'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.