The Joy of E-Sec Part 2: In The Darkness

Brokeface Edwydd swore blind he knew some dreggy chancers who knew the ins and outs of E-Sec boltholes and scarper tracks - if anyone could put Gunn's Guns on the trail of the Hellhounds, it was them. Thing was, these dregs were typical badzone ashbrains who saw fit to hang in a tangled jungle dome, siphoning poisons from the plant life.

Jonn Gunn and his crew of mercs spread out as they hit the dome edge. It was an old sec-mech facility, bristling with vibrant, chem-fed vegetation. Overripe vines twisted between support struts, jagged lianas swagged the overhead walkways and the air was thick with drifting spores. In the thin lumen light, the forms of oversized shardwracks and venomgorse could be seen waving gently in the vent flow.

Three ragged human figures were shuffling about in the mottled middome shadows, but, squinting through the spore clouds, Gunn could just about make out several grey-clad forms on the far side of the dome. Not scummers. Looked like they were wearing void suits of some kind. Well-equipped gangers, uphivers or somesuch. Rivals.

Gunn barked instructions for the crew to split up and spread out to drive the Voidsmen off. The Blister Sisters and Jak 8-10 readily went seeking close quarters combat on the left flank, accompanied by scummer Mumbles. Gunn himself and Snags headed towards the overgrown walkways in the dome centre. Ratbite, Crusher, Drifter and Brokeface himself made for the higher walkways.

Then, the overhead lumens buzzed,flickered and went out. The dome was plunged into near darkness.

This didn't worry the Blister Sisters and psychotic Jak – all the better to creep up close on their targets. But Jak and Mumbles strayed too close to the venomgorse and got caught in the toxic vegetation's webby spores. 

The Escher siblings helped their gangmates free, then pressed on, charging into combat with the closest Voidsmen, Zamandra taking one of them down with her stiletto blade. Only the closest-range shots were viable in the darkness – but that's all the Voidsmen needed, for one of them was hefting a mining laser, which lit up the gloom and took the Blister Sisters out of the fight.

Jak 8-10 was close behind, and charged the heavy-las Voidsman, but the venomgorse had sapped the Goliath's strength and he was summarily taken out of action by a solid punch to the jaw. Mumbles wasn't long for the fight either, being chainbladed into submission by the boss Voidsman even as he crawled along, enfeebled by gorse venom.

Meanwhile, Jonn Gunn and Snags had crept forward into the shadows beneath the mechworks. Gunn had walked plenty of badzones in his time and stepped lightly, but clumsy Snags blundered through the darkness, stumbling up against a shardwrack and getting downed by its barbarous branches.

The dumb scummer whined for help, but Gunn had no time for the fool – there were whispered voices coming behind a nearby support stack. One of the Voidsmen was conferring with a dome dreg, pumping him for information. Gunn moved slowly, planning to get the drop on them and take the Voidsman out.

And the lumen rigs across the top of the dome buzzed and flickered back on.

Gunn blinked his good eye, trying to adjust to the returned light. First thing he got a clear scan on was movement on a walkway just above. A duster-clad man was staring down at him, smirking as he raised a plasma gun.

It took half a click for Gunn to realise he recognised this creep as Detective Muller, a downhive enforcer veteran, highly reputed for his ruthlessness – and his quick trigger finger.

It took another half click for Gunn to realise he was a sitting rat, right in the open from Muller's position.

And then the plasma gun spoke and Gunn was slammed to the deck, his carapace armour smouldering. Gunn crawled out of the line of fire, already writing this job off as a dead loss.

Up above, Ratbite, Crusher and Drifter had hung back while the lights were out, but now they were back on they found themselves mere metres away from Muller on a parallel walkway. The detective was quick – he spun his plasma gun up and downed Crusher before the scummer could even grab a grenade off his belt. Ratbite and Drifter took cover and looked to the dome exits.

As for Brokeface Edwydd, he'd staggered off along the walkways while the lights were still out, brashly confident he could find his way around the dome. He'd eased past a monstrous venomgorse thicket as the lights flicked on and clocked a local dreg at the far end of the walkway – if he wasn't wrong, this was indeed a mook he knew from his last sojourn round these parts.

He stepped forward along the walkway, croaking a greeting. That was probably what triggered the gorse, which spurted out a toxic web that entangled the hapless scummer. He struggled to get free as the venom seeped into his bloodstream, but it was too late – one of the Voidsmen hustled out of the shadows and knifed Brokeface out of action.

In the end, the crew made it out of the dome bloodied, humbled but still breathing. Later, as he was patching up his plasma-scorched breastplate, Jonn Gunn ruminated on how badly they'd underestimated Muller and the Voidsmen. The bounty on the Hellhounds had clearly drawn some spire-sharp crews to the hunt – looked like the killer plants and wreck-tech hazards of the E-Sec badzones were going to be the least of Gunn's Guns' worries...

The Joy of E-Sec Part 1: At the Mouth of Hell

Ten guns-for-fire stood at the Downminster Gate, gazing into the darkness. Behind them, the settled zones of Daggerhole, the Ba'kings' fortress-generatorium and Hacked Knee, Nord and Sud. Ahead of them, the long, unlit tunnel bored though the shellward rim of the 25M megadome, descending sumpwards, leading to the notorious E-Sec badzones.

A fetid, pungent breeze issued from the tunnel entrance, which was an unassuming three-metre high hole framed by a tangle of derelict scaffold and machinery stretching up the pitted rockcrete of the boundary wall. A cage hung from the scaffold above the dark portal, and in the cage a rag-clad anchorite, full Redemption fanatic, gnashed his teeth and rattled the bars. Whether he had been imprisoned there voluntarily was impossible to say; either way, he had words for the gathered mercenaries.

'I see you, sinners! Just as I saw them, all that went before you! You'll not set foot this way again, none of you! Those you seek have hearts blacker than the sump, and you walk beyond the searing light of the Emprah! Aye, for He sees you even as I do, sinners, and pleased He is not! You turn from his light and embrace the darkness of sin! You will die! You will die!'

Overexcited, the swallowed his tongue and began to choke. He thrashed about in the cage, sending it jerking back and forth, bouncing off the upper edge of the portal.

Jonn Gunn, veteran bounty hunter and de facto leader of the crew, shrugged his carapaced shoulders. 'Well, you heard the man. This is it. Last chance for second thoughts. Are we all in?'

'Like lice on rats, popz,' said one of the two Eschers who'd signed up for the crew. This was Zondra Zee, her voice muffled by the respirator covering her face. Her twin, Zamandra, was similarly clad, and similarly scarred by extensive spore burns – they weren't called the Blister Sisters for nothing. Zamandra didn't say anything, just drew the edge of her stiletto sword along the barrel of her autopistol with a menacing scrape. Gunn took that for an affirmative.

'Good killing thataways, I can feel it, yeah yeah,' said the hulking Goliath next to the Zees, concluding his comment with a slurp to contain the drool that was spilling between his jagged teeth. This was musclebound, microcephalous Jak 8-10, known for being too crazy even to run with his house brothers, and for his lethal skill with cleaver and spud-jacker.

'We came this far, didn't we? We're with you, Gunn.' This was 'Drifter' Zensen, speaking for himself and his three companions – 'Mumbles' Mervik, 'Crusher' Retzo and 'Snags' Skivvens. Hive scum didn't come any scummier than these rogues. Gunn suspected that they'd boosted half their gear from a PDF cache and their blood warrants were almost certainly fake. Still, given the hazards they'd be facing in E-Sec, Gunn was glad of any extra hands.

'Just watch me go, fellows. Old Brokeface'll show you the way,' slurred the penultimate hunter through ragged lips. This was 'Brokeface' Edwydd. Venator trade tattle had it that he was once a dashing gunslinger who took an unfortunate tumble into a sump spider nest and emerged a dessicated wreck of a man. A flask of second best was never far from his gnarled fingers – but he was the only one present who'd ever actually ventured into E-Sec, so he had that going for him.

The last hunter was Lurbo 'Ratbite' Ruddlestone. The ratling never spoke on account of his stitched-up mouth, but he waved his longrifle in the direction of the tunnel, giggling and nodding suggestively to Gunn. Enough of a yes.

In all his long cycles hunting Underhive outlaws, Jonn Gunn couldn't recall being part of a more bloodthirsty crew. It was hard to scan what was motivating them more – the hefty bounty on offer for tracking down the infamous Hellhounds, or sheer appetite for violence. As for Gunn, his resolve to gain a measure of vengeance for the blameless downhivers of H8 who'd suffered at the hands of the sadistic cult was as strong an impetus as the cold hard creds.

'All right then,' he said. 'On we go.'

Jonn Gunn strode ahead into the tunnel, the rest of the crew falling in behind.

And so ten guns-for-hire passed through the Downminster Gate as the anchorite choked and died in the cage above their heads.

The Hacked Knee Guild War Epilogue: The Comptroller III

Desperate Degister ducked down the dismal downhive drainway.

Funny how fast things change in the Underhive, he mused bitterly. One shift you're on top of the spire, right in the bosses' good ledgers, next shift the enforcers are in the sector, hammering on your habhole door, wanting to know just exactly what you know about the gangs you hired on behalf of the H.E.A.T guilders. And where were those selfsame fragging guilders when I needed their backing? 'In blessed communion with the sink links', my fragging foot. I swear by the iron in my blood, I honestly thought all that freaky stuff Vokran and his boys were into was just some weird ash-waste customs. But the enforcers won't see it my way. Thank the Throne I knew about this back-hatch crawlway out of my hab...

Dumb Degister didn't doubt his demise was due.

I'm deader than a spitted rat if they collar me, he thought, and even before they stick me in a gibbet, what they'll do in the interrogation cell... not worth thinking about. Come on, man, it's not going to end like this. You used to run work gangs across tenscore sectors. You had the ear of the factotum to the advisor-secundus of the logistics sub-committee of the Great Iron Council, fragdammit. But that was all so many shifts ago. Before you staked your rep on that rat-scrape Courraine. Heh, at least he came to a sorry end in the mean tunnels of Hacked Knee... and you're better than that, you're better than him. No way you're going to let yourself die in here in miserable Sector H8...

Dishevelled Degister dared to dream of downhive deliverance.

If I can dodge the law, make it out of H8 somehow, he thought, maybe I can find somewhere new, start a new cycle. Why not? It's what I did when I got bounced down from my old overcomptroller job. And I've picked up a sumpload of knowhow about downhive life all these cycles in H8. Helmawr's balls, some of the no-hope green hiver chumps I've seen scraping out a living down here – if they can do it, so can I. Which way, though? Sinkwards is no good – pure Battersump stronghold, crawling with enforcers. Shellwards, then, past the Ba'Kings' domain. That place they call E-Sec. Pure badzone but better than certain death here in H8.

Determined Degister diverted down a deserted ductway.

Yeah, he resolved grimly, that's it. If I'm gonna have a rat's chance of living to see next Sanguinius Day, there's no other choice. The only way is E-Sec.

The Hacked Knee Guild War Part 13: Into The Sumpset

Lights were flicking out in Nu-Bedlam, and the Hi-Viz Jackers were gathered in the shabby old habhole that had served as their base of operations for the past twoscore cycles. Any juve urchin who peeked in the windows would have caught the Orlocks in a sombre mood – and the Jackers weren't merely taking a cue from their dour leader, Akilles Lebow, who'd just finished addressing the crew.

'So,' said Ralve Skinzer. 'That's that, then? We're pulling the plug on Hacked Knee?'

'That we are,' said Akilles. 'Edz and me talked it from spire to sump. Our shift's done. Nothing more here for us...'

He trailed off, mind drifting. Things were different all those cycles back, the last time the Jackers had weighed up whether to fight on in Sector H8. Then, Vints Courraine had insisted there was fortune still to be fought for, and young Dwice Necrofago had backed him up. But now Vints and Dwice were both ratfood, and Akilles was the only original Jacker remaining.

Macks Zmit chipped in, irked at being left out of the decision. 'But fragdammit, boss, what about our name? What about our turf? What about the House?'

'What name? What turf?' Akilles growled. 'And gang before House, any cycle you like.'

The assembled Jackers shrugged assent at that.

'And House before the rest,' muttered Djo Moge. The once-proud ganger was a ghost of his former self, having sustained several severe injuries. He looked well ready to set down his guns. 'I guess we learned that the hard way.'

He wasn't wrong. Perhaps Vints's biggest mistake had been to sign on with the Ba'Kings as the Sector H8 guild war had broken out, a move which set them at odds with their former allies, the Orlock Wasted Youth. What's more, the Wasted allied with the Battersump H.E.A.T., who counted the fearsome Hellhounds, Krass Dynasty and Church of the Amethyst Emperor among their retainers. A fractious bunch, prone to backbiting and infighting, as half the gangs in the sector had seen first hand during the Great Ambull Hunt, but sumpdammit if they weren't a force to be reckoned with.

The Jackers had bruising run-ins with the Hellhounds and the Wasted, but it was during a scrap against a non-H.E.A.T. gang, the Crimson Carrion, that Dwice got burnt alive. For all his bolshiness, the young ganger, only just out of juvehood, was a sort of mascot for the Jackers, and his death shook them up badly. Which is how Vints would have explained away their subsequent defeat at the combined hands of the Wasted and Krass boys – if that selfsame defeat hadn't seen Vints dead after a brutal close-up encounter with Orlock boss Soho Jones.

The Jackers sought revenge, but the Guild War meant that H8 scraps were getting less predictable as the badzones slowly encroached on the neglected sector infrastructure. With the Hellhounds heading up Battersump domination of Hacked Knee, Akilles had grudgingly accepted that payback on the Wasted would have to wait for some cycle way down the line. It was time to haul boots in a big way.

'Well, you ask me, I reckon the boss's called it spiretop straight.' This was Skew Yarvil, who'd been acting strange ever since he'd been ransomed back from the Amethyst Church muties. He blathered on, grinning inanely. 'Time's come to down guns and think about other lines of work. Reckon I might head on back to old Bedlam Town, find a nice Orlock woman, bring some lil' juves into this here hive...'

'Frag that, man,' sneered Murgen Hezsz, voicing the collective disdain. 'Boss, please tell me that ain't the plan.'

Akilles was shaking his head at Skew's skewed rant. 'Helmawr's balls, no. But we can't stay here.'

Edz Macbacta cut in. 'Y'all heard what folks are saying? Word is that those things they said about them Hellhounds... and them Harbinger freaks.. got more than an ashcrumb of truth in 'em...'

Kaleb Dyablo had something to add. 'And there's talk about the Krass boys, and the Amethyst Church. Sure, they're muties, but maybe the wrong kind of muties...'

The Jackers eyed Skew uneasily.

'What?' he said with an open shrug. 'They were nice guys. Damn hospitable, actually.'

'Whatever,' said Akilles. 'Point is, the enforcers are in sector, locking everything down. And the guilders are winding their necks in, especially the Battersump H.E.A.T.. Trying to make their acts look clean.... and that's bad for business.'

'Alright, alright,' said Macks with a conceding wave. 'So it's time to move on. But where are we headed?'

'I heard the Hellhounds took off when the enforcers moved in,' said Ralve. 'Headed off into the E-Sec badzones. With a hefty bounty hanging over them. We could gun for that?'

'No,' said Akilles. Truth be told, the sound of Sawboss's buzzing blades still kept him awake after lights-out. 'That's someone else's scrap.'

'So what, then?' said Noot Necrofago. 'I only just signed on with you guys. What's in it for me?'

Akilles almost broke a smile at this. The juve was all mouth, a rockcrete-cold echo of his late cousin. That fire in the belly and the eyes. That sureness that fortune and glory were only a gunfight away. Dwice had had it, Vints was practically made of it. The feeling was contagious.

'O, make no mistake, Noot,' said Akilles, raising an eyebrow. 'We're gonna get rich. All we've gotta do is figure out where.'

'My brother Onzo's running rigs on the Great Ash Road,' said Edz. 'House is always looking for steady guns out in the Wastes.'

'Say, you heard about that place Tox Town?' said Murgen. 'Not far from Old Bedlam. Rich pickings, and Escher, Van Saar and Goliath gunning there. Fraggles, feebs and brickheads. Could be good.'

'If it's loot we want,' said Ralve, 'I got talking to some boozed-up ratskin last shift. Said he knew where there's this archaeotech horde further downhive, just waiting for the taking...'

This got a round of guffaws and amiable scorn from the rest of the Jackers – they'd all heard similar tall tales from a drunk ratskin one shift or another. The mood in the room was lifting.

How many times had Akilles sat in this very habhole and heard Vints talk up his latest caper? Enough times that the next words came easy.

'Prospects, boys. Point is, we got prospects. Go gather your gear and guns, knock back a slug or ten of wildsnake and get some rest. We move out the shift after next. And someday soon, when they hear tell of our scraps and scrags and all the creds we got, folks round Sector H8 will say 'Those Jacker boys walked these tunnels, ran these domes, fought this turf.' We'll be the stuff of legends. Am I right?'

The habhole shook with the last roar of the Hi-Viz Jackers.