Cardinal Crimson Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Necromunda

  Prologue: End of the War

  1: Big Trouble

  2: Old Friends

  3: New Enemies

  4: In The Trenches

  5: In The Crosshairs

  6: The Cardinal Rule

  7: Unearthly Trouble

  8: On The Run Again

  9: Redemption

  10: Over the Edge

  Epilogue: The Messenger

  About the Author

  Legal

  eBook license

  In order to even begin to understand the blasted world of Necromunda you must first understand the hive cities. These man-made mountains of plasteel, ceramite and rockcrete have accreted over centuries to protect their inhabitants from a hostile environment, so very much like the termite mounds they resemble. The Necromundan hive cities have populations in the billions and are intensely industrialised, each one commanding the manufacturing potential of an entire planet or colony system compacted into a few hundred square kilometres.

  The internal stratification of the hive cities is also illuminating to observe. The entire hive structure replicates the social status of its inhabitants in a vertical plane. At the top are the nobility, below them are the workers, and below the workers are the dregs of society, the outcasts. Hive Primus, seat of the planetary governor Lord Helmawr of Necromunda, illustrates this in the starkest terms. The nobles – Houses Helmawr, Cattalus, Ty, Ulanti, Greim, Ran Lo and Ko’Iron – live in the ‘Spire’, and seldom set foot below the ‘Wall’ that exists between themselves and the great forges and hab zones of the hive city proper.

  Below the hive city is the ‘Underhive’, foundation layers of habitation domes, industrial zones and tunnels which have been abandoned in prior generations, only to be re-occupied by those with nowhere else to go.

  But… humans are not insects. They do not hive together well. Necessity may force it, but the hive cities of Necromunda remain internally divided to the point of brutalisation and outright violence being an everyday fact of life. The Underhive, meanwhile, is a thoroughly lawless place, beset by gangs and renegades, where only the strongest or the most cunning survive. The Goliaths, who believe firmly that might is right; the matriarchal, man-hating Escher; the industrial Orlocks; the technologically-minded Van Saar; the Delaque whose very existence depends on their espionage network; the firey zealots of the Cawdor. All striving for the advantage that will elevate them, no matter how briefly, above the other houses and gangs of the Underhive.

  Most fascinating of all is when individuals attempt to cross the monumental physical and social divides of the hive to start new lives. Given social conditions, ascension through the hive is nigh on impossible, but descent is an altogether easier, albeit altogether less appealing, possibility.

  excerpted from Xonariarius the Younger’s Nobilite Pax Imperator –

  the Triumph of Aristocracy over Democracy.

  PROLOGUE:

  END OF THE WAR

  Jobe Francks placed his two metre, ninety kilogram body square in the doorframe, blocking the only exit. It was a shabby, rundown building. More crumbling stone and dusty mortar than anything else. But it did have one luxury – a single access point.

  In the Underhive, finding a building that hadn’t had a hole blown through the side, back, or roof was definitely a luxury. He and Syris had stumbled into this luxurious abode three years earlier while running from members of the New Saviours gang. As they hid in a dark corner, listening to the heavy footsteps of their Cawdor rivals pounding the streets outside, they both knew they had found a new home, a hideout for their own gang, the Saviours of Humanity.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere until we talk this out,’ said Francks. ‘What you’re considering is insanity. It’s got to be a trap, and you know it.’

  ‘If you know it’s a trap, then it’s not really a trap… at least not a very good one.’ Syris smiled his normal, lopsided grin as he threw an arm around Francks’s shoulder. ‘Lieutenant,’ he said. ‘Everything will be fine. You stay here and guard the hideout.’ He swept his other arm out in a grand arc, gesturing at the crumbling, five-room structure as if it were a palace.

  Several juves sat at a table, trying desperately to concentrate on the weapons Francks had them cleaning, rather than the confrontation between their leaders across the room. The rest of the gang members were either sleeping in the crowded siderooms or on patrol in the streets around the hideout.

  ‘You’re in charge until I return. Don’t give them an inch, you hear me? Stay here, keep your head and everything will be fine.’

  Francks stared deep into the cloudy, grey eyes of his friend and leader. A frown curled his lips as he narrowed his eyes from stare to glare. ‘Are you just trying to reassure me or have you “seen” something?’ he asked.

  Syris winked at him, which probably did not have the effect that was intended. It was a slow wink, the eyelid fluttering on the way down as if it was reluctant to close over that eerie, almost milk-white eye. It didn’t help that Syris’s scraggly, sand-coloured hair practically floated in a tangle around his head, or that his complexion had turned almost blue in the last few weeks. He looked, for all the world, the epitome of the crazed wyrd that the New Saviours continually railed against. The entire effect was somewhat unsettling, even to Francks, who knew that much of it was an act.

  ‘There is a plan for the Universe, my friend,’ Syris said, his eyes now definitely focusing on something or someplace far beyond Francks. ‘I have barely glimpsed the edges, but there is a plan. And our part in it is far from over. Stay here. Keep the gang safe. We will be together again.’

  Francks crouched behind a chimney on a roof near the meeting place and stewed. He realised he was doing something he had never done before – disobeying a direct order. But there was no way he could let Syris attend this meeting alone. The danger was real. How could someone with the ‘sight’ not see that?

  It had sounded too good to be true, which meant it definitely was. Jules Ignus, leader of the New Saviours, wanted to meet with Syris Bowdie, leader of the Saviours of Humanity (or as Ignus had called them ‘The Old Saviours’) to discuss peace terms. He had said he wanted to meet one-on-one – no lieutenants, no gangs – just the two of them on neutral territory so there would be no chance of the meeting erupting into another gang war, which neither of them could afford.

  Francks wished he could get closer, but past this building there was nothing but the acid pools that gave this settlement its name. Nobody knew where the acid had come from originally. It might have been a reservoir hidden beneath the dome that finally ate its way through the dome floor or it might have leeched out of a toxic waste pipe running down from the factories in Hive City.

  It didn’t matter. Wherever the acid came from, it had been pooling up in Acid Hole for generations, simultaneously dissolving away the settlement and providing its residents with their only livelihood. Acid mining was dangerous work that killed more people than it made rich, but when you’re poor and desperate, a chance at a better life is worth any risk, even your life, and that pretty much summed up the situation for nearly every soul in the Underhive.

  The pools had claimed almost half the settlement in the last hundred years. Even now, acid licked at the foundations of the building where Francks hid. Soon, it too would crumble. Then the rubble would be used to extend the stone pier that ran into the middle of the pools, allowing the miners to reach their claims.

  At least Francks knew that Ignus would have to keep his end of the bargain. There was nowhere his gang could hide out in the pools. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but acid criss-crossed by stone paths. But that also
meant he couldn’t get any closer. So, Syris stood in the middle of the acid, alone, waiting for his rival to arrive for the peace talks.

  It was getting late, which made Francks worry even more. This had been Ignus’s meeting. Where the hell was he? Probably trying to addle Syris by making him wait. If that was the case, then Ignus knew nothing about the leader of the ‘true’ Saviours. It would take more than an hour at the edge of the acid pools to make Syris Bowdie panic.

  The sound of a stone skittering off the edge of the roof made Francks whirl around, laspistol in hand.

  Jerod Bitten, Ignus’s own lieutenant raised his hands over his head, palms forward to show he had no weapon. ‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ said Bitten.

  ‘That makes two of us,’ sneered Francks. ‘No lieutenants, remember? Only I don’t trust your boss to keep his end of any bargain. And it looks like I was right.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Bitten. He moved forward, but then stopped as Francks re-aimed his weapon at Bitten’s head. ‘You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be protecting the gang. Now, it’s all going to hell.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Francks. The pit of worry that had been festering in his stomach all day cracked open and bloomed into full-scale paranoia. He knew exactly what Bitten meant. ‘Syris wasn’t the target at all was he? Dammit. I should have seen this coming… Syris should have seen this coming. Only he did; that’s why he wanted me to stay away from the meeting.’

  Bitten stood beside him now. Francks was so caught up in his own guilt he hadn’t even seen the rival lieutenant cross the roof. ‘We can still stop the rest of it,’ he said. ‘But you have to trust me.’ Bitten was talking fast now, either because he was telling the truth and they didn’t have much time, or just to get his story out before Francks melted his brain with the laspistol. ‘You have to warn Bowdie. Get him away from the acid pools now! Before it’s too late!’

  Francks stared at Bitten, still processing the ramifications of everything that had been said in the last few moments. ‘Rest of it? Warn Bowdie?’

  Bitten grabbed Francks by the shoulders and shook him. ‘Your gang is already dead. Ignus is on his way here now to kill your leader. I can’t stop him. I just… I can’t. But you can. If you act now.’

  Francks shook his head to stave off the impinging darkness and then rolled his shoulders to wrench himself away from his enemy. ‘This is preposterous. Ignus wouldn’t dare murder another gang leader. Nobody is that insane. He’d be dead in an hour. If that’s your story, I’m not buying it. If not, tell me why I should trust you.’

  Bitten shook his head. ‘Because you have no choice. Because Jules Ignus is that insane. I came here to try to stop a murder, but I can’t. I… I’m terrified of him. You can stop him, but only if you trust me. Now go!’

  Francks stared at Bitten for another heartbeat and then turned toward the pools. Syris was too far away to hear him call. He had no way to get his attention. He looked down at the weapon in his hand. Maybe he did have a way. Francks aimed for the middle of the pool next to Syris. If he didn’t hear the blast, he would at least notice an eruption of acid ten metres away. At least then he’d be on guard for whatever Ignus had planned.

  As he steadied his grip with both hands to be sure of the shot, Francks thought he saw something move in the distance. No time to lose. He squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He squeezed again. Nothing. ‘Scav!’ Francks flipped open the bottom of the grip to check the power cell. It was empty. He’d checked it before he left. What was wrong? ‘Those damn juves screwed up the recharge.’ He snapped his head toward Bitten. ‘Hand me your weapon.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Quickly!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘You have to trust me, right?’

  Bitten pulled out his own weapon and handed it, grip first, to Francks. His trust obviously only went so far, though, because as soon as Francks had the weapon, Bitten backed out of sight around the chimney.

  Francks turned back toward the pools again, ready to fire a warning shot, but it was too late. Jules Ignus had appeared out of the acidic haze, perhaps another hundred metres past Syris. He must have been waiting out there near the edge of the dome the whole time. He had something in his hands, something metallic that glinted in the dim light. He raised the item up to his shoulder. It was a rifle!

  Francks aimed, but had little chance of hitting Ignus from such a distance with a pistol. The two shots rang out almost simultaneously. Francks’s bolt slammed into the pool next to Ignus, sending a spray of acid into the air. The blast from Ignus’s rifle hit Syris in the back. Bits and pieces of armour flew off as the shot bored through to flesh. Syris’s head snapped back and his mouth opened. Francks knew his friend was screaming, but all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart.

  He shot again and again, hitting the stone walkway in front of Ignus and then the rival leader’s arm. That shot finally stopped him. But the damage had been done. Syris crumpled to the ground.

  Francks screamed and continued firing, but in his rage, he never even got close again. He saw Ignus look up at him and raise his rifle again, pointing it at the roof. Still he fired, standing beside the chimney in plain sight, no longer caring for his own safety.

  The bolt erupted from the end of the rifle, and Francks could smell the air sizzling beside him as it passed him by. He laughed and took aim again. This time he wouldn’t miss. This time he’d hit more than just the devil’s arm. This time…

  Something hard and sharp smacked Francks in the back of the head. He felt himself falling, felt his eyes closing and the darkness seeping in around the edges of his consciousness. For a brief moment, he felt the rough pebbles of the rooftop on his neck and arms. Above him he saw Bitten, a large chunk of stone held in both hands. He was saying something; something important.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s all I could think of…’

  Francks rolled over and groaned. It had happened again. The dream. No, it was a nightmare. Or was it a vision? It was so hard to tell anymore. But this one he remembered from the previous ocassion. At least he thought it was a memory. So much cluttered his brain that it was nearly impossible to sort out fact from fiction, memory from vision, present from past… from future.

  The Universe had a plan for him alright. And that plan seemed to be to roam the ash wastes as a madman. At least that had been the plan for as long as he could remember. Beyond that there were only vague shapes and fleeting images.

  But today, something was different. He felt different. The images from his dream didn’t flee at the first signs of consciousness this morning. That dream had been a memory from before. He had been someone – someone important – before becoming a wandering madman.

  He had worked beside a great man. He had led men into battle in a righteous struggle. He had even begun to believe in this plan that the Universe had supposedly laid out before him. The reason behind that belief escaped him at the moment, but he knew with a clarity he hadn’t had for years that once he had believed.

  And now it was time. Time to be someone again. Time to do something important with what was left of his life. Jobe Francks stood up and opened his eyes – his cloudy, grey eyes – and gazed at the endless stretches of white stones and boulders surrounding him. He picked a direction and began walking. It was time to return to the hive.

  1: BIG TROUBLE

  It felt to Jobe Francks like he’d been walking through the ash wastes for days. In truth it had probably been a lot longer. The ten mile high cone of Hive Primus had loomed ahead of him all that time, seemingly just at the edge of the horizon, never appearing to get any closer. Like a magnet that had changed its poles, it drew him in just as it had pushed him away so many years ago. Now, the home of his youth towered above him.

  The tattered remains of his leather trousers and jacket barely covered the old man’s stooped body. Scabs from decades-old blisters dotted his ruddy feet, chest and arms. But his face, perhaps protected from the harsh env
ironment of the wastes by the massed tangle of white hair that enveloped his head, was both clear of blemishes and milky-white in complexion.

  Francks looked up at the imposing structure of Hive Primus, now mostly shrouded by the layer of poisonous clouds that surrounded it some five miles up. These clouds were testament to the hardworking men and women of Hive City, who toiled in factories so that the nobles could live luxurious lives high up in the spire, well above the poison and filth beneath them. These foul gases also made the ash wastes what it was – an inhospitable hell where even the dregs of society dare not live.

  The magnetic attraction drew Francks on toward the Hive. But he knew, deep inside, that it wasn’t the Hive that drew him back now. No, it was the body.

  ‘It is time, old friend. It is time.’

  He mumbled the phrase over and over as he trudged across the final stretch of wastes. He slipped through the same crack he’d used all those years earlier and trudged on. Now shrouded in darkness as he unconsciously followed the circuitous route from the ersatz entrance toward more habitable areas, he continued mumbling. ‘It is happening again. Just as you said it would. It is time. Time for the Universe to pay its debt. It is time, old friend. I am coming.’

  ‘Are you talking to me, old man?’ asked a guard.

  Francks looked up at the question. Somehow he had found his way to the Hive City docks. A ship flew past him, headed for the mooring berths where its cargo would be unloaded, inspected, catalogued and then stored in one of the many warehouses lining the wall of the dome.

  A distant memory pulled at his mind. Smugglers. Sometimes cargo needed to bypass inspection. Ships landed in the Wastes and the special cargo got smuggled into the Hive through tunnels beneath one of the warehouses. The Saviours had done some work for the smugglers back in the day. Francks had used that connection to escape the Hive. Now he was back.

  Why was he back? The Body. The Bowdie. He shuffled on again, mumbling. ‘It is time, old friend. It is time.’