Dwice Necrofago had got bored of chucking stones at passing milliasaur grubs and moved on to idly picking at the bandage over his flesh wound. He gazed vacantly across the low-domed square of the settlement - nobody, nothing. A regular shift in Nu-Bedlam, the little one-volt town the Hi-Viz Jackers were calling home.
It wasn't quiet, of course - a few metres behind Dwice, in the brokendown hab-hole where the gang kept council, boss man Vints Courraine was tearing a strip off of Akilles Lebow after the gang's most recent misadventure, and raised voices echoed across the square. Dwice thought this was more than a little unfair - after all, it was Vints himself who'd taken the guilder contract, and who had reckoned only Akilles and Dwice, along with Ivan and Rollo, would be needed to guard the cache of guilder goods waiting for transit at the Sector H8 corpse farm. Easy credits for easy work, Vints had said, with the added bonus of seizing control of the corpse farm after the cache had been picked up.
The four Jackers had duly schlepped across the sector and started their watch, due to last just a few shifts. Who'd have thought a bunch of rogue helots would come creeping out of the darkness looking for trouble, and how were the four Jackers meant to see off a crew of ten, one of them a shockfaced wych no less?
Dwice shuddered as he recalled the helots' guttural slang and the blasphemous oaths they had roared while charging the Orlocks' position. The Hellhounds, they'd called themselves, and it was clear they worshipped the Wrong Gods.
The Jackers did the best they could - sharp gunplay from Akilles took one of the Hounds out of the fight - but the cultists were packing, pinning the Jackers down with their own heavy stubber. All too fast, the Hellhounds were about to swarm the Jackers.
That's when the wastedamned wych had stepped up, flying like a sump skeeter and breathing fire. The Jackers had scattered, Akilles bleeding badly. The wych prised open one of the stash crates - it was booby-trapped, and the frag charge knocked Dwice halfway across the corridor. The wych wasn't more than knocked down himself, though - and it was Rollo Zhevek who copped the worst of it, getting set on fire after he'd only just got over the burns inflicted by those muties at the mine. Dwice grinned - he'd already started calling his gang senior 'Drop and Rollo', and the nickname was sticking.
Anyway, that was about the long and short of it. With Akilles down and Ivan out of action, the Jackers had duly bottled it, rightly enough in Dwice's humble opinion. Akilles and Ivan got knocked out, Dwice had needed bandaging up, and Rollo was singed once again. But they were all still alive, thronedammit! Seems like boss man Vints didn't see it that way, though - the Jackers had let down the guilders and lost not just the turf but also the last scrap of reputation they'd carved out in the Hacked Knee war.
So things looked bleak, figured Dwice as he fidgeted away as his bandage, but what did Old Uncle Ghoulface always say back in Old Bedlam Town? When you've hit sump-bottom, the only way to go is spirewards…..
It wasn't quiet, of course - a few metres behind Dwice, in the brokendown hab-hole where the gang kept council, boss man Vints Courraine was tearing a strip off of Akilles Lebow after the gang's most recent misadventure, and raised voices echoed across the square. Dwice thought this was more than a little unfair - after all, it was Vints himself who'd taken the guilder contract, and who had reckoned only Akilles and Dwice, along with Ivan and Rollo, would be needed to guard the cache of guilder goods waiting for transit at the Sector H8 corpse farm. Easy credits for easy work, Vints had said, with the added bonus of seizing control of the corpse farm after the cache had been picked up.
The four Jackers had duly schlepped across the sector and started their watch, due to last just a few shifts. Who'd have thought a bunch of rogue helots would come creeping out of the darkness looking for trouble, and how were the four Jackers meant to see off a crew of ten, one of them a shockfaced wych no less?
Dwice shuddered as he recalled the helots' guttural slang and the blasphemous oaths they had roared while charging the Orlocks' position. The Hellhounds, they'd called themselves, and it was clear they worshipped the Wrong Gods.
The Jackers did the best they could - sharp gunplay from Akilles took one of the Hounds out of the fight - but the cultists were packing, pinning the Jackers down with their own heavy stubber. All too fast, the Hellhounds were about to swarm the Jackers.
That's when the wastedamned wych had stepped up, flying like a sump skeeter and breathing fire. The Jackers had scattered, Akilles bleeding badly. The wych prised open one of the stash crates - it was booby-trapped, and the frag charge knocked Dwice halfway across the corridor. The wych wasn't more than knocked down himself, though - and it was Rollo Zhevek who copped the worst of it, getting set on fire after he'd only just got over the burns inflicted by those muties at the mine. Dwice grinned - he'd already started calling his gang senior 'Drop and Rollo', and the nickname was sticking.
Anyway, that was about the long and short of it. With Akilles down and Ivan out of action, the Jackers had duly bottled it, rightly enough in Dwice's humble opinion. Akilles and Ivan got knocked out, Dwice had needed bandaging up, and Rollo was singed once again. But they were all still alive, thronedammit! Seems like boss man Vints didn't see it that way, though - the Jackers had let down the guilders and lost not just the turf but also the last scrap of reputation they'd carved out in the Hacked Knee war.
So things looked bleak, figured Dwice as he fidgeted away as his bandage, but what did Old Uncle Ghoulface always say back in Old Bedlam Town? When you've hit sump-bottom, the only way to go is spirewards…..