A sudden jolt in the
pitch-black, and Jonn Gunn was thrown off the bench and into the oily
slime that puddled on the floor of the transit container. He cursed
and hauled himself to his knees, arms weighed down by the chains that
wrapped his wrists and cut through his ragged gaolhouse weeds.
Rising wearily in the locked-in darkness, he staggered unsteadily to
the bench, and exhaled heavily as he leaned back against the
container wall.
Time was, Jonn Gunn was
as upstanding a venator as you'd find in the Primus underhive,
serving his blood warrant from the Ash Gates to Down Town, and all
points in between. He'd have been on the outside of the container,
bringing in high-value captives for transfer. Riding the rig,
swapping crud jokes and hunters' tales with the enforcers, hotshot
ready and an eye on the tunnelsides and dome edges, for ambush was
always a likelihood.
But that was before
Foulnest, and the rackets war. Before the pact with Guilder Van
Scultis had turned sour and seen Gunn and his crew branded outlaws.
Before his arrest and imprisonment by the enforcers of Precinct 13.
And now here he was, just another recidivist, albeit a notorious one
on account of his fall from grace.
He'd been dragged out
of his cell and shoved into the container at shift-start. Judging by
how long the journey had lasted, they must be nearing their
destination: Black Wall Station, where Gunn would be handed over to
uphive law enforcement. Hive City gaols were hyper-secure, and it
wouldn't be long before his time came under the blade, either the
auto-guillotine or lobotomiser's scalpel, depending on his sentence.
Jonn Gunn was out of
options – almost. A dozen long cycles back, he'd paid a small
fortune to have a talented doc weave in a synth-flesh pocket halfway
down his gullet. One sharp jab of the tongue on the release muscle at
the back of his mouth and he'd retch up the pocket's contents: a
chrono-crystal, one of a looted pair. Somehow, he could make use of
it to escape.
But Gunn recalled what
had happened when the first crystal had accidentally smashed – the
random time-skew, the sudden trauma of accelerated ageing, poor
Ratbite Ruddlestone crumbling to ash. Too risky. Better to save it
until the final shift, until his death watch.
Besides, there was
another possibility. Gunn grimaced in the darkness, and wondered if
Noomena Greyz and the boys were still as good as their word.
++++
For cycles untold,
Black Wall Station had been nothing more than a sealed transit point
located beyond the highest levels of E-Sec, one of countless
fortifications across Primus intended to stymie the bleed of the
badzones into lower Hive City. But with the resettlement of Foulnest,
it had come to serve as a key link in the uphive-downhive chain, and
a modest shanty town had sprung up on the sumpwards side of the
cavernous domespace that the wall cut across.
Now, a crawler rig and
trailer was approaching the outskirts of the shanty, crushing its way
through the hostile vegetation that clustered along the settlement
edge on the domeside furthest from the wall. The rig was manned by
the enforcers of Precinct 13, along with dandy venator Slash Memento.
Captain Doyle had protested that his patrolmen could handle the op,
but Memento insisted on being present when his old rival was handed
over to his final fate. Two transit containers sat on the trailer,
with a prisoner apiece: Gunn in one, Sheila Fontaine of the Rustgate
OMC in the other.
The final run in to the
Wall Station would take the rig along a roadway which cut between
towering corroded manufactorum ruins, relics of the dome's long-dead
original use, and then the low-level, ramshackle scrap-habs of the
shanty itself. Downhivers and scummers were mooching around the
settlement, and a couple of gangs were loitering obviously in the
ruins, primed for trouble.
Plenty of ripe ambush
spots, and Precinct 13 knew it. Which is why Gunn's Guns had spent
cycles plotting their rescue shot.
The plan was to hang
back in the ruins and wait for the rig to roll almost as far as the
shanty, so it was hemmed in on the narrow roadway. Lazko Ozwik and
Mumbles Mervik would hide out uplevel, ready to open fire and start a
distracting ruckus. With the rig slowed or halted, Noomena Greyz and
Snags Skivvens would hit the back of the trailer and spring Gunn.
They'd scored a couple of enforcer bodysuits and sprayed them up in
Precinct 13 colours with the notion that, in the confusion, the
coppers might mistake them for reinforcements and hold fire. Even a
few clicks' extra time might make all the difference.
The Guns lurked in the
domefloor shadows, primed for action. Cynical venator wisdom has it
that you run the op, you take your shots, and if things go sumpwards,
you walk away. But this time, it was different. This time, the stake
was no less than the life of the man who'd forged them into a crew.
The man who, one way or another, commanded their respect and loyalty.
'Sharp time, boys,
let's do it,' said Noomena, flexing the collar of her enforcer suit
with uncomfortable finger. It was overly cumbersome in comparison
with her customary bodyglove. Still, she looked the part more than
Snags, his prematurely-ancient frame swamped by the bulky reinforced
armour.
They looked on with
some envy as Mumbles and Lazko, moving easily in their usual
downhiver garb, strode over to a ladder and clambered up to the first
level, streetside. A few clicks, then Lazko crackled over the vox.
'We're in position, got
a sweet scope of the rig route.'
'Spirestraight,'
confirmed Noomena. 'Hold it there until I give the signal. And keep
your heads down – we do not want the coppers catching sight of us
too soon.'
'Affirmative,' said
Lazko, and then, 'Here's a thing. I'm seeing that Veiled Cartel
fragger Lucien up across the way. He's mixing it up with two crews,
Orlock and Goliath... not sure what he's about.'
'Probably some standard
Delaque skut,' voxed Noomena. 'Bound to end in scrapping. Good. We
can rely on that for the distraction. Works to our advantage.'
The rig was rolling
between the ruins now, pinched in on both sides, walkways
crisscrossing above it. The foremost tracks and nose rumbled into
view just a few metres away from where Noomena and Snags were hiding.
'Now?' said Snags, his
ancient brow furrowing.
Noomena glanced past
the rig, up and over the roadway. Whatever Lucien was doing, it
looked to be kicking things off: the Orlocks and Goliaths were
rushing each other, pulling guns and blades. Precinct 13's attention
would probably be focused that way, but still...
'Hold it a click
longer,' said Noomena. 'Let's stir the slop a bit, then make our
move. Pop a smoke grenade in front of the rig, then follow me.'
'Got it,' nodded Snags.
He yanked a grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, and lobbed it. As
he turned and followed Noomena back round the ruin, the grenade
detonated and filled the street with grimy smoke.
A level above, Lazko
took in the scene. Between the twisting plumes of smoke, he saw two
Goliaths sprinting heavily across a walkway towards the Orlocks on
the far side. They were met with a wall of gunfire, enough to send
them flailing to the street below. Even their bio-boosted muscle was
no match for super-heavy treads – Lazko winced as they were crushed
by the oncoming rig.
The smoke was
thickening and it it was hard to make out what was happening, so
Lazko turned and looked along the roadway, towards the Wall.
Something they hadn't factored in: another rig, crawling through the
shanties to meet them. It was crewed by enforcers, and some
flash-looking type and his entourage. Lazko squinted and made out
details – the flash type was Bellerophon Smeed, another old rival
of Gunn's, presumably in zone to take custody. Time was tight enough
for this caper, and it had just got tighter.
But here was something:
a fight was breaking out on the far rig. Pistols and blades were
drawn, flashing in the downhive lumenlight. Looked like Smeed's crew
was scrapping with their enforcer guides. And beyond that, figures
zagging across the roadway, loosing shots and screaming battlecries.
Some of them were those three-armed muties of the Krass strain, some
of them wore the colours of the Rustgate OMC.
Lazko grinned beneath
his rebreather. Trust that madman Ray Void to bring the confusion,
whether it was called for or not.
Mumbles had likewise
spotted the tumult down the road, though he was more stirred up by it
than Lazko.
'Hrrr-hrrrrrgh!'
growled Mumbles, nosing his shotgun out onto the street.
'Fragdammit, wait for
Noomena's -'
Too slow. Mumbles
opened fire on the near rig, peppering its steely flank. Most of
Precinct 13 were fixed on the Goliath-Orlock rumble that Lucien had
sparked, which wall still raging across the towertops to the right.
But Slash Memento picked up on Mumbles's shot – and his venator
instincts told him this was more than a random overspill of the gang
fight they were rolling through.
Memento pulled out a
canister from his overcoat, primed it, and deftly threw it into
Mumbles and Lazko's sniping spot. There was a roar as the chems in
the canister combined and drenched the level in fire. Memento
smirked, tweaked the tip of his barbe, and stepped across the rig
deck to address Captain Doyle.
The flames burnt out as
quickly as they'd arrived. Lazko rolled onto his back, his fatigues
smouldering. He'd been singed, but not set alight. 'Mumbles? You
still sharp?'
'Hrrgh.' A rueful
affirmative from Mumbles, who'd been likewise scorched but was
otherwise unhurt.
Lazko carefully peeped
out onto the street as he got back on the vox to Noomena. 'Big
trouble. They're onto us. The creep Memento is chatting up the
captain...'
Noomena and Snags were
round the back of the ruins. The rig trailer was level with them now.
Two containers, two captives, with Enforcer Riggs acting as
rearguard.
Lazko was still buzzing
through on the vox. 'Reckon if you're gonna make the move, you've got
to make it now... wait, Memento's moving again. Towards one of the
lock-ups. Oh skut, his gun's out, he's opened one of them up, he's -
'
One shot rang out,
distinct from the background rattle of the gunfights on the walkways
above and towards the Wall. One shot, muffled by the confines of a
transit container. One shot, execution style.
The back end of the rig
and trailer was level with Snags and Noomena now.
'Talk to me, Laz, what
the frag just happened?'
Buzz on the vox, then:
'… just put a bullet in one of the … I dunno which … Wait, what
the frag is this now?'
'Laz, talk to me. Can
you scope who got wiped, was it Gunn? Was it Gunn?'
Vox static. Lazko had
been thoroughly distracted by events at the front of the rig. Lucien
was standing on the walkway above, cackling icily as the steam rose
from his melta muzzle. He'd just blasted Captain Doyle through the
chest.
Hearing nothing from
her crewmates, Noomena's patience ran out. 'Frag this. Snags, put
some smoke out. We're going for it.'
'Spirestraight,' said
Snags. 'So we're gonna see if the coppers buy us as reinforcements
and -'
Noomena fluidly stepped
out of the shadows, aimed her plasma pistol, and took Riggs out with
one overpowered shot.
'Nah,' she said. 'We're
going to run on up the back of those boxes and see if those skutheads
didn't just kill the boss man.'
Snags growled his
frustration – how many shifts had he spent chasing up black market
connections to score them the enforcer uniforms, all for nothing? He
popped the smoke grenades and tossed them out into the roadway
between the ruins and the rig, affording some cover.
They had to move fast.
Couldn't count on the battles down the road to keep Precinct 13 and
Memento occupied for long. Noomena and Snags darted through the
smoke, reaching the back of the rig. They scrambled up and huddled
behind the containers, which had access hatches at both ends. A solid
shot from Snags's shotgun popped the lock on the first crate, and
Noomena set one foot inside.
The interior was dimly
lit by the blue plasma glow of her pistol coil. Bloody matter on the
wall. Something slumped on the grimy floor. Prisoner's rags, chains.
A fresh corpse.
Noomena took another
step. The glow washed over the corpse. It was Fontaine, the back of
her head blown off.
Snags stumbled aside as
Noomena ducked out of the container. 'Bust that other lock,' she
said, pointing. 'Come on, old man, quick!'
Up in the ruins, Lazko
and Mumbles were hunched, making out what they could through the
drifting smoke. Precinct 13 were scrambling around the rig, trying
to pin down mocking Lucien on the walkways above. Mumbles caught a
glimpse of Memento.
'Hrrrrrgh hrrrrh.'
'Yeah, I see him,' said
Lazko. 'He's got an eye on the lock-ups – probably going to head
back there...'
Lazko was about to
flick the activator on his vox and warn Noomena – but the situation
shifted suddenly. Lucien fired off his grapple line and swept down
onto the rig deck, where he was swarmed by enforcers. Blades flashed
and the Delaque leader's cold laughter rang out as he stood his
ground. Memento had no choice but to turn back to meet this pressing
threat.
Meanwhile, Snags had
blasted the lock off the second container. Noomena swung the hatch
open.
There was Jonn Gunn,
blinking as the domelight washed over him.
'Ah, there you are,' he
said, and grinned through his ragged beard. 'Was starting to think
you wouldn't show up.'
They bundled Gunn out
of the container and voxed through to Lazko and Mumbles. Ray Void and
Lucien were causing more than enough mayhem to distract the
enforcers, enabling the Guns to meet at the dome edge without further
bother.
Pausing at a tunnel
mouth, they looked back towards Black Wall. Sounds of violence echoed
across the domespace, and flashes of muzzle flare lit up the smoke
drifting through the ruins and habs. A typical shift in the E-Sec
Underhive.
'Long road since we set
out from Sector H8,' said Snags, a thousand wrinkles around his
too-old eyes.
'Hrrr,' agreed Mumbles,
wearily.
'We done here?' asked
Lazko, ready to power down his plasma gun.
Noomena sighed as she
untied her dye-tipped hair and looked to Gunn. 'What do you say, boss
man? We done?'
Jonn Gunn cast a last
glance around. He was tired and bitter and sick of it all.
'Yes,' he said. 'We're
done.'
They turned and set off
down the tunnel.
++++
In the drinking dens
and hab holes of Foulnest, they still tell tales of Jonn Gunn, the
time-cursed venator-turned-outlaw. For the law-abiding, it's a
cautionary tale of how a good man went bad; for the lawless, it's a
cautionary tale of how a bad man got caught.
They tell tales of
Snags Skivvens and Mumbles Mervik, loyal to the end; Noomena Greyz
and Lazko Ozwik, who came to their old hunt-mate's aid; Jak 8-10, the
Blister Sisters and Crusher Retzo, the wild ones, fodder for the
corpse farms; poor Rabite Ruddlestone, turned to dust; Drifter and
Ashman and two-faced Filthy Frenk; and of course, Brokeface Edwydd,
who couldn't die, and whose current whereabouts are any hiver's
guess.
They tell tales of how
the Guns came to Foulnest on the trail of recidivists and, in the
name of the rackets, became recidivists themselves. How they fought
like sumpfiends in the scouring and reclamation of the settlement.
How they scored big in the Great Confusion, though their
chrono-crystal loot turned out more curse than blessing. How the Coin
Guild crossed them – or did they cross the Guild? How Gunn took on
half of Precinct 13 single-handed, and lived to fight another shift.
No-one knows for sure
what became of Gunn's Guns, but there's plenty of idle speculation.
Some hold that they fled to the Dogland Wastes, or even beyond the
Shell, and have carved out a bandit empire, preying on the caravans
of the hated Coin Guild. Others claim they were hunted down and
executed by offworld agents of the Holy Ordos, paying the ultimate
penalty for their time-trespass. Some say they bought their way
uphive with the priceless chrono-crystal, and now work under the
aegis of a Noble House, doing wetwork and other dark ops.
Because Necromundans
are grudge-minded folk, most would agree that, if they're still
alive, Jonn Gunn and his crew are plotting revenge, and will return
to E-Sec one shift to pay back those that wronged them: Slash
Memento, Corvus, Glaw, Lucien, Kez, Ahab, Ray Void, Doyle and most of
all Guilder Lymeris Van Scultis.
They tell tales of Jonn
Gunn and his crew, of shifts gone and shifts still to come. But as
any sump-eyed scummer will attest for the price of a chem-hit or a
bottle of second best, a downhive tale's like a crapshoot game: the
truth won't be told until the dice are rolled.
