 'Frag me, I feel like I just got dredged out of the sump. What a shift. I hope the boss had a better time on his trip to the trading post.'

'Look at it spirewards, though,' said Snags with a grimace. 'We came here to get Glaw. And we got Glaw.'

'Well, he got Glaw,' said Noomena, nodding at the scattered bits of Borb.

Snags punched her arm gamely. 'Come on, that guy's the best scummer we've ever hired! He took out the target, didn't rat on us to Precinct 13 and – best of all – you and me ain't gonna need to be fed for a whole shift cycle!'

The Foulnest Rackets Part 14: What's Old Is New Is Old

Lazko Ozwik had followed the E-Sec trail to Foulnest because he'd heard it was boom time there, the domes awash with credits as the caravan routes to the ash roads opened up. The sort of place a man of his disreputation could carve a living. Considering his less-than-spirestraight history, Gunn's Guns seemed like just the crew to sign on with. And so here he was, bringing his plasma gun to the fray for the outlaw venators.

The scrap was a slow-escalation op as four Foulnest mobs explored a high-level dome cluster on the badzone fringes. Gunn's Guns, the Rustgate OMC, the Foulnest Carrion and Precinct 13, all scattered about, scouting for loot, but now converging in dribs and drabs a web of walkways above a gaping chasm. 'Drifter' Zensen and Ozwik were first on the scene for the Guns, but the latter was having trouble drawing a bead on Rustgater Joe Genge.

'Fragdammit,' said Drifter as his lasbolt yet again punched the wall behind the swaying Genge, 'It's not me, I swear – it's that we spiked him with second best when we ran into him in that tunnel.'

Old Joe was accompanied by fellow Orlock Aberama, who was toting a lascannon. Overkill, to be sure, but a solid deterrent. Ozwik and Drifter stuck to the shadows, happy to let the Carrion fighters surge forward and draw the Rustgaters away. And the enforcers were weaving their way around the far side of the dome – Ozwik had been fully scoped in on the bad blood between the Guns and Precinct 13, and agreed with Drifter that it was wise to hold back until more of their crewmates turned up.

The venators watched as the Carrion found themselves pincered by the Orlocks and enforcers. All three opponents were taking casualties, but reinforcements were trickling in steadily from the portals and ladders at the dome edge. So too for the Guns – Ashman had clambered up onto the platform below his gangmates.

Drifter hissed with satisfaction as he finally got in a good shot. He'd been aiming for Aberama, but the lasbolt ricocheted and sent Genge tumbling into the pit below. A hit from one of the other gangs put Aberama down, and Ozwik chanced a plasma shot, drawing more blood.

Most of the Guns had arrived by now, and the badzones were once again proving their name – the lumens flickered erratically, and unseen vents turbo-charged, scouring the dome with intense gales. Fighters were swarming on the walkways now – too many. As had happened before in these uppermost reaches of E-Sec, the platform network wrenched free of its moorings and plummeted to the domefloor below. Not as far as might have been feared, but the whole domespace rumbled its complaint, dangerously unstable.

The drop had taken several fighters out and disoriented the rest, but the domefloor was now a viable avenue of attack. Precinct 13 had been reinforced by Murphy, their repurposed ambot. The mech-brute's target acquisition systems gave it an edge over its fellow officers – it recognised the Guns as most wanted targets and, eschewing the distraction of the Cawdors and Orlocks, turned to lumber towards them. Mumbles and Ashman opened fire, but their shots fell short.

By now, Jonn Gunn himself had turned up, clambering down a ladder onto the domefloor and moving to confront the ambot. He was late to the fight – ever since the incident with the chrono crystal last cycle, he'd found himself out of sorts and prone to getting lost in levels of Foulnest he knew well, as if he hadn't walked those tunnels for a long, long time. Now, his crew watched him advance under the walkway they'd positioned themselves on – but then he froze between steps.

Gunn winced as something flashed through his mind. A memory – of something that hadn't yet happened. He could see himself and the Guns taking on Murphy, see the ambot's melta blasts shimmer in the air, see its buzz-bladed claws swinging. He could see his crew bleeding, dying.

'Forget this, boys – it's not worth it!' he called up, and backed away and out of the dome.

'What the frag?' said Ozwik. 'He only just got here?'

'Hhh hrrrg,' said Mumbles.

'Boss is the boss,' said Ashman. 'He says we're better off leaving these skuts to scrap it out, so be it.'

Gunn's Guns melted away into the badzones. All except one of them.

The Delaque bounty hunter had been assigned to the Guns by Guilder Van Scultis herself – recognition of the gang's affiliation with the Coiners, even if that affiliation couldn't be publicly acknowledged. A scrap-seasoned veteran who'd bossed a gang back in Old Bedlam Town, there wasn't much in the Underhive that Kayles Djyf hadn't seen in his long cycles as a freelance. He was a capable fighter, but a prideful man. He reckoned he could show these amateurs how to take out an ambot.

Black robes fluttering, Djyf darted forward to the cover of a container stack. He craned around the corner and fired his bolt pistol at the ambot. The shells burst on its metal hide, and still it kept coming. Djyf resolved to do this the old fashioned way.

He darted forward again, pistol in one hand, stiletto sword in the other. The ambot's auspex array whirred as it tried to accommodate this fast approaching target. Too slow – Djyf was on it, pistol barking and sword lancing into its armour. Ambot Murphy's interior readouts registered tox influx into its organic components. Enough to weaken it but not put it down. The ambot recalibrated its assault protocols and unleashed hell on Kayles Djyf. The Delaque bounty hunter was lucky to escape with his life. So much for showing the amateurs.

Precinct 13 won the dome that shift, doggedly outlasting the Guns, the Carrion, and finally the Rustgaters. The war for the Foulnest Rackets may have been grinding to an end, but there were still plenty of creds to claim, and plenty of blood to be spilled.

The Foulnest Rackets Part 13: A Bitter Tomorrow

'Ashman' Gwalt jolted awake, nearly rolling off the rough bunk he'd been napping on.

'Oh, scut, I must've gone lights-out, didn't hear you folks,' he said.

'Could've been the death of you,' said Noomena Greyz, and then, with a sarcastic edge, 'We can assume no-one crept in and trapwired the place while we were securing the zone?'

The rest of Gunn's Guns – Noomena, 'Snags' Skivvens, 'Ratbite' Ruddlestone, 'Mumbles' Mervik and old Jonn Gunn himself - were shuffling into the cramped habhole that served as their current hideout. 'Drifter' Zensen was away for the cycle, checking caravan waypoints in Dogland on behalf of the Coin Guild.

'Ah, yeah,' said Ashman ruefully. 'Sorry, folks.'

'Never mind all that,' said Jonn Gunn. 'Now we've locked this place down, let's see what our haul was.'

When the power had cut all across Foulnest core a couple of cycles ago, a merry shift of wanton looting had ensued, but Gunn's Guns had been too busy licking their wounds after their previous scrap. When it had happened again, they hadn't wanted to miss out. Alliance be sumpdamned – the Coiners were refusing to lift the bounties off the Guns' heads, so why not liberate some goods from the Guilders' freight-rigs while the lights were out? They'd briefly come to blows with a newcomer Orlock gang before both crews realised it was in their best interests to hold fire and maximise their plunder; on the way back to the hideout, they'd almost fallen foul of Precinct 13 – though it looked like the enforcers were on the rob just like everyone else. Snags had stumbled into a stand-off between the coppers and the Faithful Sons, who'd finally found their way out of the E-Sec badzones. Things could've got bloody, but the venators followed Jonn Gunn's lead out of there, leaving the Cawdors and coppers to settle their differences.

Now, back at the hideout, they piled up their loot on a rusty old crate in the middle of the room.

'Huh,' said Snags. 'It don't look like much when you lay it out like that.'

'Hhhhrgh?' said 'Mumbles' Mervik through his rope gag, pointing at a small sealed cannister.

Noomena picked it up and eyed the code stamped on the casing. 'Looks like slaught. Nasty stimm, gets you bloodhungry alright, but mighty addictive. Good for one dose.'

She placed the slug back down amongst the items. A pair of photogoggles. A mesh vest and set of gauntlets. A boxy industrial cutting tool. And a small black bag made of plush, shiny fabric. Its mouth was zipped closed with a drawstring, and it vibed weird. Uphive, or something even more exotic.

'Never mind the junk,' said Noomena, 'what's that?'

Snags stooped and peered at the bag. 'Dunno. Why don't you open it?'

'Why don't you open it? you're practically kissing it,' said Noomena.

Snags straightened up, still staring at the bag. 'I.... I don't wanna.'

Unusual tone from the avaricious Snags. 'Ratbite' Ruddlestone tittered through his sewn-up lips, amused at his gangmates' hesitance.

'Hrrgh mrrrgh,' said Mumbles.

'He's right,' said Ashman. 'That thing... feels weird.'

'That thing?' said Noomena. 'We don't even know what it is yet.'

'Enough all this,' said Jonn Gunn, shoving forward and picking up the bag. He loosened the drawstring and emptied the contents onto the crate.

Two glittering crystals, mulitfaceted to a degree that they were almost spherical.

'Huh,' said Gunn. 'Well that's that.'

'Look fancy,' said Ashman. 'Could be worth something.'

'Spire-straight-up,' said Noomena. 'They're glitzy, though. Maybe they go with that cutter box. Focusing crystals or something.'

'Fetch a few creds either way,' said Gunn.

'Hrrrgh! Hhhh hrrrrr! Hrrrrg!'

'Wait a click, Mumbles is right,' said Snags. 'They look like them chrono crystals, you know, old Bald Bryen's chrono crystals.'

'Come on,' said Noomena, 'those things are rarer than ash clam teeth. No way we're going to just run across one of them in a guilder stash, let alone two.'

'Hrrrgh! Hrrrr hrrrr hrrrgh! Ghhh!'

'So you saw one at the Rust Town games one time, so what?' said Ashman. 'You were probably off your nut on wildsnake.'

'Maybe so,' said Gunn, chopping a stretched hand to halt the bickering. 'But if Mumbles is right, what we've got here is worth a hell of a lot more than a couple of focusing crystals.'

Crafty Snags pursued the thought. 'Yeah, and even if they ain't the real deal, all we gotta do is, ah, disabuse some skuthead buyer of the notion... hey!'

This exclamation because Ratbite had wormed his way between his crewmates and grabbed the two crystals. He capered to the hatch end of the habhole, Snags right after him. Ashman and Mumbles, exasperated, stalked back to the bunk end. Gunn and Noomena remained in the centre, cursing after Ratbite. Cackling wildly, the abhuman sniper had pulled out his stiletto knife and started juggling, tossing the crystals in the air alongside the blade.

'Sumpdammit, you wee scrape, come here!' snarled Snags, lunging for Ratbite.

'Cut your fool feed,' ordered Gunn. 'That's a lot of creds you're messing with.'

Ratbite ignored them and continued his act, which was all going well – until it wasn't. He caught his hairy foot on a loose cable protruding from the hab wall and stumbled. The knife clattered to the deck. One of the crystals landed safely in his palm. The other didn't.

It hit the deck and shattered. For a moment, a hurricane torrent, louder and fiercer than the worst ash storm, blasted through the habhole. Everything turned white. And then, just as suddenly, back to normal. Well, almost.

'Ashman' Gwalt jolted awake, nearly rolling off the rough bunk he'd been napping on.

'Oh, scut, I must've gone lights-out.... hey, wait, what?'

Next to him, in front of the bunk, Mumbles bent double and clutched his stomach. He was desperately hungry.

A step along, Gunn blinked and stared around. His armour was more pitted, more corroded than before, and dusted with a thin coat of ash. 'What in Emprah's name just happened?' he growled, scratching his beard, which was now long and unkempt.

'Frag me, my eye! I'm half fragging blind!' This was Noomena, on her knees and clutching at her face. Her hair was longer, natural black at the tips beyond her customary dye job.

Gunn glanced past Noomena and saw an old man, older than Gunn himself. The old man looked like Snags would look if he'd seen two dozen more long cycles pass by. The old man was Snags, rolling and moaning on his back.

And at the end of the chamber, Ratbite – or something like him. A strange homunculus, dry and wizened. A mummified ratling. Before the crew's eyes, it began to crack and flake away, crumbling into a pile of ash at the habhole door.

Two things glinted in the lumenlight, half-buried in the ash. Ragged Jonn Gunn took a step forward and clocked what they were.

The second chrono crystal. And Lurbo 'Ratbite' Ruddlestone's imperial guard dog tags.

++++++++++++++++

At the outermost extreme of the Necromunda system, aboard astropathic relay station Clarion of Helmawr, High Logicsticite Bremmed Strees was locked in debate with the black-clad delegation who'd translated in from the outer void and thoroughly ruined his work rotation.

'By the Throne, it's not that I doubt the veracity of your credentials,' he implored with a nervous wince. 'Far be it from me to show such impertinence. It's just... just... there's been nothing, nothing irregular. And you arrived unannounced – we were unable to conduct the proper rites!'

Strees shook his head and fervently twisted his hands into an aquila. The leader of the black-clad delegation said nothing but smiled and stared at the Logisticite across the control-pulpit.

'It's... it's simply so irregular! I mean, to arrive with no -'

A low-grade factotum sidled up to Strees and handed him a dataslate before slinking away. Strees was raising the slate to read it when the delegation leader cut in.

'It says there's been an urgent transmission from the Eye of Selene. Relaying a report from the psykana overwatch choirs in the Palace Imperial. Specifically, from the tempus division, seventeen of whom spontaneously combusted approximately three solar hours ago. Cause unknown, but concurrent with a spike of empyrico-temporal energy emanating from the lower reaches of Hive Primus.'

Strees's eyes flicked from the hooded delegate to the dataslate and back. And then to the dataslate. And back. And back and forth several more times.

'That's... that's exactly what it says. But we've only just received this transmission, how could you possibly....?'

The delegate smiled.

'Oh,' said Strees. 'Oh, of course. Blessed are we, that Him-on-Earth provides us with such... perspicacious defenders. Please, if you and your fellows would come this way?'

Like any Throne-fearing Imperial subject, Strees knew better than to question the authority of the Holy Inquisition, and his grasp of High Gothic was such that even he could see that whatever had happened in the bowels of Hive Primus was necessarily of interest to the Ordo Chronos.

The Foulnest Rackets Part 12: Gunn Alone

So Brokeface Edwydd had ratted Gunn's Guns out to Precinct 13, and some kind of targeted crackdown action by the enforcers was coming down the pipe sooner rather than later. When exactly was hard to say, so the outlaw venators took to going about their Foulnest business mobhanded and steeled by pain-retardant stimms, ever ready for an ambush. Still, it came as a surprise when a snipershot dropped Mumbles Mervik off a low walkway as the Guns worked their way between the vacant blocks in a dead hab dome.

Amplified vox echoed from all around: 'Jonn Gunn, you are wanted for anti-Guild sedition. Lay down your weapons and surrender. You have sixty seconds to comply.'

Gunn had three thoughts: first, it was damned stupid that he was wanted by the Guild – he worked for the Guild, for Emprah's sake; second, by naming him, the coppers had made this a beheading job – no doubt as payback for what had happened to Captain Angel after Ratbite's knifework; third, that was five seconds gone already.

'Get over behind those pipes,' he barked to his domefloor crew, which consisted of Noomena, Drifter and life-coin scummer 'Filthy' Frenk. The latter two made it over the pipes and into the shadows of a ventworks that supported the walkway above, but more boltshells were already flying past them, and Gunn and Noomena only just managed to dive for cover.

Gunn would have to count on his fighters in the hab towers. Ratbite was up there – and only now did Gunn scope why the ratling had been acting like a plague zee all shift. Illicit stimms usually kept him sniper-sharp, but the sumpsucking coppers must've spiked his dose back in Foulnest core. Gunn prayed that Ratbite's bone-deep Guard training would burn through the spike.

At least scummer Ashman was up there too. Gunn chanced a glance up the side of the hab block and clocked Ashman, but also clocked an enforcer sidling up on his blindspot. And then he clocked the hulking metal form lumbering across the uppermost bridge between the towers. An ambot, emblazoned with Precinct 13 glyphics. The coppers had brought their heavy gear. So much for the boys in the towers.

'This way, Jonn,' said Noomena, scrambling along the pipe and under the shadowy eaves of the nearest hab block. Gunn duly followed, glancing left and right across the domefloor as he did so. Looked like there were two teams of enforcers, one either side, each making disciplined advances, sticking to cover until the noose was tight enough to jerk shut. There was a scream from above. That'd be Ashman, out of the fight.

'You reckon...?' said Noomena, back to the wall, eyes on the enforcer team weaving through the walkway shadows beyond the dead ventwork.

'Aye,' said Gunn, looking the same way. He clicked on the crew vox net. 'Drifter, Ratbite – if you're with us – focus heat on the skut-ends coming from the left.'

Drifter nodded back at Gunn and opened fire, pinning one of the advancing enforcers. A click later, another copper tumbled from the walkway above and crashed to the domefloor. This one was toting a sniper rifle. Seemed like Ratbite wasn't so geezed he couldn't shoot straight. The third enforcer in the fire zone was clearly shaken, turning and ducking back behind the support struts.

'A way out?' said Noomena.

'Not entirely,' said Gunn, who knew full well that the precious esteem of the Coin Guild was at stake. 'We settle this here and now, can't just creep out. Maybe if we get over yonder, we can crack their trap and show these badges what we're made of.'

'Spirestraight, old man. We're with you,' Noomena said, and then to Frenk, who was a few paces ahead of them in the ventwork. 'Hey, Filthy! Prep to rush the fraggers Drifter just singed.'

Frenk turned to face them, his trenchcoat fluttering in the discharge from vent he was next to. He had his stubbers drawn and a skewed grin on his face.

'Yeah,' he said, 'I could do that...'

Viper-fast, he brought the stubbers up and fired point blank. The slugs impacted on Gunn's carapace breastplate – he wasn't injured, but was most assuredly knocked off his feet. First Brokeface Edwydd, now Filthy Frenk – it scanned like turning rat fink sellout was a contagious condition.

The enforcers, who just seconds before were looking shaky, had their courage relit by Frenk's betrayal. They were on their feet and closing in again. Drifter took aim with his hotshot, but he'd forgotten to recharge the juice – the lasbolt fizled and dissipated as soon as it left the barrel. Noomena made sharp choices on threat priority. Figuring Gunn was good to take on Frenk, she darted forward between the support struts and levelled her plasma pistol. She took the shot and the nearest copper went down, armour sizzling.

But then another enforcer was charging at her, one she remembered from the last scrap – Officer Brody, in full rage mode after jacking his stimm-slug. Noomena was quick with her knife, getting in a few jabs at the copper, but it wasn't enough. Brody applied brutal, chem-sharpened force, and took Noomena Greyz out of the fight.

A few metres away, Gunn was hauling himself to his feet and shooting from the hip at Frenk. The scummer went down, but laughing. Even as the steam rose from the fleshwound inflicted by the lasbolt, Frenk sat up and winked at his til-recent employer. Gunn cursed – pain-numbing stimms don't care what side a body's on, they'll keep a fragger in the fight even if he's turned traitor.

Brody, shaking as his hit wore off, was making ready to charge Drifter. But Drifter had snapped a full-charge clip into his las, and got a gutshot on the enforcer. Brody dropped, rolling and moaning on the domefloor. But then bolterfire rang out and hammered Drifter – no more scrapping for him this shift.

There was a pop, and a cloud of smoke filled the gap between the hab towers. The other enforcer team had closed in and were making ready to make a terminal move. Two-faced Filthy Frenk had withdrawn, his part in the fight done. Gunn figured he'd be overwhelmed if the coppers rushed him. Time to try some sly play. He ducked back into the shadows of the hab block eaves. They'd have to hunt him down before they took him down.

Gunn moved as quietly as he could, trying to catch sense in the crackle of the enforcers' vox bursts. Ratbite's rifle had fallen silent and he wasn't responding on the venators' vox. Either he'd been gunned down or, just as likely, had decided that the smartest option was to haul boots out of the scrap altogether. Maybe the ambot had got him.

Jonn Gunn was alone.

Time to try an old badzone ranger trick, one he'd taught Mumbles, who'd used it in the scrap against the Veiled Cartel a few cycles back. Gunn unhooked a sealed can from his belt and unscrewed it. Inside was a chunk of meat, probably – hopefully – from a rat, laced with pheremonal bait-spray. He eyed the domefloor between himself and the coppers and spied a sizeable drain grate. He took aim and lobbed the meat, which landed wetly on the grate. A few clicks passed before the hypercharged bait did its work. The grate cover sprang out of the floor, shoved aside by a three-metre pale tentacle which scooped up the meat and gulped it down a sucker-like orifice. The sump beast below would stick around in case there was more food available, and thrashed its rubbery limb blindly, searching for prey.

Of course, the Precinct 13 coppers would be sharp enough to steer well clear of the tentacle, but it might disrupt their advance and give Gunn a fighting chance. He worked his way along the hab tower base, sticking to the shadows.

And then, 'Freeze, creep!'

The second enforcer team, alert to Gunn's ploy, had doubled back around the tower to cut him off. Another copper leapt from the hab walkway above to a container crate up ahead. This must've been the one who took Ashman out. They opened fire at Gunn, who ducked as best he could, the shots ringing off his armour and bringing him to his knees. He raised his hotshot and fired at the nearest enforcer, hoping to clear a path, but the copper's armour was as effective as his own.

'Give it up, old man,' came a voice from behind him. The rest of the enforcers had bypassed the sump horror. 'We got you surrounded.'

That they did. Gunn, his back to the rockcrete hab wall. Five enforcers, all that was left of the hit squad, spread in a broad semicircle in front of him. Frag knows what had happened to the ambot, but Gunn wasn't inclined to complain about that.

'Come on then,' snarled Gunn. 'What have you got for me, you sumpsucking sons of bitches?'

What they had was a co-ordinated salvo of bolterfire and solid shotgun shells. But again, almost all the shots missed or merely dented Gunn's armour. The one that hit home drew blood but didn't put Gunn down.

'Is that all? Is that all?' he growled, taking a las shot. One of the enforcers went down hard, bleeding badly.

The lawmen of Precinct 13 were advancing, but more slowly, more hesitantly. Again, they opened fire on Gunn, and again he withstood their onslaught.

'The frag is this creep made of?' said one of the coppers.

Gunn was laughing now. 'You think I haven't bled harder than this? You think I'll go down that easy?'

He fired again with his hotshot. It went wide, but the enforcers had stopped advancing now. One of them turned and ran. The others fired again. But Jonn Gunn stood strong. He drew his power knife and beckoned to the coppers.

'Come on, let's finish this,' he grinned.

The enforcers were taking shuffling steps backwards. They'd stopped shooting.

'This ain't worth it,' said one of them.

And then they were withdrawing, hauling away their wounded and keeping a wary bead on the venator boss as they backed off.

The dome fell silent. Jonn Gunn was alone. Jonn Gunn was alive. Truth be told, Jonn Gunn couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so alive.

The Foulnest Rackets Part 11: Sing, Brokeface

Brokeface sang. He sang his damned dead heart out. Everything he could think of about Jonn Gunn and his venator crew. About where they drank, where they ate, where they scored hardware, where they rested their outlaw heads. About the certifiably uncertifiable blood warrants that Snags and Mumbles toted. About Ratbite Ruddlestone's predilection for banned offworld stimms. About Noomena Greyz's boastful tales of killing a spire noble who was slumming it on on a downhive safari. He even dredged up dirt on old Gunn himself, how he'd muttered incriminating threats against the Guild, outraged that a veteran bounty hunter like himself was now a wanted man.

Brokeface sang until he could sing no more – but judging by the expressions on the enforcers half-helmed faces, it wasn't enough.

The palanites had kept him magnacled to a plasteel table in this Precinct 13 chatterbox – a gunmetal grey interrogation chamber - for a whole shift cycle, ever since they'd hauled him out of the scrap zone with the Guns. Brokeface was counting on the juice he offered being enough to eanr him a big score by way of reward. He needed a jolt of creds to get himself a long way from Foulnest. Word was getting all around the pipes about his condition, and folks were starting to wonder a few things. Like just how much it took to kill an unkillable man. Like maybe there was something Wrong-Goddy about Brokeface Edwydd.

The longer he was in the chatterbox, though, the grimmer he figured his prospects. Things hadn't looked spirewards from the start – the enforcers had taken a few nasty hits during the scrap, and as the cops roster-rotated their turns at quizzing him, Brokeface gleaned that Ratbite's blade had sent Captain Angel to the corpse farm. Worse still, Angel's replacement, Sipowicz, hadn't even officially assumed his duties yet, Noomena's scragging had been that savage.

'That all you got, faceache?' This was Sergeant Doyle, bad cop.

'Aye, that's all I got. And like I told you, most folks call me Brokeface.'

'We're not most folks,' deadpanned Officer Bunk. Also bad cop.

Bad cop was the only cop at Precinct 13. Still, there were a few shreds of honour behind those badges. Brokeface had fed them enough dirt on the Guns to blow a ghasthead's mind, and this seemed to have garnered some mercy. They'd kept him awake and hungry for three whole shifts, but the enforcers hadn't laid a gauntlet on him. Yet.

'Sure, I scope it,' grinned Brokeface. 'But come on, lads – er, officers – you got what you wanted, what we agreed. More than enough to track them Guns down and get yourselves some revenge, I'd say. Now how about you, er, pay me and let me go?'

Doyle and Bunk paused, shared a glance. The sergeant nodded.

'Want me to do the honours?' said Bunk, reaching for his belt as he stepped forward.

Brokeface turned to look at Bunk. 'Ah, rightly thank you officer, it's sure good to be of help to Lord Helmawr's finest.'

He turned back. Doyle's stubber was pointed squarely at his forehead.

'Ah, come on...' said Brokeface.

'Nah,' said Doyle, cocking the stubber. 'I got this one.'

Brokeface was going to protest, but then he was dead. Again.

The Foulnest Rackets Part 10: Creds Rule Everything Around Me

Noomena Greyz had worked her blood warrant in enough downhive settlements to know it always pays to have a sense of how spirestraight the local enforcers are. And from everything she'd heard since arriving in Foulnest a few cycles back, Precinct 13 were as bribe-friendly as they come. Still, the scrap in hand was different. Both Gunn's Guns and Precinct 13 were allied to the Coin Guild, and the prize at stake – running protection of the caravan routes that cut through Foulnest – was worth a lot. Even if the enforcers could be bought, Noomena figured they'd expect payment in blood as well as credits.

With old man Gunn recovering from his duel with Lady Glaw, Noomena was heading up the Guns for the shift. She'd sketched out the plan to the boys as they moved to meet the enforcers at a caravan waypoint on the settlement outskirts: Ratbite, Snags and Brokeface would run along the high levels and distract the cops; Noomena, Mumbles and scummer allies Ashman and Dirty Frenk would stick to the domefloor and work their way around to the waypoint itself. With their claim made clear, the Guns would offer a bribe and, all going well, the greedy lawmen wouldn't be able to resist.

As it scanned, the caper started unravelling at the outset. Officer Angel had snuck on ahead of his patrol and, accompanied by his trusty cyber-hound Rin, sprung up on top of a chem-dive within spitting distance of Ratbite and his boys. The enforcer lobbed a frag grenade that knocked Snags down to the domefloor, and Brokeface scarpered away, straight towards the enemy. Ratbite found himself alone, facing off with Angel and his angry mutt.

To make matters worse, Brokeface was playing a sly scheme of his own. Noomena hadn't liked the ugly fragger from the moment she'd met him, even before the other Guns had scoped her in on the creepy way he kept not dying. So she was unsurprised when she saw him holster his autopistols and dart along the mechways above, right up to one of the advancing patrolmen. The scummer and copper shared a nod of recognition, and Brokeface ducked on and away, towards the dome exit. The dirty skut had turned rat and sold the Guns out to the cops.

Still, the plan was still the plan. Noomena and the crew pressed on, weaving between rusting support struts and ducking out of the way of the advancing enforcers' bolterfire. Turned out that Snags getting toppled from the walkways was a something of a boon – he chucked a couple of smoke grenades ahead of the domefloor crew, covering their route as far as the waypoint.

Ashman was on point, but as he ghosted between the smoke clouds, he came under fire from rookie officer Columbo – the scummer was taken down and out by the green patrolman. And Dirty Frenk, thinking himself safe under cover of the smoke, found himself charged by stimmed-up Captain Sipowicz. The enforcers had got wise to the Guns' scheme and moved fast to cut them off.

Back up on the walkways, Angel growled a kill-command, and Rin charged straight at Ratbite, jaws snapping. Close combat certainly wasn't the ratling's strong suit, but he somehow dodged the dog's attacks and landed a telling blow with his stiletto knife. The dog dropped unconscious. Angel opened fire at Ratbite, but the abhuman sniper shrugged off the flesh wounds, levelled his longrifle and took a shot that put the enforcer down, though not out. Giggling sadistically, Ratbite scampered over and finished the job with his blade.

Down below, Mumbles went to work with his shotgun and took out Columbo, then joined Noomena in piling into the smoke to take on Sipowicz, whose stimm-surge was wearing off. The fight was brief and brutal: Noomena's plasma pistol flashed, so did her stiletto knife, and that was that for Sipowicz. But a few metres away, Officer Riggs had got the drop on Snags and felled him with her stub gun.

The scrap was on a razor's edge. Both crews had sustained casualties, but even though the coppers had the numbers, the venators had taken out the enforcers' senior officers. Noomena figured it was now or never – she called out for a ceasefire, offering a hefty bribe. And true to form, the enforcers of Precinct 13 were only too willing to accept the payoff.

So the caravan routes came under the protection of Gunn's Guns, and Noomena had some good news to bring back to the recuperating old man. Still, this wasn't enough to persuade Guilder Van Scultis to lift the bounties off their heads, and Brokeface would surely be singing like a sheenbird back at the precinct house, so a change of hideouts was in order. Between this, and the unresolved competition for favour with the Coin Guild, it would only be a matter of time before Gunn's Guns threw down with Precinct 13 again.

The Foulnest Rackets Part 9: Shadows of Death

Death was knocking at the door of Gunn's Guns' Foulnest hab-lodgings. Old Jonn Gunn cursed through gritted teeth, his left arm and hand a shredded mass of lasburnt gore. Drifter Zensen was unconscious, his head a plasma-scorched mess. Crusher Rezto moaned and clutched at his belly, trying to keep his guts from spilling out. The wounds were tox-tainted and wouldn't stop bleeding. If a doc wasn't found soon, none of the trio would live to see the next cycle.

The venators' attempt to claim the rackets associated with the Omnissiaic brotherhood hadn't gone well. Another crew, the Delaque outlaws of the Veiled Cartel, had the same idea, and the two gangs met on a high-level network of walkways that overhung the edge of the Dogland wastes. A cold dust-storm was blowing in from the drained sump, skewing everyone's bearings, and the gangs came at each other piecemeal, disoriented but intent on defending the stake-markers they'd laid.

Crusher made initial contact, finding himself in a close brawl with a Cartel fighter. First blood could have gone to the Guns, but Crusher was, as usual, playing his own game, running a freelance bagman job for some black marketeer. From what the rest of the gang could figure later on, Crusher and the Cartel creep got tangled up trying to resolve some unpaid debts on behalf of their respective criminal clients. Crusher bagged a ton of creds, but then the interaction turned bloody and he ended up on the deck with his belly slit open.

Ratbite was finding it nigh-impossible to get a clean shot through the dust, but Jonn Gunn and Ashman, one of the scummers in the Guns' employ, had worked their way round the back of the Cartel's position. The ash storm was hindering the Cartel sharpshooters as much as it was Ratbite, and Gunn had a fair chance of trashing the enemy stake, but he found himself charged by the Delaques' ally, rebel noblewoman Astrid Glaw.

Gunn had been in more than his fair share of close-quarter brawls in his long cycles on the hunt, but few were as tight as the one that ensued. Gunn's power knife met Glaw's stiletto blade and digi-lasers, downhive brutality versus uphive precision. Each fighter's mettle was tested, blood was drawn on both sides, but in the end the intervention of one of the Cartel members tipped the balance in Glaw's favour. That's how Gunn got taken out.

The dust storm blew over, but the Veiled Cartel pulled a house-typical move and killed the lumens that hung along the walkways. Far down below, strings of lanterns stretched out across Dogland, marking the safe routes, but their distant light was no use to Gunn's Guns. The Veiled Cartel, on the other hand, were equipped to a man with photogoggles – the time had come to draw the noose.

Ratbite and Snags Skivvens rightly clocked their predicament and took off, unknowingly crossing paths with Drifter, who blundered into the crossways at the centre of the scrap zone and was caught in the crossfire from the Cartel's guns. It fell to Mumbles Mervik to scrape a little honour back for the venators by mounting a defiant defence of the Guns' stake-marker. He threw out some fresh meat as bait, attracting the attention of a stranded sump-creeper that lashed its monstrous tentacles around the walkway ahead of the stake. This cut off the Delaque's only means of approach, but Cartel boss Lucien only plays games where he makes the rules: he gave the word, and a sharp shot sent Mumbles tumbling off the walkway and into a bat-trawler's net some fifty metres below.

The fight was over. For all their outlaw status, the Cartel's performance had impressed the emissaries of the Omnissiah, who agreed to pay the Delaques for protection. No such luck for Gunn's Guns – Devinscar, Skinflint of the Coin Guild, deigned to guide the crew back to Foulnest core, but informed the venators that Crusher's shakedown on behalf of his recidivist contact was a transgression too far. Though their alliance with the Guild of Coin would continue on the quiet, Gunn's Guns were declared outlaws. Nice work, Crusher.

So dishonour and death's shadow hung over Gunn, Drifter and Crusher as they lay wracked with agony in the crew's hab. They waited for what felt like a dozen cycles before Snags got back with a doc in tow.

'This fella's one of the best in the 'Nest,' said Snags, breathlessly, jerking a thumb at the medic. 'But there's a catch. Prices he's charging, we only got enough in the stash to save two of you.'

Here was a crumb of consolation. An easy choice to make.

'Get to work on Drifter and me,' snarled Jonn Gunn at the doc. 'Let that other fragger die.'

For all that it's a hellhole, there's a strange kind of justice in the Underhive.