A half shift past
lights out, and 'Snags' Skivvens was ghosting through the dead
manufactories of Foulnest core, pale lumen in hand. The ancient
walkways creaked underfoot. Chill breezes down gloomy tunnels needled
his bald head. Pipes gurgled inexplicably as he scrambled over them
and redundant auspexes trilled as he crossed the thresholds they'd
guarded for unknowable centuries.
Snags didn't much like
Foulnest at this hour. The place was haunted.
It reminded him too
much of the zone as it had been when he'd first arrived , just a few
cycles ago. Then, it had been the refuge of heretics engaged in
forbidden rites which Gunn's Guns and their erstwhile allies had shut
down with lethal force. Snags shuddered to recall the things he'd
seen that grim, bloody shift.
He scuttled past a row
of long-dead furnaces, now repurposed as doss-holes for some of
Foulnest's new residents. Green hivers and dregs of all stripes were
sleeping uneasily on makeshift bunks and cots. They stirred and
moaned, disturbed by nightmares.
During lights-up, the
settlement was a different place entirely, positively buzzing as the
incoming populace hustled to capitalise on the opening up of the
Dogland wastes. Creds and reputation were there for the taking – if
you had your wits about you.
Now, though, it was
drenched in darkness. Snags was moving along a low tunnel when a
thudding and scraping sounded ahead. He cursed under his breath and
shrank back against the wall, cutting the power to his hand lumen.
There was a narrow gap between two vertically-running pipes. Perfect.
He squeezed into the nook and out of sight.
Two rag-shrouded
figures shuffled past, dragging a heavy, man-sized shape. Their
burden was giving them some grief, and they were bickering in low
voices, although moving with urgency. Whatever it was they were
carrying, it was valuable. It may have been after lights-out, but it
was still time to do business. Snags considered unslinging his
shotgun and attempting a shakedown, but decided it wasn't worth it
for an unknown prize. He stayed still and silent until they'd passed
on out of earshot, then resparked his lumen and continued down the
tunnel.
Of course, the Guilders
were at the forefront of the reclamation, lording it over the common
hivers and laying claim to a cut of everything, just like they always
do. Old Jonn Gunn had wanted to finish the business that had brought
them there in the first place, but leads on Vokran and his gang had
run cold, and even now Gunn was in negotiations with the coiners and
corpse-grabbers, looking to sustain the gang's operations for the
foreseeable.
Snags emerged from the
tunnel onto a narrow walkway which stretched off left and right. He
stepped to the rail on the other side. Cut End. A long, broad hall
stretching across five levels of Foulnest core, it must have been a
manufactory storehouse space at some point, but since the reclamation
it had become the settlement's main trading station. Snags was at the
highest level, gazing down. During the lit shifts, the hall was abuzz
with activity, crammed with stalls, roiling with noise and scuffles.
At this hour, the place was dark, with only a few barrelfires burning
, casting dancing shadows on the ladders and walkways. Far off at the
other end of the hall, other lights flickered. Snags's destination.
He stepped to the nearest ladder and began to climb down.
Gunn's Guns weren't the
only gang looking to carve out a name in Foulnest. Snags understood
that Ray Voidsman had gathered a new crew – there was unfinished
business there after their brutal run-ins during the badzone hunt.
Word was that the Delaque Veiled Cartel had likewise opted to remain,
and there was another Delaque crew, the Sin Eaters, in the zone.
Other houses were represented: an Escher mob called the Smokestack
Needles, the Cawdor Carrion and Amethyst Church from Sector H8, as
well as stranger outfits – Ahab's crew, who'd caused quite a stir
the shift they moored their grav-cutter at the drained sump quays.
There was even rumour of ash-wasters who'd journeyed in through
Dogland. Of course, with gang war afoot and creds to be made, the law
wasn't far behind: Old Precinct House 13 had been re-opened, with at
least one enforcer task force deployed there. Whatever fortunes were
to be found on this new downhive frontier, there would be a blood
price.
Snags had reached the
bottom level of Cut End and moved off down the hall, weaving between
shut-up stalls and burning barrels. There were only a few people
around, mostly stimm peddlers and vendors of other cheap illegals,
lurking beneath the stairwells and support struts. The only ones
moving openly were the maintenance crews of the water and promethium
guilds – syphonites and subnauticans, pyromagirs and cynders -
going about their duties with impunity, knowing that few would dare
to raise a hand against them. Not so Snags – he stuck to the
shadows.
Snags pondered his
loyalites to Gunn. The veteran bounty hunter was no green juve – he
recognised that Foulnest was a prime location to cash in on a blood
warrant – but, unlike Snags and the rest of the crew, he was still
fixated on somehow tracking down Vokran and carving out some justice
for the violated dead of Hacked Knee. Why stick with him on such a
fool's errand? Psycho Jak and sadistic Ratbite were in it just for
the violence, but Snags and his cronies – Drifter and Crusher –
had their eyes on other prizes. The rackets. Foulnest was alive with
commerce, clean and dark, but a trade route or chem-farm's only worth
something if you've got the muscle to protect it. Guild alliances are
one thing, but there are plenty of other trades that need guns to
back them up. And this was what had brought Snags to Cut End this
dead shift.
He'd arrived at his
destination: a looming four-storey edifice that dominated one end of
the great market hall. The basic structure was a stack of weld-joined
heavy container units, but it had been extensively and haphazardly
added to. Lumens, candles and oil lamps flickered in the windows that
dotted its bullet-holed, rust-caked facade. Snags had heard rumour
that the building dated back centuries, standing solid against all
odds, through hivequake, plague and purge. Now, it was the
settlement's most reputed drinking hole and the best place to pick up
scuttlebutt on the emergent rackets. Its name had carried over from
the old times: Foulnest Working Hivers' Club.
Jonn Gunn could parley
with the Guilders all he liked – Snags and the rest of the crew had
other plans in mind. With a gap-toothed grin, he shoved open the door
and stepped inside.
