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  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:

  Double Jeopardy

  ‘Mayday! Mayday! This is Royal Transport X29. We are under heavy fire. I repeat. This is Royal Transport X29 taking heavy ground fire.’

  ‘X29, pull up out of their range, over?’

  Jarl Demont, a veteran of countless battles, stared dumbfounded at the com-panel. ‘Scavving bureaucrat,’ he said. Another explosion rocked the small transport. Jarl wrestled the yoke as a giant fireball engulfed the view screen. His ear slammed against the headrest as the transport lurched to the side, leaving him with a throbbing headache and a horrible ringing permeating his brain.

  ‘That last one took out the port thrusters, Jarl,’ reported the co-pilot, Enri Sandovan.

  Jarl shook his head to try to clear the bells and then glanced over at Enri. His friend and co-pilot had just said something, but the ringing in his ears had drowned out everything but his name.

  In the cramped cockpit, the two men sat practically hip to hip, but that made it easier to reach all the knobs, switches and buttons lining the control panel arrayed before them. After twenty years of flying together, the questioning look on Jarl’s face obviously was enough for Enri. He reached past Jarl and flipped a switch, turning off the warning claxon.

  ‘Flame out, port side,’ he said. Even with the claxon off, Enri’s voice sounded faint and far away. The yoke wrenched at Jarl’s grip as the engine died.

  ‘Enri!’ cried Jarl as he began to flip switches. His voice sounded like a distant echo. He continued shouting so he could hear himself as he attempted to restart the engines. ‘Contact that idiot at the Spire Docks. We need tactical support.’

  With one hand holding the bucking yoke, Jarl set the port fuel injectors to neutral and tried a cold restart. Nothing. A contrail streaked across the dark clouds, curving right towards the front of the transport. Jarl slammed the yoke hard right. The missile sped past the view screen. It came so close he could practically read the lettering on the side.

  An explosion in the rear of the transport made the ship buck violently. Jarl and Enri were tossed forward, their bodies straining at the harnesses. Jarl fought the yoke for a time, trying to get back to an even keel on just one engine.

  After their harrowing escape, Jarl wiped sweat from his brow, mouthed a quick ‘phew’ at Enri and then returned to trying a cold restart on the port engine. He flipped a few more switches and then tossed a large lever between their black-booted feet. Nothing happened. He reset the switches and tried the lever again. Again, nothing. The engine was dead.

  As he looked at Enri, a brief but bitter smile flitted across Jarl’s face. It seemed his swarthy co-pilot wasn’t having any better luck. Enri’s olive-skinned face turned beet red and his straight black hair flew around his head like angry noodles as he screamed into the com. ‘We’re down one engine! Can’t maintain altitude… No. We can’t get out of range… They’ve got heavy weapons… Get us some damn support!’

  The view screen once again erupted in flame as a rocket exploded just below them. The force of the explosion set off the claxons again. Jarl’s hearing must have returned to near normal, because he almost unconsciously turned off the ‘extremely helpful’ close contact warning indicator.

  After they cleared the fireball, Enri shook his head at Jarl. ‘We’re on our own,’ he said.

  Jarl scanned his instruments as the ship bucked and lurched through the air. Mixed in with the banks of switches and buttons, several dozen glowing dials showed the location of the transport and the condition of all its systems. What they told Jarl was that they were in deep trouble. Red lights flashed next to nearly every dial indicating some problem or another.

  They had only partial power in the right engine and the left was completely dead. The rear cabin had depressurized, which meant their passengers were all now on canned air, which wouldn’t last long. The air pressure in the cockpit was also dropping, and it seemed the automatic fire suppression system had gotten fried in that last explosion.

  All of that was survivable, assuming they could get past this rain of missiles. But the big problem was the fuel gauge. It was dropping at an alarming rate. And if they ran out of fuel, this flying brick would plummet to the ground. It wasn’t like they had wings they could use to glide to a safe landing.

  Assuming they survived a two-mile drop, Jarl didn’t like the prospect of hoofing it through the Ash Wastes, let alone dodging whoever or whatever was down there shooting at them. One thing was for sure: with a single, partial engine and nearly depleted fuel supply, they couldn’t climb up to the Spire docks.

  ‘We’ve got to make it to the Hive City docks,’ he said at last. ‘It’s our only chance.’

  Jarl wrenched at the yoke, trying to control the bucking ship through sheer force of determination. He jammed the controls to the left and back to the right to dodge another incoming missile. ‘See if you can coax any more power out of our last engine,’ he said. ‘And drop the landing gear. We’re going in, one way or another.’

  He slapped the com-link again and twisted the dial to change the frequency. ‘Hive City docks,’ called Jarl. ‘This is Royal Transport X29 requesting – no, demanding – emergency clearance for immediate landing. Clear the scavving docks. We’re coming in hot!’

  Jarl banked the transp
ort hard to the left and began to descend. Hive Primus loomed large in the view screen. He rarely saw this view, beneath the thick layer of acid-laden clouds. Above the clouds, the Spire gleamed in the sunlight like a white beacon pointing to the stars. Down here, the hive base looked like nothing more than refuse stacked in a huge heap.

  Ash and dirt hanging in the air clung to the hive like a dingy coat. Instead of the gleaming architecture of the spire with its flying buttresses, domed protrusions and enormous windows, the hive bottom looked like a haphazard jumble of rockrete erected by a deranged architect. Sections stuck out at odd angles, while others seemed jammed in where they didn’t quite fit. Jagged scars left deep shadows where large blocks had crumbled under the enormous weight of the ten-mile edifice.

  The comm crackled as the response came in. ‘This is Hive City. Please confirm your identity.’

  ‘Helmawr’s rump,’ grumbled Jarl. He flipped the switch, prepared to tell the comm officer exactly what he thought about his ancestry. He never got the chance.

  Another explosion rocked the transport, throwing Jarl against the left side of the headrest. He had no chance to worry about his ears this time, for his stomach jumped into his throat as the transport plummeted from the sky.

  ‘We’ve lost all power!’ yelled Enri.

  A roar of air from an enormous hole next to Enri nearly drowned out the multiple claxons that began blaring all at once. The control panel fried and sparked under Jarl’s hands and smoke billowed from the rear of the small compartment as flames licked the walls just above and behind their heads. Enri frantically flipped switches and threw levers, apparently trying to find some combination that would coax the damaged engines back to life.

  ‘I know!’ said Jarl. ‘Tell our passengers to brace for impact.’ As Enri spoke into the intercom, Jarl flipped another switch to open a broadband channel.

  ‘Mayday. Mayday. This is Royal Transport X29. We are dead stick. I repeat. We are dead stick and headed into the Ash Wastes.’ He thought for a moment, and then, as he watched the grey desert zoom towards him, Jarl added. ‘Tell the LC the package has been jeopardized. The package has been jeopardised.’

  ‘Mr Jerico?’

  Kal Jerico had had a rough few days. He’d lost a huge sum of money to his worst enemy, the master spy Nemo the Faceless, forfeited his metal mastiff Wotan as collateral, and been forced to hunt down an innocent man for bounty to repay the debt. Then, after saving the day, yet again, he’d just lost his last credit paying off another debt to two goons who would have much rather turned his face into ground meat than to take his payment back to their employer.

  But Kal was alive and sitting in his usual chair in his favourite dive with his pet back and his two best friends – well, his two best associates, Scabbs and Yolanda – at his side. He had a bottle of wildsnake in front of him, prospects for another moneymaking scheme on the table and his eye on several buxom barmaids.

  Life, for the moment, was good, and so when Kal looked up into the beady, bespectacled eyes of a squirrelly guy in a silk suit – the same weasel who’d been following Kal around during those rough few days – he didn’t immediately pull out his laspistol and shoot the annoying little rat between the eyes; a decision he would soon regret.

  ‘What?’ asked Kal. ‘What is it? Why have you been following me?’

  ‘I have a letter for you,’ said the little man. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a single finger and smiled as he handed Kal a white envelope.

  A letter? Kal never got letters. If someone wanted his attention, they usually shot at him, or sent goons to rough him up, or, as in Yolanda’s case, simply smacked him on the back of the head. Kal took the envelope and turned it over and over in his hands.

  His name had been printed on the back in ornate lettering with glittering, gold ink. The flap on the front had been sealed with red wax embossed by a signet design Kal didn’t quite recognize. Although as he studied it, Kal realized that some elements of the design bore a striking and frightening resemblance to the seal of House Helmawr; the seal of the ruler of Hive Primus, the seal of his father’s house.

  This was not going to be good news. A dozen different scenarios flitted through Kal’s head as he stared at the ominous letter. It had obviously come from the Spire. The quality of the parchment and the fine, silk clothes worn by the squirrelly messenger attested to that. But the altered Helmawr logo presented any number of possible dilemmas.

  The old man could be dead or deposed, which would leave a power vacuum and a struggle amongst Helmawr’s inner circle and his various illegitimate children, as well as the power brokers within the rival houses. This could then be an invitation to an execution – his, or a ploy by any number of people to curry his favour in the coming struggle for control of House Helmawr.

  One of his ‘cousins’ could be trying to usurp their common father, and the logo was a not so subtle indication of that grab for power. Again, someone might want Kal’s help or might simply be sending a warning to Kal to not interfere.

  Of course, Helmawr could have simply ordered a new logo. He was very nearly insane and prone to odd decisions and proclamations. This letter, then, could be the old man asking – no, ordering – Kal to do yet another favour for the family.

  Kal shuddered at the last possibility, which he felt was both the worst and the most likely. He looked at the messenger and then back at the letter. He couldn’t make his hands open the envelope. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s an invitation to a wedding, Mr Jerico,’ replied the Spire messenger. His pursed lips barely moved as he spoke. ‘Your wedding.’

  Scabbs, who had just swallowed a huge mouthful of wildsnake, sprayed the table with the vile liquor. The worm from the bottom of the bottle squirmed and flopped around in the resulting puddle. Across from Kal, Yolanda doubled over in laughter, snorting like a pig wallowing in its favourite swill. She then whipped her head back and howled like a wild animal, sending her dreadlocks careening around her tattooed head.

  As Yolanda gasped for air between guffaws and Scabbs stared, slack-jawed, the last of the wildsnake dripping from his scab-covered cheeks and nose, Kal finally ripped open the envelope and pulled out the embossed invitation within.

  Kal read the pronouncement printed in the centre of the card in flowing gold script: House Helmawr cordially invites you to attend the wedding ceremony of its favourite son, and future ruler of Hive Primus and, by extension, all Necromunda: Kal Jerico.

  Kal thought the wording seemed a bit odd, but the feeling of dread that came over him as he read what could only be regarded as the obituary to his carefree, if constantly life-threatening, life drove all rational thought from his body.

  Kal liked to joke that his style and good looks had some mystical qualities, that they somehow created the aura of luck that seemed to follow him through his many adventures and misadventures. And, to be honest, he’d gotten out of some situations that no mere mortal could have ever survived.

  But when he was honest with himself, alone in the dark on the odd night that he didn’t share his bed with a barmaid or ‘friend’ for the evening, Kal knew that what had kept him alive for so many years was a highly refined fight or flight response that he’d honed to razor sharpness over the years. He acted or, more often, reacted well before most men had the time to absorb and analyze the situation. He had a mental edge, a tingling sensation in the back of his brain that told him when to leave.

  Kal pondered this survival ability of his as he swept through the swinging front doors of the Sump Hole at a full run. Unfortunately, this time, his danger sense had fired a bit too late. Upon hitting the street outside the bar, Kal ran full steam into a platoon of royal guards. He bounced off a barrel-chested giant with a square jaw, chiselled face and close-cropped hair, and fell unceremoniously in a heap in the dirt.

  ‘After our last few encounters, I thought you might react, s
hall we say, rashly, Mr Jerico,’ said the weasel. He stood over Kal and peered down at him through his tiny, square glasses. ‘So I brought some support to our meeting this time. These nice gentlemen will escort you to the Royal Palace. Please do not struggle or they will be forced to…’

  Kal kicked at the jarhead standing over him as he reached for the twin, pearl-handled laspistols at his waist. His hands never reached the weapons. The world began to go dark around the edges as a poison dart from a needler punctured his skin. The last thing Kal saw before he blacked out was Yolanda, standing in the doorway of the Sump Hole, howling with laughter.

  1: A Sense of loss

  He watched the battle through a spyscope from a safe distance. The hood of his massive, black cloak kept drifting down over his other eye. He wished to be rid of the scavving thing as it impeded his movement and kept getting caught in his hands and legs as he had trudged across the Ash Wastes, but the discomfort of kicking the fabric away from his heavy, iron boots and constantly pushing the hood up onto his wide forehead were far outweighed by the need to keep the ash from building up on his joints and weapons. Without an ash cloak and the respirator that covered his wide face, he wouldn’t last an hour in this desolate wasteland. Luckily, it wouldn’t be much longer.

  Muties had surrounded the transport almost as soon as it slammed into the wastes. The impact had created a trough fifty metres long. The transport lay half buried in ash at the end of the trough. A hundred muties, the barbaric, scavenging natives of the wastes, pounded on the sides with clubs made from iron beams or copper pipes or any piece of scrap metal they could salvage from the deteriorating exterior of the hive.

  A dozen muties had climbed on top of the transport and begun banging on it, scratching at it, and even, it seemed, getting on their hands and knees and biting the metallic exterior. Amazingly, they had managed to pull up and tear off several metal panels, which they then dropped on top of their comrades below.