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Spark of Revolution – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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1

The Slag Krocs had the Crackbones on the run, their war whoops almost drowning out the hammering of their boots as they chased the rival Goliath gang through the busted bowels of a ruined warehouse.

But then the krumper opened up.

Breaker Brass knew that sound. The thunderous roar that echoed off the cracked rockcrete walls and broken equipment had shaken his massive ogryn bones before. When he was home in his factorum, during those long, peaceful shifts when the Slag Krocs didn’t need his steel fists, Breaker used a krumper to fire lines of hot rivets through massive plates of metal. Krumpers were useful tools, and Breaker could make good things with them, but the gangers didn’t use them to make things. They stripped the krumpers’ safeties, modded their actions, and made them fire their heavy steel rivets farther, faster. They turned tools into weapons, and tried to kill each other with them.

Like now.

‘Down, you rat-brained idiots!’

Hasher Gob was just ahead of Breaker, a Goliath tall and lean for his house of giants. Hasher ran the Slag Krocs, and the grey that shot through the long braids of his hair and beard marked him as a survivor, even with the rapid ageing that plagued House Goliath. When he shouted, the other gangers jumped, and now they jumped damn fast, flinging themselves to the ground as the air over them filled with glowing slugs of heavy steel. But not all of them were fast enough.

One of the gangers in the lead got caught by the line of molten rivets the krumper was throwing. The superheated metal tore across his chest, digging red-hot craters in his heavy furnace plate armour, but one rivet found the exposed flesh of the Goliath’s neck. There was a wet, tearing crunch as steel smashed through the man’s throat, and then the hiss of blood flashing over to steam as the ganger hit the floor, dead and rolling.

Breaker snarled as he threw himself down behind Hasher Gob. He didn’t remember the fallen ganger’s name, but the dead man had been a Slag Kroc and when the gang came for him, Breaker Brass was part of the gang. If Hasher hadn’t shouted his order, Breaker would have been pounding towards the huge door set in the far wall of the warehouse, the hole the Crackbones had ducked through like rats, never mind the krumper’s thunderous stream of death. Breaker Brass worked best when he focused on one thing at a time, and right now he was focused on wrapping one of his augmetic hands around the head of the ganger holding that krumper and squeezing until all his fingers met.

But Hasher Gob had told him down, so Breaker Brass was down, crouched behind a rust-covered gear that was almost as tall as him, safe from the pounding bursts of rivets that were keeping the gang pinned. Waiting for Hasher to tell him what to do next – waiting, until Throater went flying by, bellowing for blood.

Hasher was yelling something then, every member of the gang was yelling something as the low-slung reptile went charging ahead, dragging its leash. Breaker Brass didn’t bother to try to sort out what they were saying. He saw the sumpkroc running, saw the red rivets slamming into the floor around it, and Breaker moved. He ran after the scaly monster, catching up with Throater in a few long strides, then dived. He caught Throater in his steel hands and rolled, dimly aware of the krumper’s roar, the stinging pain of molten steel splashing across his skin as slugs hammered down around him. But the only thing that really mattered in Breaker’s head was saving Throater, the savage, stinking mascot of the Slag Krocs.

Throater was almost as long as Breaker was tall and not much lighter. A thickly coiled column of muscle, the sumpkroc thrashed in Breaker’s arms, trying to get free. The scaly monster had got a hold of a Crackbones ganger earlier in the fight and ripped the man’s head off, chomping on it like a toy until his skull had finally shattered and Throater had been left with nothing but a mouthful of brains. The beast clearly wanted another toy, and it fought Breaker as he dragged it behind a pile of twisted scrap and out of the line of fire.

‘Right, Breaker!’ Hasher shouted. ‘You hit?’

Breaker rolled over and sat on Throater, pinning the sumpkroc under him. He had one of his massive augmetic fists wrapped around Throater’s collar, while the gang’s mascot gnawed grumpily on the steel knuckles of his other hand. When he had the toothy pet secure, Breaker finally considered his own condition. There were a few smoking spots on his hide, where boiling droplets of steel had landed on exposed skin, but those weren’t much more than what he usually got during a shift at the factorum. There was a sharper pain from the back of his shoulder, though, that came with the smell of burning meat. Breaker worried his hand free of Throater’s mouth, careful not to break any of the reptile’s vicious teeth, and reached behind him. He ran his hand over the thick metal furnace plates that Hasher Gob himself had strapped around him, searching for the source of that pain.

Breaker Brass’ hands had been replaced long ago with cybernetic steel. It made them stronger and tougher, at the cost of sensitivity. But Breaker didn’t need much of a sense of touch to find the hot crater centred in one of his shoulder plates. He dug his fingers into it and pulled out the half-melted rivet that had smashed through his armour. Luckily Breaker’s own tough hide had stopped it from going further, and all the slug had done was cook his shoulder a bit.

‘Good, Hasher,’ he shouted. ‘And Throater good.’ He rubbed a finger between the sumpkroc’s beady eyes, and the reptile finally stopped squirming, rumbling its thunderous purr at him.

There was a cheer from the rest of the Slag Krocs. Members of the gang came and went, usually in pieces, but Throater had been around for forever. ‘Right,’ Hasher shouted, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. The krumper had stopped its thunder now that the Sump Krocs were all hidden. ‘Ghork, you grease-fingered gummer! Place that bastard!’ The gang leader pointed back at a burn-scarred Goliath who was nursing a bloody hand. Ghork had been the one holding Throater’s leash.

‘Hear ya,’ the ganger shouted back, sprinting forward. He dodged and twisted across the ruined warehouse’s floor, spiked mohawk bouncing, but the krumper stayed silent. Ghork got all the way to the door in the wall before the rivet gun opened up again, thundering at the ganger as he poked his head through the opening.

Ghork flung himself to the side of the door, his hands flailing around his head. The ganger’s mohawk was smoking, split and set alight by a hot rivet. ‘They got me hair!’

‘Scav your hair!’ Hasher shouted. ‘Where are they?’

‘Is a waste pit, Hasher,’ Ghork called back. ‘Big heap o’ slag from the door to the bottom. They down there, meaning to plug us as we come.’

Hasher cursed. ‘Should have known those cowards wouldn’t go toe to toe!’ He shouted the last bit, trying to taunt the Crackbones, but if the other Goliath gang heard they weren’t coming out.

Breaker listened, staring at the door ahead, still stroking Throater’s head. ‘Can go,’ he said, scooping up the beast and taking it over to Hasher. ‘Slag Krocs follow. We get them.’ Breaker Brass nodded. It was a good plan. It used very few words. Those were the best plans.

But Hasher had other ideas. The Goliath caught hold of Throater’s collar and held the reptile, the heavy muscles of his shoulders bunching under his armour. ‘They’ll fill you full of rivets, Breaker, and then the factorum’s quota master will have my scarred hide.’ He looked past Breaker to Ghork. ‘That slag heap steep?’

‘Yeah!’

‘Slide steep?’

Ghork laughed, his mohawk still smoking. ‘Oh yeah.’

Hasher Gob grinned. ‘Breaker. Get me some of that sheathing.’ He pointed to a pile of metal sheets that lay on the floor. Breaker frowned, not sure why they weren’t charging, but did as he was told. Hasher handed Throater off and sent a few more up to the door with Ghork. They spent their time lobbing the occasional frag grenade down into the pit, giving the Crackbones something to think about while Hasher told Breaker Brass how to bend the sheathing into the shape he wanted. It was rough work, but in a few minutes the ogryn had bent up one end on each sheet, folding curves that arced back over the front of the plate.

Breaker liked making things, and by the time he was done he had forgotten about the Crackbones, forgotten the fight they were in the middle of, focused on the work. He was getting up to grab more sheets to work when Hasher punched him in the shoulder.

‘That’s enough.’ The gang leader stood in front of Breaker Brass. Goliaths were huge, gene-worked to be good workers, good fighters, but Hasher still had to look up to stare into Breaker’s eyes. ‘Gimme a listen now, big boy. We gonna show you how to slide.’

Breaker Brass stood, holding tight to the metal sheet. From each of his shoulders hung a Goliath ganger, the two smallest of the crew. Small being relative for any member of House Goliath, Breaker could feel their weight on his back, but it wasn’t too bad. He’d still be able to run when Hasher gave the sign.

Which was now.

The gang leader pumped his fist and Breaker moved. His huge muscles flexed, driving him forward, long legs eating up the floor as he sprinted towards the opening in the warehouse wall. The Goliaths clinging to him were cursing, trying to hang on, and his boots were like thunder, but the noise of Breaker’s charge was drowned out by a series of explosions as the Slag Kroc poised beside the door threw a barrage of grenades down into the pit. The ganger stopped just as Breaker reached him and bellowed ‘Now!’ in the echoes of the last blasts.

Breaker Brass did what Hasher had told him and jumped forward as hard as he could. For a long moment he hung in the air, arcing through the door, out of the warehouse into the darkness of the slag pit. He fell through the shadows, a giant target backlit by the ancient warehouse’s flickering lumens, and the darkness below him was split with muzzle flashes as the Crackbones fired at him. Shots whined by, or cracked into the steel sheet he held, a chorus of deadly greetings as gravity finally grabbed Breaker and pulled him down into a crunching landing on the heap of slag that lay below the door. The metal sheet Breaker held hit the steep pile of industrial waste with all the momentum from the ogryn’s charging run behind it, and started to slide. Fast.

The sheet roared down the slag pile, the rough curve Breaker had pounded into the front of it pushing down clinkers of ash and bits of broken waste. That curved piece of metal also blocked most of Breaker’s body from the guns of the gangers below, including the krumper, which had started firing again. A diagonal slash of red-hot rivets punched into the metal in front of Breaker’s face, but they didn’t tear through, didn’t touch him.

Breaker slid, momentum and gravity dragging him fast, protected by the shield of his makeshift sled, and it was one of the greatest things the ogryn had ever done. He whooped, a shaking bellow of joy that rose over the rattle of waste and the chatter of guns, and the Slag Krocs clinging to him shouted too as they shoved themselves up, clinging to his wide shoulders with one hand, balancing themselves so that they could open up with their autopistols as they thundered towards the other gang.

A bellow of pain echoed through the gunfire, the sound of one of the Slag Krocs’ slugs hitting home, but hard on the end of that cry came a choking gurgle over Breaker’s head and the stench of burning meat. The ganger clinging to the ogryn’s right shoulder convulsed, a still-glowing rivet planted in his belly. He pitched off the rattling sled, wasted as the rest of the pile, and Breaker snarled. He raised his head over the protective curve of the sled, and saw they were getting close to the bottom. Close enough for him to see a massive ganger standing there, holding the steaming, roaring krumper in his arms. The Crackbones stood to one side, and Breaker reached out, digging steel fingers into the waste careening by. The touch made the makeshift sled shift, until it was heading straight for the ganger. The Goliath snarled and held his place, krumper aimed right at Breaker Brass’ head. The tool roared and spat hot rivets through the air around Breaker, making the ganger clinging to his shoulder drop behind the protection of the sled’s curved front, but Breaker kept his head up. He could feel the heat of the glowing rivets as they passed, but he didn’t duck. His focus had latched on to the Goliath that held that heavy gun and nothing was going to break it now.

The sled hit the bottom of the waste pile and shot forward, steel screaming against the floor, sending sparks hissing through the air around Breaker. It headed straight for the ganger with the krumper, who jerked to one side, trying to get out of the way while still firing a storm of rivets at the ogryn. Breaker roared and grabbed at the floor, rolling, and the Slag Kroc clinging to him jumped clear so that the ogryn wouldn’t crush him. Breaker didn’t notice. He swung his head, searching, until he found his target again.

Breaker launched himself forward, charging like an ambull. His boots hammered across the floor, taking him straight at the ganger. The man was raising the krumper, trying to line it up, but Breaker Brass was already there. With a backhand swipe of one steel fist, he knocked the krumper out of his way, sending the heavy weapon clattering out of the Goliath’s hands. His other hand caught the ganger’s armour, and Breaker’s augmetic fingers dug in. The furnace plate, designed to protect Goliath workers from their deadly work around the furnaces of the factorums, was made of heavy plates of thick alloy, but those plates crumpled in Breaker’s grip, crushed by the heavy muscles in the ogryn’s arm and his metal fingers.

The ganger, like all Goliaths, was huge, thick with gene-smithed muscles, but Breaker Brass was an ogryn. He was the descendant of humans who had spent a thousand generations on harsh, high-gravity worlds, and his body bore that legacy. The Imperium classified his people as abhumans, so changed by their terrible environment that they had become a species apart, towering, massive, devastating. In his grip, the huge ganger was like a child, and Breaker drove him back into the rockcrete wall. The ganger grunted, one hand pounding at Breaker’s metal fist, trying to break his grip, while the other scrabbled for his fighting knife. Breaker pulled back his fist while the ganger jerked his knife free and slammed it into Breaker’s forearm. The sharp tip hit Breaker’s skin, hide tough as heavy leather, and dug in. Breaker felt it, but ignored it, too focused on driving his fist forward.

The punch took the Goliath in the face, smashing his nose, driving his head back. The ganger grunted, trying to pull his knife free to stab again, but Breaker Brass hammered three more blows into his head. His steel fists smashed out teeth, broke bones, tore out the metal spikes that the ganger had used to decorate his face. The knife slipped free from the ganger’s hand, fell unnoticed to the floor as Breaker threw one last punch. There was a wet crunch as his huge fist landed, and the Goliath’s head was driven backwards into the wall behind him, skull smashing into the rockcrete, splashing it red with blood that stank of rust and stimm.

Breaker Brass pulled back his hand one more time, staring at the gory ruin of the Goliath’s face. He blinked, considering the damage, and finally his focus slipped. He let the ganger go, noticing for the first time that the firefight was still going on around him.

The ogryn turned, and a slug ricocheted off the armour that covered his chest. The rest of the Slag Krocs had slid down the hill of waste and were now here, trading shots and blows with the Crackbones.

‘Breaker!’ Hasher crouched behind one of the abandoned sleds, bullets slamming down around him as he fired back with his stub cannon. ‘The krumper!’

Breaker nodded, given a new focus, and he strode across the floor to the heavy weapon. Another bullet cracked off his armour, and the searing bolt of a lasgun ripped through his trouser leg and burned a furrow across his thigh, but he ignored them. He picked the krumper up with his bloody hand, cradled the familiar tool in his arms, and looked back to Hasher.

‘There!’ the gang leader shouted, pointing to a knot of Crackbones that were on a catwalk partway up the wall, firing their guns down. Breaker raised the krumper and fired. He wasn’t used to using krumpers at this kind of distance, but the glowing red rivets made it easy to aim, and he adjusted, slamming death across the walkway. One ganger pitched forward, plummeting, but the others ducked, aiming their guns towards the ogryn. Breaker kept firing, sending a storm of metal that shattered rockcrete and broke supports until, with a groaning crash, the catwalk tore away and spilled gangers as it fell. It hit the ground with a roar, and then everything quieted, gunfire dying away as the Slag Krocs realised they were the only ones left standing. Then the silence was broken by the sound of cheers.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Black Library.
This eBook edition published in 2020 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Akim Kaliberda.

Spark of Revolution © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2020. Spark of Revolution, Necromunda, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-80026-415-1

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Find out more about the underworld of Necromunda at
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To Alex & Camille – for giving me time, inspiration, and patience

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