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Cardinal Crimson – Extract

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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 environment 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.’

The clanking of boots running across metal was followed quickly by a hand on his chest. Francks looked up, trying to focus his cloudy eyes on the shape in front of him.

‘Okay, gramps,’ said the guard, his other hand on the butt of a gun still in his holster. ‘I think it’s time you stopped walking and tell me what in the Spire you’re doing here.’

‘I have returned from the wastes to reclaim that which was lost,’ said Francks. ‘The body of Bowdie will return. You will see.’

‘Um, yeah,’ said the guard. ‘Well, I think you’ll have to wait for your buddy in a cell until someone who makes more creds than me figures out what to do with you.’ The guard grabbed Franks by the arm and twisted it, trying to turn him around.

Francks whirled around, easily slipping his thin arm out of the guard’s grasp. From the look of surprise on the man’s face, Francks moved much faster than the guard thought was possible. He pulled the guard forward and gently kissed his forehead.

When Francks released his hold, the guard slumped to the floor at his feet. ‘Be at peace,’ he said as he stepped over the unconscious guard. ‘The Universe has a plan and the time draws near.’

Kal Jerico longed for the day in the not so distant past when he had been hanging from a catwalk with his faithful, yet disgusting sidekick Scabbs holding on for dear life to Kal’s trousers, which had slipped down to his ankles after they both tumbled over the edge. Ah yes, that day was infinitely better than this one. Or the time that Scabbs had almost blown them all up when he kicked a grenade off the street. That was a fun time… compared to today.

‘Have we lost them yet?’ asked Kal, not wanting to look back and confirm his worst fears.

He heard a slosh, which might have been Yolanda turning in the waist-high muck to get a look at their pursuers, or his cyber-mastiff Wotan breaking the surface to make sure everyone was still with him. Or it might have just been Scabbs going face first into the dross. Again.

No report was forthcoming from either of his bounty hunter companions, so Kal cocked his head and took a look back. One of the blond braids that framed his wide face fell across his eyes, but he could still see clearly enough.

Yolanda, his brash, amazon-like, sometime partner jogged through the muck beside him. Impossibly long legs kept her loincloth-covered waist just above the brackish, oozing liquid. The scowl on her face and the creases running through the tribal tattoos above her eyes told Kal that she was no happier about this situation than he.

A wake in the muck to the other side showed Wotan’s progress. Just then, Wotan’s metal nose broke the surface and the mastiff let out a sharp, tinny bark. He was none too happy either, it seemed.

‘Good thing Wotan doesn’t need to breathe,’ said Kal. Scabbs, on the other hand, did need to breathe, but was probably so used to his own stench that he wasn’t bothered by the smell of this place. In fact, his constant dips into this muck could only improve the little half-ratskin’s odour.

Scabbs was just pushing himself up out of what Kal now suspected was raw sewage, gauging from the brown clumps sticking to his scabby, pudgy face. If it weren’t for the ashen colour of his skin, it would be hard to tell where Scabbs left off and the sewage began. Unfortunately, he had fallen behind the other two and was now dangerously close to their pursuers.

Which brought Kal to the crux of the problem. The Goliaths – six angry members of the Grak gang to be exact – were not slowed down by the muck as much as Kal had hoped. These huge, barrel-chested behemoths with their hulking frames, strode through the deep muck as if it were no more than a puddle. The sewage barely reached the Goliaths’ knees. Luckily, they only had frag grenades and shotguns, and were still out of useful range for both. But that wouldn’t last for long.

‘Great plan, Jerico!’ yelled Yolanda beside him. She grabbed the edges of her tight-fitting vest and puffed her already well-endowed chest out a little further in what Kal soon realised was an attempt at imitating him. ‘Let’s cut through these pools. The Goliaths will never follow us through this muck.’

Kal glanced down at his leather coat, the bottom half of which he realised with a groan was beneath the sewage. He was certain he had never stood clutching his lapels like some soft, Spire-raised politician puffing up before a speech. His poses were much more awe-inspiring.

He grabbed the pommel of his sabre, nearly dipping his hands in the muck, and cocked his head just so before replying. ‘They wouldn’t have chased us in the first place if you hadn’t shot half of them in the chest,’ he said. ‘You know that just makes Goliaths mad.’

Yolanda whipped around toward Kal, sending her cascade of dreadlocks flying in a vicious circle around her head. ‘And I wouldn’t have had to shoot any of them if you hadn’t spent so much time cutting the head off Grak.’

‘Do you know how thick their hides are?’ asked Kal. ‘Not to mention their steel-like bones. And that head is worth thousands of creds–’

Scabbs cut in. ‘Uh, Kal?’

Yolanda and Kal turned on the little man, who had caught up with them as they argued. ‘What?’ they yelled together.

‘Grenade!’ cried Scabbs, pointing to a round object dropping toward the muck behind them. He dived forward into the ooze.

Kal and Yolanda looked at each other for a split second before following Scabbs under the dross. A muted explosion made Kal’s ears pop and the resulting wave forced his body down to the slimy ground beneath the sewage.

He broke the surface of the muck a moment later, sputtering and fuming. Chunks of what Kal desperately hoped was mud clung to his coat and stringy bits of something greenish-yellow dripped off his braids, nose and beard.

‘Alright, now I’m mad,’ he said. ‘Time to finish this. Come on.’ He ran on ahead, trying to get back out of grenade range.

Scabbs swiped a scabby hand over his slimy face as he ran, which did little more than smear the brown chunks, like a paste, across his flaky skin. ‘So, you have a plan, Kal?’ he said more as a statement than a question.

‘Yeah,’ replied Kal. ‘I’m going to kill them and then go get drunk and forget about this day.’

‘Another great Kal Jerico plan,’ retorted Yolanda, easily keeping pace. ‘We needed a grenade launcher to take down Grak, and that got scavved. How exactly will you kill six Goliaths before they rip your arms out and beat you to death with them?’

Kal glared at Yolanda, but somehow the slime and organic matter had completely slipped off her body when she came out of the muck, leaving just a liquid sheen covering her bare arms, midriff and heaving cleavage. He quickly lowered his eyes toward her weapon belt, which held about a half-dozen grenades. He then smiled as a plan formed in his head.

‘With that,’ he said, pointing at her waist.

‘No way, Jerico,’ said Yolanda. ‘I’d rather die standing, if you don’t mind.’

‘Not that,’ said Kal. ‘Get your mind out of the sewage.’ He smiled at his joke, but neither of his companions were laughing. ‘Hand me your grenade belt, he continued. ‘You, too, Scabbs.’

His companions looked like they wanted to protest, but both knew better than to fly in the face of a Kal Jerico, live-by-the-seat-of-your-pants plan. Kal took the two bandoliers and reached under the muck for his mastiff. Finding Wotan, he knocked on his steel head. The cyber-mastiff surfaced and looked up at Kal, metal jaw open showing a row of sharp, spike-like teeth. Kal was certain that if Wotan had a tongue, it would be lolling off to the side right about now.

Kal draped the bandoliers over Wotan’s head, pointed at the oncoming Goliaths, and commanded, ‘Wotan! Deliver!’ He then pointed toward the muck. ‘Stay down!’ he added.

The mastiff’s head slipped back under the muck. Kal watched as the wake moved off to the side and began heading back toward their pursuers, who were getting dangerously close to grenade range again. Kal glanced at Yolanda and Scabbs, and smiled as he pulled out his twin laspistols and twirled them both at once. He stood facing the Goliaths. ‘This should be fun,’ he said.

Yolanda obviously didn’t trust in Kal’s plan because she kept slogging through the muck. ‘Enjoy your death by dismemberment,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back for Grak’s head after they’re done with you.’

Scabbs, who had stopped when Kal stopped, looked back and forth between his two protectors. He shrugged, which dislodged several large muck-covered flakes of skin from his neck. ‘To the end, Kal. To the end,’ he said.

‘Thanks, Scabbs,’ said Kal. ‘You don’t know how much that means to me.’ But Kal could tell by the way Scabbs kept glancing behind them at the retreating Yolanda that his heart wasn’t really into it. But he knew the plan would work. It had to. A moment later, the muck in front of the Goliaths erupted as Wotan soared into the air, spraying the giant gangers with slime and refuse. The mastiff’s impressive leap carried it over their heads. The stunned Goliaths could do nothing but watch as the metal beast soared above them. Wotan whipped his head back and forth at the apex of his jump, shedding the bandoliers, which fell on the heads of the two leaders.

As soon as Wotan hit the muck behind the Goliaths, Kal opened fire with both weapons, sending blasts of superheated particles racing toward their pursuers at the speed of light. His shots slammed into the chests of the two leading gangers, which would have had little effect if they hadn’t both just acquired new bandoliers full of explosives.

The resulting cascade of explosions ripped through the entire gang as the initial blasts set off the rest of the ordnance carried by the giants. Once the smoke cleared, Kal was quite pleased to see not a single Goliath standing in the muck.

Then he noticed the wave of sewage headed toward him from the blast site.

‘Oh crap!’ muttered Kal.

‘Why are those men standing there?’ asked the foreman, a large, beefy man by the name of Grondle. Foreman Grondle had a thick shock of black hair that covered his entire head except for his eyes, nose and bright red cheeks. His stomach extended just slightly out past his huge chest. You might call him rotund, if you were absolutely certain he couldn’t hear you.

When the small man beside him didn’t answer, Grondle pointed a pudgy finger at a group of workers milling around near a three-storey pile of rocks, concrete blocks and other debris that spilled out of the side of the dome. He’d just recently come on the job and had specific instructions from his boss to get the work back on schedule. This twenty year-old rockslide, most likely caused by a hive quake, was his first priority. ‘Those men, there, Dinks.’

‘They say the rockslide is unstable,’ replied Dinks, the crew leader. He was a short and officious looking fellow, with toothpick arms, no chest to speak of and a ring of short-cropped hair running around his otherwise bald head. ‘We’re waiting for the engineer to show up and inspect it.’

‘We have to get that cleared by week’s end,’ he grumbled. The masons were scheduled to come in and begin to shore up the dome after that, and if he slipped even a day on the schedule, it would take months to reschedule them – months that he would be out of a job. ‘The engineer was here yesterday and declared it safe. Get them back to work.’

‘But…’

The foreman glared the crew leader into silence. Staring down at the little man, who seemed better suited for library work up in the Spire than construction, the foreman realised Dinks must have got the job of crew leader because he wasn’t physically able to actually do any work. ‘No “buts” except yours and theirs up on that pile of rubble, clearing rocks!’ demanded the foreman.

Dinks looked like he wanted to argue, but decided it would be easier to clear rocks than to sway Grondle’s decision. He turned and skittered away toward the rockslide. A moment later, the crew began climbing up the rubble. They formed a chain with Dinks at the bottom, a decision he probably regretted when the first, huge chunk of masonry was handed to him and he had to lug it over to the bin.

Tavis would just love that. Waiting for an engineer inspection. The nerve of that Dinks. Guilder Tavis was not the easiest man to work for. He knew what he wanted and had enough money and power to make everyone’s life miserable until he got it. Right now, he wanted this old dome cleaned up for a huge new manse. As if the palace where he lived now was too small for him. Hmmph, thought Grondle. Probably too small for his ego.

A series of low rumbles snapped Grondle out of his reverie, but they ended as abruptly as they had started. Grondle looked around at the various work areas. It hadn’t sounded like a hive quake, it had been too regular and too short. Then he heard screams and turned to look at the rockslide. Men, rocks, and chunks of concrete tumbled down the hill toward poor Dinks, who stood rooted to the spot in fear, screaming, his face ash-white.

Grondle ran toward Dinks, screaming, ‘Get out of there, you fool! Move!’

But it was too late. The chunks of rubble rolling down the hill from the top unleashed even more rocks and even a few boulders as the avalanche swept over the line of men, building momentum and growing ever larger as it careened down the hill.

Halfway to the foot of the hill, Grondle screeched to a halt and began backing away. Debris piled up where Dinks had once stood as more rubble spilled down the hill. A head-sized chunk of rock bounded past Grondle as he turned and ran from the continuing avalanche.

And then it was over. The ringing in Grondle’s ears from the continuous rumble of rocks cracking against one another came to an end. He looked back at where Dinks and his crew had been just moments before, and saw nothing but what seemed to be an even larger pile of debris than before. Grondle pulled a cloth from his back pocket and began to wipe the seat from his forehead. ‘I’m going to need more men again,’ he grumbled. ‘Tavis won’t be happy about that.’

‘Holy Undying Emperor!’ said Nickle, ‘What in the Spire is that?’

This brought a clap to the ears from Staven. ‘Never take the name of the Undying Emperor in vain,’ he said, adding a moment later, ‘Holy scav! What is that?’

‘That’s what I asked,’ said Nickle. He was the taller of the two by almost a head, but was obviously the subordinate in this relationship. Nickle pulled the hood of his blue cloak down around his neck to get an unobstructed view of the old man wandering through the Hive City docks, and then scratched at the bare skin around his sore ear. ‘Ow. That hurt.’

‘Maybe you’ll remember next time, then,’ said the shorter Staven, also pulling his hood down to get a better look.

Both men wore identical blue, hooded cloaks and orange body armour. They also had haircuts that made them look like someone had inverted a bowl full of yellow noodles over their otherwise bare heads. They were Cawdor, part of a local gang called the Soul Savers whose territory included the docks. It was a prestigious area for the Soul Savers. They were entrusted with saving the souls of the dock workers, who were well-known for their sinful ways. They did, however, have to curb their more physically instructive styles as violence was frowned upon even in this rough area of Hive City and the gang was forced to masquerade under the guise of a legitimate security operation.

Nickle and Staven had been standing outside Madam Noritake’s House of Fun, verbally instructing its patrons about how much more satisfied they would be in the embrace of the Undying Emperor than in the clutches of the unclean women inside. Most people either ignored the two and hurried inside with their faces averted or just glared at them, perhaps quashing a violent instinct or two of their own.

But this strange man walking toward them with wild hair that seemed to almost float around his head, ripped and ragged clothes that barely covered his thin, blister-covered body and a far-off, almost lost look to his eyes – this was a man that Staven thought could benefit from being saved.

He stepped away from the building as the old man shuffled forward. It looked to Staven like he was headed inside Madam Noritake’s, which seemed ludicrous considering his age and condition, but the old guy stopped right in front of Staven. He was mumbling something, but Staven didn’t bother to listen. He just started into his speech, modified somewhat on the fly for this special lost soul.

‘Have you ever considered that perhaps you are lost and need someone to show you the way to a better place?’ Staven was quite pleased with himself on his modified opening, but before he could continue, the man grabbed his face and forced him to look into his eyes – those piercing blue eyes shrouded but not obscured by hypnotic, milky-white swirls.

It felt like he was falling through a blue sky toward white, fluffy clouds. It was at once the most blissful feeling he had ever had, as if he were safe in the embrace of the Undying Emperor, but also the most terrifying experience of his life, like falling through eternity, out of control.

And then it was over. The old man said, ‘You are “Saviours”. It is true.’ He smiled at Staven, who looked over at Nickle. The other Cawdor must have been caught in the same trance because he still had a far-away look in his eyes. ‘The Universe has a plan, boys. It has brought me to you. The Bowdie will return. You will see. It is time. The Bowdie will return. Now, take me home.’

Staven turned and began leading the old man through the streets of Hive City, glancing back only once to make sure that Nickle had followed as well. They shouldn’t have left their posts, but they did. They were forbidden to bring converts back to the Saviour headquarters without express permission, but that’s what they were doing. His life seemed to have turned into a walking dream where the rules of the real world were suspended.

As they walked, the old man continued his mantra and an old memory stirred inside Staven about the return of a mythical body. It wasn’t from the scriptures. It was more of a story told to young juves from a time in the past. He remembered an old ganger talking to him and a bunch of other new recruits years ago. What was his name? Burton? Benton? Bitten! That was it. Bitten. Staven wasn’t sure if Bitten was still around, but someone must know. He’d send Nickle off to find out when they got the old man back home.

Kal was feeling much better about life in the Underhive. Both he and his clothes had been washed – at the same time but by quite different female hands – and he was now sitting in his favourite watering hole with a drink on the table, a girl on his lap, his cyber-mastiff at his feet and a wad of credits from the bounty on Grak burning a hole in his pocket.

The Sump Hole was the Underhive’s premier bar, which was to say it was a rat-infested refuse dump that served what tasted like watered-down lighter fluid in bottles that were only clean by the virtue of holding something so toxic that nothing could live inside. The barmaids were slightly cleaner than the bottles and slightly better looking than the rats, but made up for any shortcomings with short skirts and shorter blouses.

Kal’s home away from home was constantly filled past capacity with gangers and bounty hunters, and the next brawl was always just an insult or accidental bump away. There’d been so many knock-down, drag-out fights in the Sump Hole over the years that the tables and chairs were now bolted to the floor, which made it somewhat harder to hit someone over the head with one, but a lot more deadly when you did.

‘I love it when a plan comes together,’ he said, stroking the bare shoulders of the redhead on his lap.

A voice stung him from across the room. ‘A Kal Jerico plan doesn’t so much come together as fall into place – from a great height with a loud splat.’

Kal smiled. As long as the redhead stayed right where she was nothing could ruin his mood, not even Yolanda’s strained wit. ‘Hello, partner,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see you come in.’ Wotan’s head lifted under the table at Kal’s voice, but then dropped back down with a clank when it became obvious his master was talking to someone else.

Yolanda pushed her way through the crowd with ease. Even with dreadlocked hair framing a face dominated by an intricate Escher clan tattoo that ran across her forehead, Yolanda was still far more attractive than any of the barmaids, especially with her tight-fitting vest and tantalising leather loincloth. But the combination of her incredible height, well-toned muscles and array of holstered weapons made even the uninitiated patron wary as she crossed the room.

After staring down one juve who got a little too close or smiled just a little too broadly as she strode across the room, Yolanda kicked one long leg over the back of the empty chair opposite Kal and slid down. This was Kal’s table, and no matter how crowded the Sump Hole got, there were always at least three chairs open. Kal’s was the one with it’s back up against the wall of the bar.

‘Where’s my cut, Jerico?’ she asked.

Kal toyed with the idea of telling her that only those partners who stood by him in his hour of need would get a cut, but the narrowness of her eyes and the creases running through her tattoo told him she wasn’t in a joking mood.

‘I’ve got it in my pocket,’ said Kal. ‘Roberta here is guarding it for me, aren’t you darling?’ The redhead purred into Kal’s ear and shifted quite comfortably on his lap. ‘As soon as Scabbs shows up, we’ll get down to business. For now, get a drink and enjoy life a little. It doesn’t always have to be about business.’

‘With you, Jerico, it’s never business,’ said Yolanda. ‘Everything is a big game to you.’

‘And what’s wrong with that?’ asked Kal, refusing to let her bring him down. ‘Life is a game, and the one who has the most fun wins.’

‘And you’re bound and determined to win at any cost, aren’t you?’ she asked, but a slight curling of Yolanda’s lips indicated she was enjoying the banter. It was the closest Kal had seen her come to smiling in a long time.

But Yolanda’s proto-smile disappeared completely when the juve sat in the last open chair. He didn’t look at Yolanda, though. In fact, it seemed to Kal that the young ganger was deliberately avoiding eye contact with her. The kid’s blue cloak and too-shiny, orange body armour should have rung warning bells in Kal’s head, but he’d been distracted by Roberta’s tongue in his ear. He didn’t realise the danger until the juve started speaking.

‘Hi, my name is Georig,’ he said in a rush, continuing without even taking a breath. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Did you ever think that you might be on the wrong path? Have you ever considered basking in the glory of the Undying Emperor instead of living a life of drunken debauchery? As the teachings of our spiritual leader, the holy Cardinal Crimson, state…’

The room went suddenly quiet as both Kal and Yolanda drew their weapons in a rush at the mention of the Cardinal’s name. Roberta slid to the floor with a thud as Kal stood and glared at the young Cawdor. From beneath the table, Wotan growled between the juve’s legs, which sounded like a chainblade screaming to life.

‘Because you’re so young and so obviously stupid,’ started Kal, ‘I’m going to give you to the count of three to get out of this bar before I fire. Of course after one, Wotan will make sure you can never debauch again. Ready?’

As Kal breathed in to begin the count, Georig fell off his chair and began scrambling across the floor on all fours, proving he wasn’t as dumb as he had first appeared. The crowd kindly stepped aside, probably more to get out of Kal’s line of fire than to help the kid escape. Kal holstered his laspistols and sat down with a resigned thump.

‘I hate Cawdor,’ he said, waving off Roberta as she tried to sit back down on his lap. He was no longer in the mood. ‘Useless bunch, the lot of them. Undying Emperor, hah! What a bunch of hokum. And Crimson? Holy? Scabbs is more spiritual than that two-bit hack.’

An odd odour wafted across the bar, one that Kal instantly recognised. ‘Although his purity is definitely up for debate,’ he added as Scabbs took his seat. ‘Helmawr’s rump, man. Five hours of bathing and you still reek. Did they find another layer of stench under the first ten?’

Scabbs slid into the chair that Georig has just vacated. Jerico didn’t know how he did it, but even with a bath and clean clothes, Scabbs still looked like he had slept in trash for a week. There were obviously some stains in his dingy, grey shirt and trousers that would just never come out. If Kal cared more, he’d buy the little rodent some new clothes out of his share, but that money was earmarked for drunken debauchery.

‘Nice to see you, too, Kal,’ said Scabbs. He pointed behind him. ‘That your handiwork I saw running out the front like a scared scavvy?’

‘Damn Cawdor!’ spat Kal again. He was about to go into another tirade about their holier-than-thou attitude, but Scabbs cut him off.

‘So, where’s my cut?’ he asked, holding his hand out over the table. A few flakes of skin fell from his arm onto the booze-soaked table and floated there like little boats.

‘Right down to business with both of you,’ said Kal, shaking his head. ‘What? Don’t you trust me?’

Two heads began shaking across from him. ‘You spent our shares of the last big score before we even saw it,’ said Yolanda.

‘Those were business expenses,’ protested Kal. ‘I lost my pistols and had to buy new ones.’

‘Pearl handled?’ asked Scabbs. His hand was still hovering over the table, releasing more boats into the Wild Snake sea below.

Kal looked back and forth at his two partners and saw that he was not going to get any compassion from either of them. But, as he dug into his pocket to pull out the bounty money, he thought he heard his name from over by the bar. He looked up and saw another new face.

This person definitely had no place in an Underhive bar. For starters, his clothes were clean. And not clean like Kal’s scuffed leather coat was clean. Clean, like new. And these clothes were expensive. They looked like cotton or silk instead of denim and leather.

‘Oh scav!’ mumbled Kal, and then quietly slipped under the table. The only people who could afford clothes like that lived in the Spire or acted as agents for one of the Hive City Houses. Both spelled trouble.

‘What in the unholy Spire are you doing down there, Jerico?’ cried Yolanda.

‘Shhhh!’ hissed Kal. ‘That guy at the bar is looking for me.’

There was a pause before Scabbs answered. ‘So?’ he said. ‘He’s almost as small as me. You can take him.’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Kal. ‘I owe money… a lot of money… for my new laspistols. That’s got to be the debt collector from the Re-Engineers, the Van Saar gang that sold them to me.’

‘You’re in debt to a Van Saar gang?’ asked Yolanda, her incredulous voice still too loud. ‘Are you insane? You’re lucky to still have all your limbs.’

But Kal didn’t answer. He was too busy crawling to the next table. As the debt collector came over toward his usual table, Kal skirted around toward the bar. As soon as there were enough people between him and the silk-suited businessman, Kal stood and slipped out of the Sump Hole.

Scabbs tried to act nonchalant as the silk-suited man arrived, which meant he spent a lot of effort picking at some loose skin on his elbow and then cleaning his fingernails with his teeth. His only mistake was spitting the wad of crust and dead skin he’d mined from under his fingernails onto the striped, grey trousers of the debt collector, who was by now standing right next to him.

‘Sorry,’ he said, looking up into the face of the stranger. The man stood probably two heads less than two metres, which put him about a head up on Scabbs. But his features made him look much smaller. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on a narrow slip of a nose, outlining beady eyes that were so small and dark they wouldn’t have looked out of place on the head of a rodent. His thin, dark hair looked like it had been greased to his head and his face showed not even a hint of stubble.

He held a small, black satchel and, after wiping the spittle from his trousers with a white handkerchief, he laid the satchel on the table, placing both hands on it as if that would be enough to keep it safe, if Scabbs or Yolanda should want to take it.

‘I am looking for a Kal Jerico,’ said the stranger. ‘I assume you are not he.’

Scabbs and Yolanda looked at each other, quizzically. Scabbs decided the man must be talking to him. ‘That’s right, I’m not Kal, and neither is she,’ he added, pointing at Yolanda.

‘A ha ha,’ said the stranger, which seemed to shake his entire skinny body. ‘A good joke, Mr Scabbs. Do you know where I can find Mr Jerico?’

Being called by name flustered Scabbs. Was he getting famous, finally? ‘You just missed him…’ he started before a quick kick to the shin from Yolanda brought him to his senses. ‘I… uh… I think he went to the little bounty hunter’s room,’ he said, pointing at the back of the Sump Hole.

The stranger looked back where Scabbs pointed, which when Scabbs looked, he realised, was just a blank wall. Did the Sump Hole even have a bathroom? Scabbs had always done his business in the alley outside. The stranger drummed his fingers on the satchel.

‘What do you want with Jerico?’ asked Yolanda.

The stranger’s eyes scanned the lanky bounty hunter from top to bottom, stopping a couple of times for a longer look along the way. ‘We have business that must be attended to in person,’ he finally answered.

‘Well when you find that son of a scavvy,’ continued Yolanda, ‘let us know. We’ve been looking for him all day. We have some unfinished business to attend to as well.’

Scabbs had to admit that Yolanda was a much better liar than he, and the stranger might have just bought it, except at that moment, a whistle echoed through the Sump Hole, and Wotan jumped to his feet beneath the table, nearly knocking the man’s satchel to the floor. As the stranger grabbed for the handle, Wotan bolted for the door, knocking gangers and waitresses to the floor in a loud racket as he left.

‘That, I believe was Mr Jerico’s cyber-mastiff, Wotan, if I am not mistaken,’ said the stranger, repositioning his glasses on his sharp nose.

‘What’s a cyber-mastiff?’ said Scabbs, which brought another kick to the shin. He should really just let Yolanda do the talking, he thought. But it was too late. The stranger had left the Sump Hole, following Wotan into the Underhive night.

Jobe Francks felt more human than he had in a long while. Of course, for him, a long while was counted in years instead of months or weeks. The Soul Savers had fed him and clothed him, and even given him new boots to wear. It felt odd walking through the world without feeling every stone and sharp piece of glass underfoot. Francks wasn’t sure he liked it. It felt a little too detached from the wonder of the Undying Emperor’s creation. But he felt like he could get used to it.

He’d refused the body armour, but enjoyed the feel of the new, blue cloak against his neck, which offered a constant reminder of his years of suffering as it rustled against his blistered skin. After supper, Randal, the leader of the Soul Savers, came up to Francks with a proposition. He was a tall, gangly man with wavy, blond hair that grew down to his shoulders instead of being worn short in the normal bowl cut of his men.

‘How would you like to preach the return of the body to a large crowd of unbelievers?’ Randall had asked. There was a smile on his almost boyish face, but Francks had noticed the slight twitch in the curl of his lips that suggested deceit mixed in with the request. ‘The square outside the Fresh Air saloon is the perfect spot to begin spreading the word.’

Francks had let his eyes cloud over slightly as Randal spoke, and peered into the black centre of Randal’s eyes. Yes, there was deceit hidden beneath his jovial exterior. Deceit mixed with greed, and just a touch of fear. Randal probably didn’t know what to do with him, so was sending him into another gang’s territory. It was a brilliant move. Randal had complete deniability if Francks got into trouble, and had much to gain if ‘the old man’ actually made any inroads into the other gang’s home. It was how the game was played. Francks remembered those days well, even through the fog of time.

And so Francks had gone to the square and preached, alone of course. Randal couldn’t afford to send any of his men, who would be recognised by members of the rival gang. He’d drawn a small crowd, mostly drunk factory workers who’d stumbled out of the saloon to get a breath of fresh air from the huge fan hanging over the square that pumped recycled air into the area and gave the bar its name.

Francks told of the grand plan of the Universe to save them all and bring them into the glory of the Undying Emperor. He regaled them with tales of the crusades fought through the centuries in His name. He spoke of the messenger – the Bowdie – who would return to reveal the intricacies of the universal plan and light the way home into the bosom of the Undying Emperor.

By the end of the evening, Francks’s voice was little more than a whisper and his throat was raw. After two decades of speaking to no one but himself, his vocal cords were too easily strained. He would have to pace himself for a while. Stains dotted his new blue cloak from fruit and vegetables thrown by some of the more passionate members of the crowd. He carried several of the firmer pieces of produce in his cloak to give to the Soul Savers.

As he walked through the dark streets, Francks picked at a line of caked blood on his cheek, remnant of a piece of cobblestone thrown shortly after the produce failed to end his sermon. He had felt the surge of blood, a relic of his youth, course through his veins as the pain from that rock radiated through his face.

He had felt the anger of his old life strain against the self-imposed chains that kept him in check. How easy it would have been to jump into the middle of the crowd and snap the neck of the instigator. But he was here to prepare the world for the return of Bowdie, not to begin a holy war. That was his role in the Universal Plan – at least for now.

Lost in his reverie, Francks didn’t notice the dark form detach itself from a shadowy alley and slip in behind him; at least not consciously. But somewhere near the base of his skull, Jobe Francks felt the man’s black aura. His mind’s eye, which saw more of the world than any sane man should feasibly be able to handle, noticed the intrusion and primed Francks’s muscles for action a moment before the assassin’s arm shot around his neck.

The stranger in the silk suit, a man by the name of Sorrento, came rushing out of the Sump Hole just in time to see Wotan lope down the street and turn a corner. Unfortunately for Sorrento, in his headlong rush out of the bar, he failed to notice a large bounty hunter heading into the bar.

‘Ooomph,’ said Sorrento as his nose and glasses slammed into the bounty hunter’s barrel-sized chest. He stepped back and tried to re-seat his glasses around his ears, but the wire frames had twisted in the impact.

As he worked on the bent frame, two immense hands dropped onto his shoulders like the gods descending.

‘You smudged my armour,’ said a booming voice from above.

Sorrento finally got his glasses back on and looked up at a wide, scraggly-haired face. A scar running from the edge of the man’s lip down to the centre of his chin marred the perfect two-day growth of beard. One long eyebrow slanted across his forehead and the tangle of black hair covering his head looked thick enough to stop bullets.

‘Um, sorry?’ asked Sorrento. The grip on his shoulders tightened, making him cry out in pain. It felt like the fingers had penetrated his skin and were now crushing bone. The street began to spin, or was that his head? It was difficult to tell. He needed to appease this hulking brute before he passed out and ended up dead in a gutter. ‘I’m… unngh… terribly sorry, sir,’ he tried again. ‘Let me… um… buy you a drink to make up for it?’

The pressure eased, but was quickly followed by a new pain as the bounty hunter slapped Sorrento on the back and pulled him into a ‘friendly’ hug that made him gasp as his chest compressed. They walked back into the bar, where Sorrento proceeded to buy his life back with several rounds of Wild Snake.

Kal’s luck had definitely changed in the last few hours. After giving the debt collector the slip, he’d wandered the darkened streets looking for a dive where he could drink in peace. By chance, he’d stumbled upon the Lucky Strike Hole. From the front, you wouldn’t even know it was there. It was dark, drab and falling apart, making it look like every other semi-inhabited building in the Underhive.

The windows and obligatory blast holes were covered by burlap and tape, which by itself had drawn Kal’s attention. Why bother if it was just a flop spot? And a gang would have reinforced those potential incursion points with something more durable than cloth. Intrigued, Kal had gone to the door and knocked. He wasn’t too surprised when a small hatch slid open at eye height.

‘What’s the password?’ asked a voice behind the door.

How quaint. A password-protected hole. Luckily, he had the universal password. He pulled out the bounty credits and fanned them in front of the eyes. A moment later, the door opened and Kal walked into the most lavish gambling hole he’d ever seen in the Underhive.

Gambling tables sat on red and yellow carpeting in a huge space that once might have been a factory floor or warehouse. Carpeting! His feet sank into the deep pile, as he stared in awe. Everything looked new. The tables showed no chinks, holes, or scorch marks from previous brawls, and the floor was free of those ugly brown stains that you never asked about and always walked around in other holes.

As Kal revelled in the luxury, a gnawing little voice in the back of his head began to ask some obvious questions. Who would spend this kind of money on an Underhive hole? And if you had that kind of money, why not spend it in the Spire, or at least in Hive City? But at that moment, a waft of lilac followed by a soft touch on his arm pulled Kal from his musings. A beautiful hostess, who made Roberta look like a scavvy, smiled at Kal, took him by the arm and escorted him to a table. She never said a word but it seemed to be understood that as long as Kal was gambling (and winning) she would be his constant companion.

Kal tossed the bounty money on the table and started to play. He was home.

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Cardinal Crimson copyright © 2006, Games Workshop Ltd.
This eBook edition published in 2015 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Cover illustration by Clint Langley.

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