The Hacked Knee Guild War Part 3: The H.E.A.T. Hit

With Vints recovering from Doc Proxi's head-welding, Akilles and Edzra were top dogs for a few sets of shifts, and that's when a chance came to bloody the sinksucking noses of the Battersump H.E.A.T.. A thermaestro by the name of Kraxis Taal was overseeing a maintenance run, and the Jackers had got their hands on a hacked rundown of the his itinerary. Taking him out would earn the good will of the Ba'Kings – too good to miss.

Turns out another H8 mob called the Harbingers of the Undivided had nabbed the same list. They were affiliated with the Wind Sore Clan, but Edzra arranged a parlay and persuaded them that it was in their interests to join forces for the job. The Harbingers were a strange crew - offworlders, it seemed, clad in ragged militarum gear and given to cursing with obscure lingo that made even a ganger's mind twinge to hear it. Edzra wasn't entirely convinced by Harbinger boss Crowley's assurances that Ashmole the psyker was entirely officially sanctioned.

Still, the Jackers were glad of the allies when the scrap came and the H.E.A.T. maestro turned up with bodyguards: an entourage made up of gangers from the Hellhounds and Krass Dynasty. The plan was to rush the target as he approached an undergrind access elevator at Deathknell Gap . It was a well-known ambush point: the walls and decking were red-brown with caked-on blood.

While Edzra and Kaleb lurked behind an access port near the elevator unit, Akilles took Murgen and Djo and made to outflank the entourage on the left; the Harbingers spread out and did likewise to the right of the unit. Skew and Ralve got sent on a wide work-around, intending to loop behind the H.E.A.T. crew and come at them from behind.

What the Jackers and Harbingers hadn't counted on was the H.E.A.T.ers anticipating the hit attempt and sending some of their own fighters on ahead. Even as Akilles and his boys made their first moves forward, the unmistakable roar of chainblades and buzz-cutters kicked in, all too nearby.

Djo got hit first. Lumbering out of a shadowy corridor to the left came the bloated, hulking form of Sawboss, the Hellhounds' resident brute. The Jackers had a near-miss with the beast cycles ago at the old Catch 22 gambling pit, but this time he was right in their faces, chainblades alive. Djo went down in a click, and Akilles and Murgen let rip with stubberfire – enough to make the monster bleed, but nowhere near enough to take it down.

The yells of alarm sounded across the adjoining passageways, but Edzra told Kaleb to stand firm and wait for the Taal and his minders to draw nearer across the chamber leading to the elevator. Likewise, the Harbingers, over beyond the elevator, continued their steady advance, exchanging some long range fire with the Dynasty and Hellhounds and sending one of the former packing.

Not that this was much solace to Akilles. Despite his size, Sawboss was damned fast. Having dealt with Djo, the beast was on Akilles in a flash – the Jacker veteran's vaunted rep for standing firm under gunfire didn't amount to much against such a brutal close-up attack. He went down, hard.

Murgen clocked all this and rightly figured his efforts would be wasted on the brute. But he'd spotted another Hellhound lurking in the corridor behind Sawboss. Darting forward, he let rip with his stubbers, bur he missed outright. The Hellhound was a better shot, and toting a plasmagun to boot – Murgen went down and out just like Akilles.

Over the other side of the elevator, the Harbingers were getting into it with the advancing H.E.A.T.ers: bullets and blows were being exchanged, blood was being spilt. Abraham Krass himself was in close combat with grim-masked Harbinger Conan but, having only brought a few of his brethren to the fight, was looking nervy about sticking around. The Hellhound psyker known as Kel'tor moved to the centre of the chamber, looking to mind-blast a path to the elevator, but Harbinger gunfire had him down and bleeding. Still, the rest of the crew encircling Taal were advancing steadily behind.

Meanwhile, Skew had snuck into the fightzone behind enemy lines and had a pretty good view of things – good enough that he was biding his time rather than make a suicide run at the entourage. He saw Ralve sneak on likewise at the far other end of the corridor, and waved his hand, signalling to his gangmate to hold fire for now.

Then word crackled through on the crude vox-link the Jackers and Harbingers had set up between them – Krass has bottled and fled the fight, and it looked like his remaining cronies would soon do likewise. Edzra and Kaleb, still waiting behind the door for a moment to strike, shared a glance – perhaps the time was right.

Behind them, where Akilles and his boys had headed, they saw Harbinger Page moving backwards, blasting away with his hotshot las at some unseen target. Page shuffled out of sight, and the target appeared: Sawboss, blades churning. 

So much for the right moment. They had to hit the main chamber now.

Edzra popped the door and Kaleb raced through. He clocked the thermaestro straight away and ran full tilt towards him, ignoring the H.E.A.T. fighters in his peripheral vision. He almost stopped short when the Hellhound heavy beside Taal raised his heavy stubber and let rip, but all the bullets ran wide.

Kaleb raised his autogun. He squeezed the trigger. A burst of shots ripped forth.

And missed. 

Kaleb had just enough time to realise he was totally in the open before a plasmaburst caught him hard in the chest, taking him out instantly.

Ralve and Skew saw this from their distant vantage points and voxed through to Edzra, telling him that this fight wasn't worth it, that they were hauling boots. Edzra didn't blame them – hell, he agreed and, as Sawboss loomed behind him, he heaved open an access hatch and ducked out of the fight.

Seems bossman Crowley and his crew had much the same realisation – not long after, they also bottled, and the Hellhounds and remaining Krass Dynasty escorted Taal to the elevator and on to Battersump without further mishap.

After the last echo of the battle had died, the Jackers returned to the zone: luckily, their fallen were all accounted for, and Akilles, Djo and Murgen, while badly hit, would surely recover. Kaleb was a different story, and Edzra had Ralve and Skew hustle his bloody body off to Doc Proxi directly.

Edzra paused a click or two after they'd gone. Not much to show for a shift's fighting, and nothing the Ba'Kings would be impressed by. Still, there'd be other chances to hit the Battersump H.E.A.T.. The Wind Sore Clan too, for that matter. And besides, what do you expect when you side with deviant freaks? The Harbingers' weird battle chants were going to haunt Edzra for cycles to come, probably give him nightmares, too.

But Edzra wasn't going to worry about nightmares. The Underhive's got trouble enough for the wakeful. Trouble that comes at you with blades for hands, stimms for blood and murderous madness in its eyes.

The Hacked Knee Guild War Part 2: Vints's Vengeance

Edzra Macbacta had run with gang chiefs from Old Bedlam Town to Port Mad Dog, and he still didn't know what to make of Vintsen Courraine. The way Edzra scanned it, it made zero sense to go gunning for the Hooded Men – both gangs had thrown their guns in with the Ba'Kings, after all. But Akilles and Dwice said that Vints's mad fix was born of these Cawdors killing his dog a bunch of cycles back. His dog? Hardly seemed worth it to Edzra, but he'd seen underhivers hold bitterer grudges for less, so like the solid gangman he was, he tooled up and hauled boots with the crew.

The two gangs finally hunted each other down at a set of parallel tunnels midsector where the vent fans creak and the walls are brittle with rust. Edzra was hoping Vints's tactics would give a better measure of the man. Divide and scrag was the name of the game – the Jackers split into two crews to string the Hoodies out and whittle them down from either end like milliasaurs chewing up a severed limb. Edzra's job was to hang back, bring gun support where needed and make sure none of the Jacker new boys legged it if the going got heavy. But when Akilles and his half of the gang had hit the other corridor, Vints only went and threw a master switch: all the open blast doors slammed shut. Akilles and his crew were cut off, surrounded by a clutch of trashmongers and Oisin, their ogryn heavy.

Edzra was lights-out as to why. Turned out, though, that Vints's ploy was to prep a charge on Artur, headman of the thronebotherers. With young Dwice covering, Kaleb opened up one of the main doors and Vints charged through, screaming for revenge with his chainsword roaring. Due credit to Vints - he got the drop on Artur and took him out of the fight then and there. But of course, this had set the three Jackers up real nice for a flamer hit from another Hoody – in less than a click, they were running around blazing.

Lucky, then, that Akilles and his boys were stood solid down the far end of the tunnel. Slugs were flying thick and fast, and Jackers and Hooded Men were down and up more often than a slaughted Goliath. Edzra stuck his head round the corner and took a few shots with his autopistol, but Akilles, shrugging off bullets like they were flakes of ash, was doing a spire-straight job of keeping Oisin and his scrawny pals pinned.

Well, he was until he wasn't. The Jackers eased off the pressure just a fraction and the ogryn took advantage, clobbering Skew and Akilles out cold. Things looked bad for Djo and Murgen, the other Jackers at this end of things, but then Oisin lumbered off down the corridor. Perhaps he'd only just realised that his boss was in danger. Too late.

By now, Edzra was rushing the same way down the parallel tunnel – Ralve was running scared at the sight of three of his gangmates getting lit up and needed verbal cooling down. Dumb Ralve should've just looked behind him, where Vints, Dwice and Kaleb had all rolled out the flames without getting burnt and were picking off more of the Cawdors. With Djo and Murgen doing much the same down the other end of the tunnel, it looked like the Jackers might be grinding their way to victory.

But then came Oisin. The ogryn was already badly wounded thanks to Akilles's work, but looked dead set on taking Vints out for what he'd done to Artur. Dwice wasn't having it, rushing forward and taking a point-blank shot at the brute. Edzra had to give the juve credit for sheer guts, but sumpdammit if he didn't miss the ogryn outright. Needless to say, Dwice didn't last a twitch of a rat's tail when Oisin charged him. Another Jacker out cold.

Edzra reckoned that, facing such a rockcrete-solid foe, the smart move would be to hang back and hit it with as much gunfire as could be mustered – and the Jackers still had plenty of guns in the zone. But he was fast learning that Vints Courraine was one of those glory-hungry types, who'll only run the smart play if it makes him look good. It was no sweet sight as Vints charged down the corridor, swung his chainsword too wide and got one of Oisin's fists square in the face for his trouble. There was an audible snap and Edzra winced as his boss dropped.

Still, by now Ralve was back in the game and all the other Hooded Men had bottled and fled. Edzra made the smart move and had the Jackers move to encircle the ogryn, showering him with bullets, hoping that one might pierce his thick-arse hide. Before long, even Oisin realised he was onto a loser and was making his bloody way out of the fight zone.

So, a win for the House of Iron and to cap it all off, the Jackers claimed the Laddershins Slagworks off of the Hooded Men. Half a shift later the gang were revelling and slugging from bottles of wildsnake in the red glow of the furnace mouth. Still, Edzra had his doubts – he'd signed up with the Hi-Viz Jackers to reclaim some glory for the Macbacta family name, but with a man like Courraine in charge, was it glory or death that was waiting down the line?

Even now, Doctor Proxi was stapling together the boss man's broken skull. Maybe the head injury would turn out to have knocked some sense into Vints Courraine. Or maybe, thought Edzra with a shudder, all it would do was make Vints even more unpredictable.

The Hacked Knee Guild War Part 1: Jackers, Get Your Guns

The one thing that doesn't change in the Underhive is that things change. At least, that's what Dwice Necrofago's uncle Malky always said back in Old Bedlam Town. And uncle Malky knew all about change – after he took a flamer hit full in the mug, folks switched to calling him Ghoulface on account of the horrible scars. So horrible...

'Hey, Dwiceman. You was saying?'

Dwice snapped back into the moment. Murgen and Skew, two of the Hi-Viz Jackers' new recruits, were staring at him along the stoop where they were sitting outside the gang's habhole headquarters.

'What was I saying?' said Dwice, eyes roving across the bustle of the tunnel market that was Nu-Bedlam's squalid main drag.

'I dunno,' said Murgen. 'Telling us something we already know about change, like? Then you just tailed off and looked queasy.'

'Get to the point, man,' said Skew. 'We ain't green hivers after all.'

'O frag, yeah,' said Dwice. He was trying to tough it up in front of the new boys, trading on his experience in Hacked Knee. It wasn't going as well as he'd hoped. 

'So things cooled off in the domehood, and some of the bad ol' crews cleared off cos there wasn't enough violence for them. There's still some of them round and about one way or another... Anyways, point is turf's switched round. The old genny at Poxtown Switch got cut off but a new one got hooked up. The hot stuff cache at Cansbury ran dry and our, uh, good buddy Doc Scratch moved in and set up his Body Chop Shop there. Thing is, mostly it's the Power Guild, see – they're falling out and messing with - '

'Like I say, kid, we ain't green hivers,' said Skew. 'Gangs and guilders feuding. So far, so downhive.'

Dwice waved down Skew's objection. 'Hey hey, there's a point to this, I swear. So turf's still changing hands, but mostly by barter or gambling or simply when zones got left empty. So that's how the Jackers got control of the Cans...'

'That collapsed dome?' cut in Murgen, to Skew's annoyance. 'Why's it called the Cans again?'

Dwice grinned. 'Because when you're crawling through there looking for loot, feels like you're being squeezed into a can of starch rash. Anyways, this is the point: sure, Guilders squabble, but the big boys running the lecs, heat and air here in H8? Ooooweee, they mean to go at it like two hungry rad-rats in a fighting pit until one of them comes out on top.'

Skew shrugged. 'And so they're getting the gangs to act like their enforcers, and that's where bossman Vints is now – parlaying with some Guilders. Yeah, I seen this pict before.'

Dwice's opinion of Skew was heading sumpwards by the click. 'Look, man, I'm just trying to - '

But Murgen cut in again, pointing down the drag. 'Hey hey, boys, speak of the sumpdevil....'

There was Vints himself, accompanied by another of the Jackers' new recruits, veteran ganger Edzra Macbacta. They were shoving through the crowd, Vints making a big show of greeting those he knew on the way, gobbling up any crumb of offered acclaim.

'Howdy, jacks!' beamed Vints as he approached the stoop. 'Have we ever got news for you!'

'Things go good?' asked Dwice.

'Indeed they did, young Dwice, indeed they did,' said Vints. 'Did some heavy talk with Lord Quincy Postlewaite himself - who of course remembers the solid we did him on the day of the Hiver March – and I can confirm we're gonna be representing in the sector on behalf of the Ba'Kings!'

Vints spread his arms and grinned. Edzra wasn't giving much away, but Murgen and Skew looked impressed. Dwice, knowing Vints better, pressed on.

'So boss, who we gonna be gunning alongside?'

'Well,' said Vints. 'From what Lord Q was saying, there's three other gangs signed up with them. The Blitzkreig Boppers, the Hooded Men, and the Violent Beauregards.'

Dwice recognised two of the names, but not the third. 'Who're the Violent Beaure-whats? Sounds Escherlike.'

'That they are,' said Vints. 'Some of them are what's left over of the Savage Kittens...'

'Hey!' said Dwice. 'Is that Kes still knocking around? Ya know, the juve that clobbered you that time when we went for Whitecap Hole?'

Vints glowered and Skew chuckled at this.

'I dunno, kid,' barked Vints. 'Never mind all that. We gotta get ready. Go get the rest of the crew together.'

'We going a-gunning, boss?' said Murgen.

'Aye,' said Vints. 'I wanna snag some turf off of the Hooded Men.'

This took the Jackers aback.

'Uh, boss,' said Edzra, 'ain't they on our side?'

Dwice snapped the fingers on his good hand. 'Ah I remember – they're the fellas who killed yer dog, ain't they, boss?'

'Shut it, Dwice,' spat Vints. 'All of youse, get your guns – come shift's end, we go hunting!'

Vints stormed into the habhole, visibly annoyed. Skew chuckled again. Dwice figured maybe Skew wasn't so bad after all.

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

[ADDITIONAL: Archive Pict Cap of Malky 'Ghoulface' Necrofago, Veteran Ganger of Old Bedlam Town and The Charred Cross]

The Hacked Knee Guild War Prologue: The Comptroller

Comptroller Degister gazed through the grimy armourglass porthole into the cavernous chamber beyond, where the four great maws of the Battersump sink-links roiled and rippled, spewing out an unceasing torrent of heat channelled directly from the planet's heart. A multitude of vents and capture-devices were connected into, onto and around the sinks – from here, precious warmth would be directed through the crumbling domespaces and tunnels of Sector H8, sustaining life in this corner of the cold Underhive. The precious archaeotech in the sink-hall was the source and seat of power for the Guilders of Battersump H.E.A.T.

Strange, thought Degister, where Necromundan life can take you.

When the Sector H8 Orlock takeover had faltered, the Iron Fathers saw fit to make an example of the then-overcomptroller despite the fact that Degister had been merely a midhive agent reporting on the house's Hacked Knee fortunes from the safety of his comms cradle. It wasn't enough that the Slagwell Springsteens, Wasted and Hi-Viz Jackers had carved out solid turf in the sector. It only mattered that they'd failed to dominate – that honour had fallen to the trash-eating rats of House Cawdor. 

And so Degister found himself ousted and cast on the slagpile. He tried to be philosophical about it – more often than not, this is how the cards fall for the hive-city middle-manwrangler. At least he'd been exiled downhive rather than consigned to a drudging work-gang in some forsaken ash-waste ore-mine.

Degister figured the knowledge he'd gleaned from his Sector H8 agents might be turned to an advantage. He wasn't wrong – within a few cycles of his arrival in Hacked Knee, he'd taken stock of the shifting power balance and landed a comptrolling gig with one of the local Power Guild factions, an outfit known as the Battersump Holy and Esoteric Alliance of Thermaticists.

The four H.E.A.T. Guilders themselves were typically weird. Muffled in countless layers of protective robes, they spent their time meticulously observing arcane rites at the sink-links or were engaged in cryptic, interminable debates on the finer points of therm-conduit maintenance, conducted in their own baffling dialect. Rarely did they speak to non-initiates in their cult, and they showed only a passing interest in preserving their interests in the wider sector.

This was where Degister came in, employed as he was to oversee Battersump H.E.A.T's holdings, organising work rosters for the helot maintenance crews and co-ordinating security measures with hired gangs. Just the sort of work Degister had extensive experience in from his years on the Cruxrail project, although with a distinctly downhive twist: the helots required a crueller hand to discourage flight or rebellion, and the gangs were required to run regular shakedowns of the hab-shanties and black factorums who benefitted from H.E.A.T. supply.

What's more, accusations of betrayal and wrong-goddery between the voltmonger Ba'Kings and Wind Sore Clan had recently intensified to the point of open hostility, and the H.E.A.T. had, in one of their rare moments of direct communcation, instructed Degister to take advantage of this Power Guild discord to strengthen their grip on the sector. A good old fashioned turf war was on the cards.

This brought the Comptroller's thoughts back to the matter in hand. 

He'd acquired the services of some of H8's most notorious gangs and summoned their leaders to Battersump. The meeting was happening in this heat-shielded chamber as Degister thought the porthole views over the mighty sink-links might impress the gang bosses. Now, as he looked at the four men – or near-men – sitting around the battered plasteel table in the centre of the room, he wasn't so sure they were capable of being impressed.

There was Abraham Krass, mutie boss of his self-styled Dynasty. He was practically motionless – only the clawlike fingers of his third arm tapped rhythmically on the table. His face was a serene mask of cruel intelligence which belied his reputation for ferocious violence when his temper was disturbed. Degister was pleased to have snatched the services of the Krass Dynasty away from the Ba'Kings, who'd made early overtures to the gang.

Then there was Chosen Ghilabrious of the Church of the Amethyst Emperor. Another mutie, apparently of same strain as Krass as he was flexing his third arm with lazy malevolence. Ghilabrious claimed to be a devotee of an offshoot Redemptionist sect, but to Degister's eye he seemed more like a badzone rogue, with his hazard suit and brace of bolt pistols. Truthfully, Degister didn't care as long as he was as dangerous as he looked.

Next was Vokran, leader of the Hellhounds. His face was shadowed by the fold of his hood and he was casually tossing a frag grenade between his hands, one of which was a barbarous-looking augmetic. Typical downhiver posturing, thought Degister, but he couldn't deny that the Hellhounds had a dark reputation. It was rumoured that they swore fealty to the Wrong Gods, and had helped orchestrate the bloody calamity of the Thousand Hiver March. But here was Vokran, a free man – if what they said was true, the Throne agents who'd purged the sector would've eliminated the Hellhounds, wouldn't they?

And then there was Soho Jones, formerly of the Wasted, now boss man of the Wasted Youth. Degister knew him by repute – one of Oresson's reports had detailed how Jones had taken on a fearsome Van Saar arachnirig alongside that rat Courraine during one of the Ba'Kings' pit fights. His presence was reassuring. Here was a man of solid Orlock stock, not some mutie freak or deviant – well, not the wrong kind of deviant, at least.

Degister cleared his throat. The four bosses looked at him, eyes alive with menace. The Comptroller felt the whole weight of the Underhive, Hive City and the Spire above him. He was a long way from his midhive comms-cradle.

'So,' he said, forcing some authority into his voice, 'let's get down to business.'

The Hacked Knee Dominion Part 20: The Bitter End

The lumens flickered low, the crowds thinned, the traders shut up shop on the main drag of Nu-Bedlam, and Vintsen Courraine winced as he eased himself onto a rough bench out front of the dilapidated habhole he'd come to think of as home. Cycles after being nearly impaled on the end of a chainglaive courtesy of those Norvegicus ratfreaks, his chest still hadn't fully healed, and it'd taken him longer than the other Jackers to beat the spore sickness that had struck the gang. He rested his back against the hab wall, sighed, and reached into his coat for his flask.

He took a slug of 'snake and reflected on recent events in the Hacked Knee. Truth be told, the spore sickness hadn't exactly done the Jackers a disservice, keeping the gang's profile low as the clampdown following the zombie riots had tightened, with no less than the Holy Inquisition taking an interest. Lurid tales were circulating in the Shackled Well and Zzapturf Bazaar: an Inquisitorial agent had turned up with his bullyboys, investigating the shadowy forces behind the day of the undead. Some of H8's most notorious gang bosses had been rounded up for interrogation, but they'd broken free and made a murder of their captors. Vints wasn't sorry not to be tangled up in all that - they say the Inquisition never forgets nor forgives. Perhaps someday there'd be a reckoning.

Not this cycle, though. After the crackdown, the balance of power in Sector H8 had settled somewhat. Such is life in the underhive: violence ebbs and flows like the ash drifts in the great wastes beyond. House Cawdor had come out on top: the Hooded Men held the most turf, the Golems had hoarded a stash of creds as high as the Slimehouse junkdrift, Norvegicus had garnered a rep for ferocious persistence, and the house overall controlled unbroken swathes of territory.

Orlock was the only house that came close - the Slagwell Springsteens claimed as much turf as the Hooded Men, and the Wasted's prowess was sharper than any gang in H8. Vints was convinced the Jackers had played a key in the Orlock rise - if nothing else, they'd carved out a name for themselves by taking on as many scraps as they could - only the Savage Kittens had seen as much action through the cycles. Bloodier acclaim was found elsewhere: it was said that no gang had brutalised its rivals as much as the Reprobates.

Vints took another swig from his flask and nodded to a couple of passing scummers. His mind turned to the fortunes of the Hi-Viz Jackers over their cycles in the sector. The initial scramble for territory was was intense and hard-fought, much more so than their previous gig working the Cruxrail build. They'd taken on Nubis Machina, the Skymother's Chosen, the Hellhounds, the Brotherhood of the Crimson Carrion, the Hooded Men and the Good News Brood with nothing to show turfwise and a bunch of gangers sent to the corpse farms. Vints had had to go begging to his uphive overboss for help  - his old nemesis Degister, no less, who'd sent his own agent, Tzig Oresson, to supervise Vints and twist the knife.

Still, the Jackers had started to carve out a rep of sorts after participating in the guilder Ba'King's grand tournay - young Dwice Necrofago had shown moxie that day, and Vint's improvised alliance with the Wasted's Solo against the Orb Weaver's murderous arachno-rig had laid the ground for a more solid deal between the Orlock gangs. Before long, the Slagwell Springsteens had joined the H8 Orlock Takeover and the Jackers were not only keepers of the Clam Breath Wastes, but had also claimed the needleway hub at Shallow Alley after Rawshaq's Rogues vacated their turf.

Never mind the humiliating wounds Vints had suffered in dead-end scraps against the Savage Kittens and the Hellhounds - better to recall how the gang had successfully defended Shallow Alley against takeover raids by Norvegicus and the Skymother's Chosen. And then came the day of the great hiver march, when the Jackers answered a guilder distress call and found themselves fighting a teeming horde of zombies alongside some of their gang rivals. Not only had Vints curried favour with the guilds, he'd also rid himself of that thronedamned Oresson, abandoning the ganger to the claws and jaws of the undead. After that, the Jackers had teamed with the Wasted take on the Reprobates, but then the spore sickness hit and they'd been laid up while the turf war wound down.

Scraps of news had filtered through. Word was that some of the gangs who'd fought through the cycles were moving on to other sectors, or splintering into new crews. There was talk of discord in the Power Guild, with factional bust-ups and accusations of wrong worship which were threatening to break into outright war. And Vints had heard, much to his satisfaction, that Degister was on the slagheap after the Orlock takeover of H8 had fallen short. Like a bad cred, the ex-overboss was bound to cross Vints's path sometime; no doubt they'd continue their cycles-old dance of making each others' lives a misery.

But then came a surprising sting: as Vints lay on his sickbed, Griv Javinski, first of the Jackers to recover from the spore lurgy, had come calling, saying he'd had his fill and was taking off. Hard to blame him - after all, Vints had left him to the hungry mercy of the zombie horde alongside Oresson. Griv had been lucky to scrape out alive, and it was as clear as a sun-gun blast that he couldn't trust Vints any more.

What was more surprising was when most of the rest of the gang announced they were jacking in the Jacker life too. Ivan, Zam, Onzo, Darik, Ijax, even mouthy juve Lorn - the turf war had taken its toll on them, with eyes lost, hands maimed and nerves rattled. One way or another, they were minded to take their guns back to Old Bedlam Town - a nest of vipers, but familiar at least - or sign on with the rigger crews that ran the Spiderpoints and beyond.

Vints was still sore about it - whatever happened to gang before house and the rest? Most of them he'd known since the cycles working Cruxrail, and he'd have expected more loyalty. For a while, he'd thought even Akilles was going to pack it in, but he needn't have worried. His old right-hand man was sticking around, along with young Dwice, who rightly believed Vints's big talk that there was still fortune and glory to be had in Sector H8.

The main drag was all but deserted now, and the rats and other critters were scrabbling out of their dens, looking for carrion. Vints took a final swig on his flask and hauled himself to his feet, ready to turn in for a shift or two. Gangers could be replaced - between himself and Akilles, they had enough sway to recruit a bunch of fresh fighters. As sure as Vigil follows Magnificat, the turf wars would come again to Hacked Knee - soon, maybe, if all this talk of guilder discord was anything to go by - and the Hi-Viz Jackers would be ready. Sector H8 would know the name of Vintsen Courraine.