The Foulnest Rackets Part 8: Bring Out Yer Dead

'Bring out yer dead,' croaked Flin Fleckus as he shunted his corpse cart through the dripping dankness. The semi-automated tracked cart buzzed ahead, bereft of cargo this early in the shift.

He was down in the half-collapsed stack of warehouses on the lowest levels of Foulnest, where the settlement's darkest deeds took place. Most of the fatalities from bitter gang fights and duels would have been scooped up by the Guild harvesting parties, but there were sometimes leftovers for a lowly drudge like Flin,who earned a meagre living collecting whatever dead flesh he could find for delivery to the Guild-sanctioned corpse-processing farms. He didn't intend to spend much time down here, lest he end up killed and carted away by some other carrion-scraper.

Not bad findings this time: a few shrivelled limbs wedged between the deck plates, even a ripe torso the corpse grinders must have overlooked. Still, best to leave these half-badzone haunts to the true professionals. There was a crude, slime-lined elevator at the end of the corridor. He rolled his cart onto it and set about working the crank. The gears rattled and, inch by inch, he ascended to the level above.

'Bring out yer dead,' croaked Flin Fleckus as he shunted his corpse cart along the rust-thick quayside. There was activity here: teams of dock-hands hooking and slinging cargo off the moored dust-runners. Some of the ash-rigs – and some of the dock-hands – were branded with sigils of the Iron and Coin Guild; others were more discreet, their loads hustled furtively onto wagons and the backs of pack-slaves. Flin averted his gaze from these latter- no good would come of paying attention where it wasn't bidden. He steered his cart carefully between the work gangs.

Just the one finding, but a good one: a fresh hanging. Delaque male, suspended over the quayside from a metal beam. The body twisted languidly in the wind that gusted in from the cavernous, sludgy vaults of Dogland. The cadaver's viz-augmetics dangled down his either side of his face, squeezed out of their sockets by the death throes. Who could tell if this was a suicide or a gang killing? The House of Snakes runs its schemes dark and complex: maybe murder, or maybe this poor soul had backstabbed his way into a corner with a terminal exit. Either way, no-one in the cargo game seemed to care – they went about their business, leaving the body where it was. Not so Flin. Here was good meat for the rending vats. He sawed through the rope and added the corpse to his cart. Onwards and upwards.

Flin steered the corpse cart up a few levels, rattling unsteadily over the rickety bridgeways linking the cold furnaces that now served as squalid habholes. Not much chance of any findings here – the desperate furnace-dregs would already have pounced upon any meat matter and made short work of it. But there were better prospects ahead.

'Bring out yer dead,' croaked Flin Fleckus as he shunted his corpse cart through the bustle of Cut End market. He made the rounds of the butchers' stalls and checked in with a few Cawdor ratcatchers of his acquaintance. Even a few scrapings of offcut fat from the former or critterlimbs gnawed off to escape the latter's traps could fetch a tenth of a cred or two. Not much else happening on the market this shift – no brawls or stand-offs escalating into murder – so on to the next stop.

'Bring out yer dead,' croaked Flin Fleckus as he shunted his corpse cart between the tumbledown hovels of Dhan's Town, one of several hab clusters that had sprung up in the dead factoria domes around Foulnest core. Flin usually got something out of the locals – some poor skuthead who'd carked it from a stimm overdose or acute spore sickness. If worst came to worst, he'd siphon off the contents of the communal dunny into his cart – it's all organic, after all.

Flin was halfway down the main drain that cut through the middle of the cluster of habs. He nodded and growled greetings to the locals he knew. Tattle was traded – since the Sin Eaters took off, the Smokestack Needles and Gunn's Guns had been throwing their weight around town, each looking to take over the protection rackets. Things were coming to a head, and this shift would see a reckoning. Flin clocked a clutch of enforcers from Precinct 13, on patrol and looking for trouble. Over the other side of the shantyways, he clocked the bright colours of the Needles and the drab colours of the Guns, stealthing into position. There would be gunplay, blood and – if Flin was lucky – fresh meat for the finding.

What the tattle had missed was the arrival of the Rustgate OMC, those notorious outlaws. Suddenly, there they were, whooping and hollering from the mechworks at the dome's edge, getting involved just for the violence. Flin's prospects were looking better by the click – as long as he didn't get caught in the crossfire.

The scrap went down pretty fast. There were bullets and lasbolts flying everywhere. Half the hive dwellers panicked and ducked for cover, scrambling between the hovels or into the mechwork perimeter. The other half, which included Flin, had seen it all before. They tried to go about their business – if Emprah wills it, there's no dodging that fatal shot.

Flin rolled his cart between the hovels, glancing down at the gutters and drainholes for carcass matter, and glancing up to check he wasn't about to be charged by a battle-mad ganger. The things he saw would give him tales to tell in the Working Hivers' Club for the next dozen shifts:

That enforcer who clambered on the dunny to lob a grenade at one of the Needles. The grenade bounced back at him and blasted him right back down to the dome floor. So much for Helmawr's long arm.

Gunn's lad Mumbles and Needle juve Jek going at each other with knives in the shadows of the mechworks. Another grenade went off right in the middle of their duel, but they scrapped on regardless, and Jek got the better of Mumbles in the end.

Old Jo Genge of the Rustgaters fumbling a point-blank shot at venator Noomena, then cracking his foot as he tried to drop to safety on the domefloor. Jonn Gunn put a hotshot lasbolt in his arse, but Genge but staggered on regardless.

Truth be told, that Rustgate resilience burned through the whole rumble. The enforcers, the venators and the Eschers rained fire on the Orlocks, but they just hung on like ash clams. The other gangs took a few casualties and, unlike the outlaws, didn't have much stomach for shooting up the locals. Before long, Gunn and veteran Needle Kes looked to have changed their minds about the takeover, ordering their crews to scarper.

One enforcer by the name of Angel looked to be hanging in there, ready to make a stand against the Rustgaters as they moved down from the mechworks into the hovels, but he thought better of it and ducked out back to his precinct. Flin didn't blame him, the way the Orlocks were fighting on through their wounds. No-one was going to stop them.

So that was the shift the Rustgate OMC took over the protection rackets in Foulnest core. Some would say it was dark news, another slice of the action falling into the hands of men beyond the law, but to the likes of Flin Fleckus, it was business as usual. The gangs will run their shakedowns, be they clean or outlaw. The best an underhiver can do is try to scrape a living between the bulletstorms.

Flin Fleckus scoured the alleyways between the hovels but, for all the carnage, there'd been no kills in Dhan's Town that shift. Time to roll the cart over to the corpse farm and see how much he could haggle for his haul.

One last call, just in case.

'Bring out yer dead,' he croaked.

The Foulnest Rackets Part 7: Getting The Drop On

You just stopped in at the Foulnest Working Hivers' Club for a quiet drink, but this glassy-eyed scummer is insisting on propping up the bar next to you, and by Helmawr's balls, he will not shut up.

'… And I hear old man Gunn sprang a trap on Ray Void and his boys over at Dead Drop. Dead Drop, you know – ah, you're new in the 'Nest, aren't you? So it's a wee ways corewards, in the badzones. One of the big old rents running though E-Sec top to bottom, scars from hivequakes and so on. Top of Dead Drop is right up at the highest E-Sec levels, and that's maybe the only way across, over some old bridges and through some old stackhouses that cling to the dome roof like ash barnacles. Under that, well, nothing, a thirty metre gap running down, down to... well, best not to mind it much.

'Anyway, that ladderways at the top is where Gunn's Guns, those mean-arse venators, tried to ambush the Rustgate OMC, that Orlock crew, bad boys, outlaws. Reckon Gunn was put up to it by the Guilds – Coiners and Slavers wanting the tradeways kept open, you know.

'Gunn and his crew were either side of the gap, so I heard, circling the Rustgaters, who were holed up in a tower hanging down over the gap. The venators had some fresh blood with them – this woman Noomena, you might have seen her around, knows Gunn from way back and has signed on with his crew. And a couple of boys from the backrooms right here, murderous scummers.

'So they got that trap sprung and started shooting at the sorry Orlock lads out over the gap, but Ray Void, he wasn't having none of it, he sees Gunn over yonder at the pit's edge, tells his Rustgaters that's the way they're going, that's how they're going to break out.

'And Khalid – you must've seen Khalid round the market here at Cut End? Sharp talker, Khalid, knows the price of everything, and where to get it. Khalid's on point, gets his plasma gun up, and doesn't he just go and deadeye Jonn Gunn himself? But Gunn's a tough old sheenbird, he's down but not out. And shots are all ringing off the walkways and scorching the supports, and a few of each crew take a tumble while they're ducking for cover. I don't know how, but they all grabbed on to wires and pipes and whatnot and none of them went down down into the darkness – not yet, anyway.

'Maybe things would've kicked off different if the ventors had that creepy ratling fella on board. Whatsisname, Ratbite, that's it. Ratbite snuck off and found himself a sweet snipe spot, but it turns out this mutie scummer in Void's pay was also on the sneak, looking for somewhere for a piss. I heard he ran across Ratbite just as the little freak was aiming his first shot, and the sight of them as they kept missing each other point blank was a right laugh. So I heard. By the time the scummer had got his shift together and actually charged Ratbite and took him out, the fight was almost over...

'But I'm getting ahead of myself. So Khalid had gunned Gunn down and the Rustgaters were mustering for their breakout, but a few of Gunn's crew were coming up right up at them. And who's there in among the venators? Only Brokeface Edwydd – you must've seen him round here, yeah? Ugly guy, keeps coming back from the dead...'

The drinker's voice tails off and a haunted look steals into his booze-swollen face. Some things don't bear thinking about. But then he shakes his grin back on and continues.

'So it's Brokeface himself running at Ray Void, only the last time Ray - and most of us, for that matter – saw Brokeface, Ray was dragging him out of this here bar and burning him to death right there on the market. Can you imagine Ray's face when he sees this ugly fragger up ahead on the walkway, blazing away with his autopistols? Ha, it was quite a pict by all accounts! Anyways, Brokeface is shooting stray as usual, but not Ray. I swear, that fellow's as cold as the void he was born in. He just aims his bolter and plugs Brokface, and Brokeface is gone, fallen into the black place below, Emprah only knows how far, but I'll bet we'll be seeing him again before the cycle's up...'

That haunted look again, just for a second.

'But scrag me if that weren't when things really went sumpwards. I mean it – all that shooting and moving must've weakened the bolts and bindings on the ladderways, and wouldn't you know it but the whole structure tears loose and drops into the pit, all sparks flying and metal screaming and air rushing. A few of the fighters dropped off during the plunge, though they've all been seen since, so they must've got swept onto some of the side levels. And as for the structure itself, well, it must've got banged or pranged and shunted off, because it didn't drop eight to the bottom, wherever that is. No, it sorta slid off to the side, smashing to a stop in one of the dead manufactory domes down in lower E-Sec. I swear, you couldn't make this up, but stranger things happen downhive, right?

'So the loose ladderway's come to rest, and everyone who's still aboard is all shook, and the landing sets the old mechworks a-whirring, with clouds of rank smoke spreading out all over, and as if that weren't enough, some local muties start popping arrows at both crews, not that these puny critters were tough enough to actually wound anyone.

'Well, no-one had much stomach for the fight after that. I heard Jonn Gunn, all bloody from the plasma hits, made an offer to Ray, a bung of Guilder money or some such, to stand down, but the Voidsman said no – he was going to blast his way out of there with the rest of his Orlock boys.

'And that they did – the smoke gave them some cover, even if it had them all coughing and wheezing, and the venators what was still standing, likewise half-choked, settled for exploring the dome and charting out how it connected to the Coin Guild's money-map. Even though the ambush was a bust, this was enough to get them a decent payoff from the Coiners, and as for the Rustgate OMC – well, word is that this show of force made an impression, and that Ray and his boys are now doing bagwork for the Slavers. On the sly, of course – they're outlaws, after all.

'So that's how it all went down at Dead Drop. Quite a story, eh, friend? Worth the price of a few shots of wildsnake, wouldn't you say?'

The Foulnest Rackets Part 6: Die Again, Brokeface

'Brokeface' Edwydd knew what pain was. He'd learned that lesson many cycles ago, when he'd taken a tumble into a sumpspider nest. The soft webbing broke his fall, and then came the thousand needlepoint jabs of the countless hatchlings sinking their sharp young fangs into his flesh. After his crewmates had hauled him out of the nest, he boiled inside and out as the spider venom scoured every inch of his body. His skin shrivelled and his muscles wasted, leaving him a sorry echo of the proud venator he'd once been. Those grim shifts as the toxins worked through his system were lost to Brokeface now, but he sure did remember the pain. Small wonder he'd turned to boozing afterwards.

And boozing was what he was doing at the Foulnest Working Hivers' Club when Ray Void came at him, chainsword buzzing and murder in his offworld eyes. Brokeface could hardly blame him for the animus – after all, Ray had already killed him once.

Ray had a bellyful of liquor, evident from the careless swing of his chainsword. Brokeface, not exactly sober himself, managed to duck aside and the whirring teeth bit into the metal plating of the bar. Sparks fountained and metal screeched. The drinkers who'd been listening to Brokeface's raconteur act scattered – downhive, there's plenty of ways to get maimed without sticking your beak into other folks' bad business.

Ray was trying to dislodge his chainsword from the bar – it had snagged after tearing a gash halfway to the floor. Brokeface backed away.

'Hey, hey, now, spacer brother,' he said , raising his palms, 'I know maybe there's some bad blood here, but - '

'You should be dead!' snapped Ray, Second Best soaking his words. 'And she won't shut up!'

The mat of scar tissue that passed for Brokeface's brow furrowed. No use talking to a crazy man. Brokeface turned and ran for the door.

His mind skipped back to the most recent time he'd died. Down at the old sludge quays, Gunn's Guns had faced off against the Dreadhook Whalers. Brokeface had wanted to see just how far this resurrection jag would stretch, so he'd charged right at the rival gang, like an idiot. One of the Dreadhook Whalers had peppered his chest with autofire, and that was that. Next thing he knew, he was waking up on the cold warehouse deck, left for dead – not wrongly – by his crew. Alone, with a fresh set of bulletholes in his body to remember the occasion. He'd crept back up to Foulnest Core and the Hivers' Club to get sauced and maybe fool himself that he belonged among the living.

So much for that plan.

A shot caught him square in the back and propelled him forward – he slammed the door of the Club open and tumbled out into the main hall of Cut End. Even drunk, Ray could shoot straight. Brokeface noticed that his chest was still intact and figured Ray must've used his backup stubber rather than his bolter. Small mercies.

Not long until lights out: the lumens were flickering, the market traders were packing up their stalls, and the night folk were lighting up the barrelfires. Brokeface rolled onto his back and stared around. The traders and dispersing patrons did their best to act like nothing was happening out front of the Hivers' Club. They had more sense than to get involved. A couple of Precinct 13 enforcers were swaggering away down the market, but Brokeface knew better than to expect help from them. No grift to be gained from breaking up your average bar scrap, even if murder was on the cards. There were a few pale-masked figures in the shadows on the upper levels. Sin Eaters – the Delaque gang was currently running protection in Foulnest core, but fat chance they were going to sully themselves for a scummer like Brokeface.

And then Ray was on him again, storming out of the Club with a stagger in his step.

'You're dead, you faceache scrag,' snarled Ray, aiming his stubber with a shaky hand.

Brokeface was ready. He'd slipped one of his autopistols out of its holster and brought it to bear on the voidsman.

'Not this time, brother,' he grinned, and pulled the trigger.

The autopistol jammed. It wasn't Brokeface's shift. It rarely was, he mused, as Ray grabbed him and hauled him to his feet, gripping him in a tight headlock.

Brokeface's thoughts ran to the second time he'd died, just a cycle ago, when Gunn's Guns had gone up against the Cawdor Carrion. Having only come back from the dead once at that point, Brokeface had been all foolhardy bravery, scaling a tower to get some shots in at the Carrion's leader, Corvus. He'd missed, of course, and found himself on the receiving end of a hefty swing from Corvus's chainglaive. The blow had ripped his chest open – again – and sent him tumbling to the domefloor below. He still remembered the snap as his spine had shattered on impact, right before things went black. Two shifts later, the Guns sure had been surprised to see him stumbling into their hab block.

No venator crewmates to back him up now.

Ray was manhandling him across the market hall, spitting fury. 'I'm gonna kill you proper this time, man! No worming your way out of it!'

Brokeface realised he was being dragged towards one of the freshly-lit barrel fires.

'Ah, come on, Void,' choked Brokeface through the headlock, 'you gotta - '

But Ray had released him and promptly followed up with a smart right hook that sent Brokeface sprawling to the deck again. The offworlder wasted no time, stooping to wrap his arms around the burning barrel. His insulated suit was enough to serve as protection, but Brokeface was clad in flimsy flak and rags.

Ray Void hoisted the barrel off the deck and tipped its contents – filthy scrap-fuel, all ablaze – over Brokeface Edwydd.

The flames caught on the scummer's garments. He tried to gasp out a curse, but the air in his lungs was cooking away, snatching the breath from him.

'Die, you scummer bastard!' snarled Ray. 'Die again!'

Brokeface flailed, scrambling to his knees before dropping again and rolling along the deck. The fire was all about him now, clawing into his already-dry flesh. His mind skipped back to the first time he'd died – also the first time Ray Void had killed him. They'd faced off before an unholy altar, each intent on putting an end to the wych who'd been at the centre of all that wrong-goddery. Brokeface realised that it was then, as Ray's chainsword had carved his torso open during the Battle of Foulnest, that he'd last felt pain. Ever since, when he'd died a second, third, and now a fourth time, he'd seen it, heard it, smelled it, but he'd not felt it. There was no pain. And if there's one thing Brokeface Edwydd knew, it was pain.

Somehow, he found the strength and breath to croak out, 'See you around, Voidsman.'

And then he died as the flames burned themselves out. By now, only the barrelfires and a few dancing lumens lit the great gloom of Cut End. The night scummers had had their entertainment: from the shadows there was a smattering of ragged applause and a few hoarse cheers, as well as the muttered demands and concessions of wagers being claimed. 

Raymond Void stood over the smouldering corpse. Was that low, guttural chuckle coming from the scummers or from the bag at his hip – the hag's head, taunting him? He needed another drink, badly, and so turned to return to the Working Hivers' Club, certain that he'd seen the last of Brokeface Edwydd.

He was wrong, of course.

The Foulnest Rackets Part 5: Hell and High Water

'Crusher, put some smoke out there,' barked Jonn Gunn. 'We'll wait for them to come forward, then rush them, guns up.'

'Sure, boss,' said Crusher Retzo, and flung a smoke grenade into the centre of the wide chamber. The grenade rattled to a halt and disgorged a thick cloud of fumes.

Gunn's Guns were on another op. This time, they were down in the lower depths of Foulnest, in a row of rust-rimed, slime-smeared warehouses that, before the great drain-off, would have been the sump quayside. The job was to take on incomer crew known as the Dreadhook Whalers, who were allied with the Water Guild. This was the hook Gunn had used to get Van Scultis interested, playing up Guild rivalries, and it was certainly a version of the truth; in fact, the Whalers and the Guns, both dissatisfied with their current alliances, had been making overtures to the Corpse Guild. A decisive showdown between the two gangs would determine who would take priority.

Gunn and Van Scultis had split their forces and advanced into two adjoining warehouses. Gunn was accompanied by Crusher, as well as Brokeface and Mumbles. There was scant cover in the abandoned storage hall, and their foes were moving in from a set of smaller chambers and corridors on the far side, so Gunn had ordered the smoke drop.

While Crusher and Mumbles hung back, Gunn and Brokeface moved forward to a wall that ran from the edge of the smoke cloud. Gunn's armour clattered, and Brokeface cackled at the prospect of violence. They paused and heard shunting doors and low voices from around the corner. The Dreadhooks were in the warehouse.

'Right, Brokeface,' hissed Gunn. 'I want you to - '

But Brokeface wasn't listening. Since he'd reconnected with the crew via the life-coin exchange, he'd been even more unhinged ever. He twisted his head round with a jerk, a mad grin on his ravaged face.

'I'm going for it, boss! Watch this!'

Brandishing his autopistols, he launched himself off the wall and disappeared around the corner, into the smoke.

'Dammit,' muttered Gunn as Crusher moved up to join him.

'What's he playing at?' asked Crusher, wrinkling his snub of a nose.

'Fragged if I know,' said Gunn. 'The damn fool's a liability. We'll have to wait and -'

He was cut short by the chatter of autofire, coming from beyond the smoke. Twin burst, presumbly Brokeface's pistols. A wild, wordless holler from Brokeface. A short, controlled burst – autogun rather than pistol, to Gunn's experienced ears, likely one of the Dreadhooks. A surprised yelp from Brokeface. Then silence.

Mumbles had crept forward to join Gunn and Crusher. 'Hrrg hrrg hrrrh.'

'Yeah,' said Crusher. 'Don't think Brokeface is gonna be much more use.'

Gunn scowled.'Right, boys, we're in a tight pipe here, but we might just be able to work our way out. Stick to the plan, guns up, rush them through the smoke, take them by surprise.'

'Hrrrg hrrrrrrrr.'

Gunn had to admit Mumbles was right – it wasn't much of a plan. But it was all they had. 'If we're lucky, it won't matter how many of them there are, we'll catch them on the hop.'

Crusher prepped a grenade and, on Gunn's cue, the trio ran forwards into the smoke.

Things went down fast. There were five Dreadhooks, grizzled fighters clad in haz-shield suits, on the other side of the smoke: two in the main warehouse chamber, three lurking off in side-rooms. Mumbles found himself tangled in combat with the closest, while Gunn pinned one with a lasbolt and Crusher chucked a grenade into one of the doorways, hoping to take out the plasma gunner there. The Dreadhooks returned fire, pinning Gunn and Crusher as Mumbles grappled with his foe.

The smoke was clearing, and Gunn realised he'd underestimated how much solid weaponry the Dreadhooks were hefting. Big mistake. 

Bolt shells and plasma shots filled the air. One of the former caught Gunn's shoulder armour and blasted it open, searing the flesh beneath. He dropped, gritting his teeth. Wincing through the pain, he looked up and clocked a distinctive plasma muzzle pointing straight at him. He tried to roll, but the gun spoke and the shot hit his leg, superheating his armour and setting the skin beneath boiling. 

He screamed and passed out.

+++++++++++

When Jonn Gunn regained consciousness, he was lying on his back. He was also in immense discomfort. He tried to blink his eye open, but there was something stuck into his tear duct. There was something stuck into everywhere, countless needlepoints snaking under his armour, driving into his veins and pores. He writhed, groaning, but a slender hand pressed down on his chest with surprising force.

With wilful effort, he blinked his eye open. Stooped over him was the unmistakeable figure of a Master Nautican, all wide-brimmed helm and beady, chem-spiked eyes. And, of course, all moisture-cap tubes, a tangle of lines extending from the storage units on the Nautican's back and from under his – or her – robes. The lines terminated in the multitude of extractor needles that were lancing Gunn's body. Behind the Guilder, he could just about make out the hulking form of the attendant Subnautican, blank-masked, impassive.

This must be the Dreadhooks' ally, Gunn realised. They must have driven off Crusher, Mumbles and Van Scultis's crew after I took the plasma hit. They must have captured me. And this must be how I die, after all these long cycles. Drained dry by the Water Guild.

The Guilder nodded, head cocked, as if understanding Gunn's thoughts. Then, the lines shuddered and the extraction began. Gunn writhed again as agony, worse than the plasma wound, wracked his body. He could feel his arteries shrivelling as vacuum suction acted on them, could feel his very tissue folding in on itself. Death couldn't come soon enough.

And then the extraction stopped. Gunn looked up, and saw that a third masked figure – presumably the Syphonite factotum – had approached the Nautican and was gesturing extravagantly, showing a dataslate. Gunn strained to listen through the pipes cramming into his ears, and could just about make out a rapid, urgent exchange in the ululating cant of the Water Guild.

The Nautican turned away from the Syphonite and looked down at Gunn. The beady view-lenses glistened, somehow melancholy. Abruptly, the lines began to detach from Gunn's flesh, quivering and lashing and they withdrew back into the Guilder's robes.

Gunn watched, perplexed, as the Nautican stepped away and began conferring with the Syphonite. Responding to some unheard cue, the Subnautican lumbered forwards and picked Gunn up in its huge paws. The veteran venator was manhandled across the room. A door opened and Gunn was unceremoniously thrown out.

He would've dropped to the deck if Snags Skivvens and Mumbles hadn't been there to catch him. They moved off up the pipeway, putting hasty distance between themselves and the Nautican's lair.

Slumped heavily between his gangmates, Gunn slurred a question. 'What the frag just happened?'

Snags, barely recovered from his recent injuries, replied through gritted teeth. 'You probably guessed how that scrap ended. The Dreadhooks won it, and the aquamongers got you...'

'Yeah...' gasped Gunn, bleeding from a thousand microwounds. 'But how'd I...? How'd you...? Wassit Van Scultis?'

'Hrrrrr hrrrrg,' said Mumbles.

'Nah' said Snags. 'Her crew took just as much of a bruising as you and the boys. She's mighty vexed at you, reckons you set her up.'

'Heh,' said Gunn. 'S'not exactly wrong. But...'

'Well, you'll be glad to hear that other bit of business came off spirestraight, just as planned.'

The other business. The real game. The involvement of the Water, Coin and – tangentially - Corpse Guild in the scrap with the Dreadhooks meant that eyes were off the lower sump quays for the duration of the shift. Time enough for Snags to help out some smuggler friends of his in moving a shipment of contraband in from Dogland. Risky work, but well worth it in terms of creds.

'And you used the payment... to buy me back from the Water fraggers?' gasped Gunn.

'Aye, that I did,' said Snags. 'Only some of it, though. And only just in time. I was just finishing up the deal, wouldn't even have known you'd been taken if Mumbles here hadn't come rushing to find me.'

'Hhh-hrrrrgh,' said Mumbles, triumphantly.

Gunn grinned despite the pain as they hauled him back up towards Foulnest Core. Between his busted leg and the extraction wounds, he was in bad shape – it'd take a fair few shifts for him to recover. And the defeat at the hands of the Dreadhooks surely wouldn't do the Guns' reputation any favours. But there was grim satisfaction to be had at getting one over the Guilders. And besides, as every Underhiver knows, every credit you earn, you pay for in blood.

The Foulnest Rackets Part 4: The Wages of Grit

'Congratulations on a job well done,' said Lymeris Van Scultis, Mistress of Coin, reclining on a bank of gold-trimmed cushions. Before her, on a low rectangular table, were various ornate artefacts, including an elaborate hookah. Behind her, crates brimming with creds, stacked to head height, an ostentatious display of wealth that few would dare this far downhive. 

Jonn Gunn was taken aback. He'd come here to one of the uppermost levels of Foulnest, where Van Scultis had pitched her expansive, luxurious yurt, expecting to be told in no uncertain terms that his crew's alliance with the Toll Collectors was being terminated before it had really got started. But, as ever with the Guilds, things were unpredictable.

'Um, I wouldn't call that a win, Guilder. Most of my boys are going to be laid up for half a cycle, and those Carrion scum took control of the blood pits.'

Van Scultis snorted a laugh, fluttering the rich fabric of the bandana that covered her lower face. She paused to peruse a ledger presented by a rag-clad groveller, nodding approval when she was satisfied. The groveller withdrew through the stacks of cred-filled crates that lined the back of the yurt, taking care to step carefully over the web of laswires that crisscrossed the space. Tripping but one wire would trigger the alarm – and the response would doubtless be lethal. 

'Really, Gunn,' she said, condescension in her voice. 'You think that was the purpose of the exercise? You, a venator of such experience?'

Gunn winced, confused. Had that damned ambull hit him harder than he'd realised? The aim of the op was to bloody the Carrion's bony beaks – the Cawdor mob had migrated over from Sector H8, and had been crowing about how they were going to rule the rackets of Foulnest, their twisted faith setting them above and beyond the Imperial Law. Bossman Corvus was bragging that the fighting pits were next on their list of targets, and Gunn and Van Scultis had agreed that stopping the outlaws would knock some wind out of their vents.

When they went into the scrap, Gunn had thought they were usefully mob-handed, with an even dozen fighters including Van Scultis and her Toll Collectors. But the Carrion, allied with the local narco lords, had a bunch of scummers on their side, and outnumbered Gunn's crew. The mission got complicated: there was an ambull lumbering around the dead manufactory where the two gangs met, and the tangled mechworks proved tricky to work through, with extensive cover and just a few prime sniping angles. Ratbite had made the most of this, taking out one of the Carrion's champions at long range, but Van Scultis and her entourage found themselves pinned behind a smokestack even as Gunn and his half of the crew tried to push forwards through the centre of the dome, all the while dodging the ambull.

They'd given it their best shot – aside from Ratbite's sharpshooting, Snags had taken out one of the Cawdors with his shotgun; Brokeface and Mumbles had acquitted themselves well considering they were only back in the team on a provisional basis; Jak 8-10 had held his own against three of the Carrion crew, scragging one out of the fight and sending the other two packing.

But in the end, the sheer weight of numbers had proved too much despite the casualties inflicted. Snags and Ratbite were taken out by long range fire, Brokeface was knocked off a tower by Corvus himself – strange how the ugly bastard seemed no worse for wear for it, mind – and the remaining Guns found themselves doggedly holding the line, clustered around an old tractor unit. That's when the ambull had charged forward and clobbered Gunn unconscious, and Jak – poor, dumb, violent Jak – had taken a direct hit from an explosive crossbow bolt, a grievous wound which saw him bleed to death on the domefloor.

By this time, Corvus and his cronies had moved to threaten Van Scultis and her posse on the other side of the dome, and the Guilder had seen fit to withdraw in haste. If only she'd moved her crew forwards in support, things could have been different. Instead, she'd just stood and watched while Gunn led his men into the meatgrinder.

'Dammit,' said Gunn, back in the moment. 'The whole thing was a test, wasn't it? You don't give a skut about the blood pits.'

'Well, I wouldn't go that far,' said Van Scultis as she plucked the hookah pipe from its cradle. She slid the pipe under her bandana and inhaled deeply, setting the bubbles running in the glass base. Gunn seethed internally – the Guilder's languid act was quickly wearing thin.

'As our ally,' she continued in a cloud of exhaled smoke, 'anything that enhances your standing in the zone works to our advantage. But that's happened anyway, regardless of the blood pits. The grit, the dogged defiance of Jonn Gunn and his Guns, who wouldn't back down even when foul recidivists made their blood run. You're quite the talk of the town.'

Gunn figured she had a point. He'd noticed that he and the boys were being afforded more respect by the folks around Cut End market. The loss hadn't done the crew's reputation any harm. Quite the opposite, in fact.

'So maybe you're right,' he said. 'So what now?'

'We continue our arrangement as discussed, of course. Information and pathfinding for manpower and so on' said Van Scultis. A gong sounded from somewhere back in the yurt. 'Ah, time to count my acquisitions. That will be all, Gunn. For now.'

Gunn gritted his teeth and bowed with the minimum courtesy he could muster. 'Until next time, Guilder.'

He turned and prowled out of the yurt along the narrow avenue between the laswires that allowed egress to visitors. No denying that the Coin Guild's assistance was invaluable – as well as extra gunpower, the Toll Collectors cold facilitate movement around the sector like no others. If the Guns were called on to run security duty now and then, so be it.

But Jonn Gunn didn't have to like it. And if it came to it, he'd put himself and his crew first. The Guild's the Guild, but a merc always looks out for himself.

The Foulnest Rackets Part 3: More Iron

Many things are scarce in the Necromundan underhive: ghast, potable water and honest dealings, to name a few. But there's always a roaring trade in the life coin exchange, and willing murder-vendors can easily be found in half a shift. 

If you're looking for a hitman in Foulnest, the best place to go is a particular backroom at the Working Hivers' Club, where low-burning lumens and thick-walled booths allow a measure of privacy. 'Snags' Skivvens had taken to frequenting this bar. The wildsnake was cheap enough and the clientele were his kind of scum. Moreover, the shifts spent building contacts across the settlement were paying off nicely: Snags and his gangmates had found gainful employment as fixers and murdermen. As rackets go, Gunn's Guns had the life coin exchange sewn up.

Now allied to the Guild of Coin, the Guns were looking to expand their operations, and Snags swung by the backroom bar to call in a few favours and recruit some extra muscle for the scraps to come. Lho-smoke hung heavy in the air, and there were a few shadowy figures lurking in the booths, gutrot and guns laid out on the tables in front of them. Snags was expecting to find a couple of lowlifes who might prove useful in a fight.

He wasn't expecting to find a dead man walking.

'Brokeface' Edwydd was propping up the bar that ran along one end of the booth-lined room. Last time Snags had seen Brokeface, the latter had a chainblade run through his chest, courtesy of Ray Voidsman.

'Well fragdammit, if it ain't Brokeface Edywydd,' growled Snags as he approached and nodded to the barman for his usual. 'Ain't you dead?'

Brokeface lurched towards him, unsteady on his feet. 'Hah, I got better, din't I?'

Last time Snags had seen Brokeface, the latter had been hammered on second best. Seemed that hadn't changed, at least. Still, Brokeface was handy with his two autopistols, and Snags had seen stranger things than this sort of unlikely survival in his long cycles downhive. He took it all in his stride and poured himself a slug of wildsnake from the bottle the barkeep had brought.

'How'd you fancy running a job with the old gang?' asked Snags, and knocked back the slug.

'What, Jonny Gunn and the lads?' slurred Brokeface. 'You're still opping as a crew?'

'Spirestraight we are,' said Snags. 'And we got our work cut out. Trying to build something here in Foulnest. But we need some more iron onside, 'specially on account of all these big beasts crawling up from the sumpbed.'

This was true enough. On top of everything, all the activity in the zone had attracted some large – and ravenous – hivebottom horrors to the locale.

'So you need extra guns? So what?' said Brokeface, wary. He wasn't drunk enough that he'd lost all sense. 'What's in it for me?'

Someone tapped Snags on the shoulder.

'Hnnn hrrrgh hrrhrrrg hrrr?'

Snags turned, fist clenched. But it was none other than 'Mumbles' Mervik, another erstwhile member of Gunn's Guns, mouth gagged as always by a tatty length of rope.

'Holy throne, Mumbles, I wasn't expecting to see you here,' said Snags. Mumbles was last seen slinking off after the Battle of Foulnest – the horrors they saw that shift proved too much for him.

'Hhhhr hrrrg hrrrrr,' shrugged Mumbles.

'Well, look, boys,' said Snags, roughly throwing an arm around each of the scummers' shoulders, solicitous-like. 'I can't make any rockcrete-solid guarantees, but if you run this next job with us, maybe a couple more, maybe there's an all-shifts place for you back in the crew. We're going places, you know - me, Drifter, Crusher, we're gonna be something in this town.'

Brokeface and Mumbles pondered this offer.

'Hrr hrrrrg,' said Mumbles.

'Aye,' said Brokeface, the ragged remains of his lips stretching back into a wider grin than usual. 'What the man said. We're in.'