Queasy green light half-filled the habhole. Vints Courraine smacked the side of the comms unit, and the unit took the cue as the grainy ashscape on screen began to resolve. The Orlock leader made the sign of the Cog and muttered thanks to the Machine God. He really needed to make this link.
The last stray scattered pixels faded out, revealing a green-hued face, heavy jowled, with a bristling moustache which curled around an emergent smirk. Vint's elation fizzed out like the fuse on a dud bomb rat. Just as the vox feed picked up, he said, 'O frag, it's Degister...'
A few kilometres above, in the relatively-lawful Orlock bastions of Hive City, Over-Comptroller Degister gurned maliciously into the pict-capper above the screen.
'I heard that, Courraine,' he said.
Down below, Vints tried to straighten himself up for what was bound to be a painful talk. Of all the hundreds of comprollers he could have got through to, it had to be Degister. The old fart held a grudge or twelve for the Hi-Viz Jackers...
'Ah, er, bad feed here, Comptroller, could you repeat...?'
'Feed's fine, Courraine. I know it's you, I'd recognise your conniving face anywhere....'
During the long hard toil of the Cruxrail project, Degister had been one of Vints and his Bedlam brothers' longest-suffering foremasters, victim of countless pranks - his recaf spiked with blindsnake, the brake cables on his tunnel runner cut, his work lectern rigged with a frag bomb - whatever the mischief, the Bedlammers would have pulled it on Degister at some point.
'... plus, your name's right here on my doc.'
Vints squinted at the waxy printout Degister was waving in front of the screen.
'Aye, Comptroller, so you know what I'm after...'
Degister eyed the printout overcarefully.
'Yeah.... the H8 Sector, isn't it? Looks from this here record that you and your boys aren't exactly stepping up for the house...'
Vints squirmed as the Comptroller pored over the stats.
'... looks like the house overall is doing just fine. These boys listed here, the, ah, Slagwell Springsteens and the Wasted... they got decent turf between them, they been meeting their violence quotas.... What gives with the Hi-Viz Jackers? Turns out life's tougher than you expected in the real Underhive?'
'Ah, well, see, about that,' said Vints with a grimace. 'First scrap we got into, these Van Saars basically took out two of our guys, and since then we've, er, we've not been able to get a foothold in the sector. Lot of other gangs down here, territory getting chewed up faster than fresh starch rash in an ashy shanty...'
'So what's all that got to do with us up here? The House of Iron expects; you deliver. That's the deal.'
'Well, yeah, and of course we will, Comptroller, but we - I - was wondering, maybe you could see your way to sending us a little extra, um, gear, or men, or...'
Vints trailled off. He was a downhive gang boss, thronedammit - this was humiliating.
Degister grinned, his slabby teeth beaming open contempt. 'So the great rogue Vintsen Courraine is here begging me for help?'
'I wouldn't say beg-'
'Is begging me for help,' continued Degister. 'Here's a pretty pass after everything that happened back on Cruxrail....'
He let the seconds tick by, relishing Vints's abjection, which somehow transmitted up the comms lines. And then, an abrupt end.
'Eh, I'll see what I can do.'
With that, Degister cut the feeds. Vints's pict display died, and the gang leader slumped against the console, forlorn, his fate bad and not his to own.
Uphive, Degister settled back in his comms cradle. For all he was enjoying twisting the knife on those Bedlam Town bastards, they were Orlocks, and so was he. Gang before house, house before the rest. Something had to be done, some consignment sent to aid the Hi-Viz Jackers. That was an oath-bound given. What exactly was sent, on the other hand.... there, maybe, Comptroller Degister could have his fun....
The last stray scattered pixels faded out, revealing a green-hued face, heavy jowled, with a bristling moustache which curled around an emergent smirk. Vint's elation fizzed out like the fuse on a dud bomb rat. Just as the vox feed picked up, he said, 'O frag, it's Degister...'
A few kilometres above, in the relatively-lawful Orlock bastions of Hive City, Over-Comptroller Degister gurned maliciously into the pict-capper above the screen.
'I heard that, Courraine,' he said.
Down below, Vints tried to straighten himself up for what was bound to be a painful talk. Of all the hundreds of comprollers he could have got through to, it had to be Degister. The old fart held a grudge or twelve for the Hi-Viz Jackers...
'Ah, er, bad feed here, Comptroller, could you repeat...?'
'Feed's fine, Courraine. I know it's you, I'd recognise your conniving face anywhere....'
During the long hard toil of the Cruxrail project, Degister had been one of Vints and his Bedlam brothers' longest-suffering foremasters, victim of countless pranks - his recaf spiked with blindsnake, the brake cables on his tunnel runner cut, his work lectern rigged with a frag bomb - whatever the mischief, the Bedlammers would have pulled it on Degister at some point.
'... plus, your name's right here on my doc.'
Vints squinted at the waxy printout Degister was waving in front of the screen.
'Aye, Comptroller, so you know what I'm after...'
Degister eyed the printout overcarefully.
'Yeah.... the H8 Sector, isn't it? Looks from this here record that you and your boys aren't exactly stepping up for the house...'
Vints squirmed as the Comptroller pored over the stats.
'... looks like the house overall is doing just fine. These boys listed here, the, ah, Slagwell Springsteens and the Wasted... they got decent turf between them, they been meeting their violence quotas.... What gives with the Hi-Viz Jackers? Turns out life's tougher than you expected in the real Underhive?'
'Ah, well, see, about that,' said Vints with a grimace. 'First scrap we got into, these Van Saars basically took out two of our guys, and since then we've, er, we've not been able to get a foothold in the sector. Lot of other gangs down here, territory getting chewed up faster than fresh starch rash in an ashy shanty...'
'So what's all that got to do with us up here? The House of Iron expects; you deliver. That's the deal.'
'Well, yeah, and of course we will, Comptroller, but we - I - was wondering, maybe you could see your way to sending us a little extra, um, gear, or men, or...'
Vints trailled off. He was a downhive gang boss, thronedammit - this was humiliating.
Degister grinned, his slabby teeth beaming open contempt. 'So the great rogue Vintsen Courraine is here begging me for help?'
'I wouldn't say beg-'
'Is begging me for help,' continued Degister. 'Here's a pretty pass after everything that happened back on Cruxrail....'
He let the seconds tick by, relishing Vints's abjection, which somehow transmitted up the comms lines. And then, an abrupt end.
'Eh, I'll see what I can do.'
With that, Degister cut the feeds. Vints's pict display died, and the gang leader slumped against the console, forlorn, his fate bad and not his to own.
Uphive, Degister settled back in his comms cradle. For all he was enjoying twisting the knife on those Bedlam Town bastards, they were Orlocks, and so was he. Gang before house, house before the rest. Something had to be done, some consignment sent to aid the Hi-Viz Jackers. That was an oath-bound given. What exactly was sent, on the other hand.... there, maybe, Comptroller Degister could have his fun....