One of the other early risers called out from another table, ‘You mean you won’t share breakfast with your brother, Scabbs?’
Scabbs turned to look at the speaker. It was Bear, a huge behemoth of a man with a stomach that rivalled Hagen’s and arms as thick as rocket launcher tubes. Scabbs knew he could count on Bear’s loud mouth. He took two more steps before he spoke.
‘No, but I’ll share them with you,’ he said, and flung the plate of eggs toward Bear, making sure most of the runny, grey scramble splatted on the silk-covered chest of the debt collector.
Bear tossed his chair aside, ripping the legs right out of the floor, and advanced on Scabbs. Scabbs slipped around behind the debt collector and waved the bug-tipped knife in the air. The silk-suited man looked horrified by the bug whipping around by his eyes and ear, but the look of surprise on his face when Bear grabbed both of them and heaved them from the floor made Scabbs smile on the inside.
If this is a Van Saar debt collector, he thought, they recruited him from the Spire. He has no business down here in the Underhive.
Scabbs’s smile was short-lived, though. Bear squeezed the two of them into a big hug, forcing both little men to exhale most of the air in their lungs.
The bartender, who’d been silent up until this point, simply said, ‘Take it outside, Bear.’
And with that, the mountain-sized bounty hunter walked to the door, kicked it open and tossed the two men out into the street. ‘Don’t come back without your master, little man,’ he said, pointing at Scabbs. ‘You need to stay on Jerico’s leash.’
Scabbs rolled over the debt collector, trying to kick as much dirt as he could onto the man’s silk suit, and keep him from seeing Kal as he slipped out the door and then ducked into an alley. Kal smiled and winked at his partner before he disappeared.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Scabbs as he helped the man up from the ground. He brushed at the man’s jacket, but Scabbs’s dirty hands and the egg still stuck to the debt collector’s jacket combined into a fine pasty smudge on the soft material.
‘Just leave me alone,’ said the debt collector. He slapped at Scabbs’s hands and walked toward the door. Just as he reached for the handle, the door opened up, hitting him and sending him flying into the dirt again. Yolanda stepped out as Scabbs went to offer his hand to the debt collector once more.
‘Don’t touch me, you vile person,’ said the debt collector. He crawled away from Scabbs through the door, which Yolanda held open for him.
She smiled at Scabbs as she closed the door again. ‘Well played,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you had that in you.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Scabbs. ‘I thought Bear was going to kill me.’
‘He would have,’ said Yolanda, pulling Scabbs away from the bar. ‘But I caught his eye and motioned for him to keep calm.’
‘Thanks,’ said Scabbs. They walked a little farther down the road. ‘Well, I suppose we should catch up with Kal, huh?’
Yolanda walked a few more steps before answering. ‘In good time,’ she said. ‘In good time. I could still use some breakfast.’
Jobe had been running through the Underhive all night. At first he didn’t know or care where he was headed. He just ran. He needed to stay ahead of the assassin. After a time, he couldn’t sense the presence of his follower any longer and slowed down, but he never stopped moving. To sit was to die.
He just needed someplace safe to rest for a while and commune with the Universe. He needed to figure out where to go next. He needed to understand why he had returned to the Hive. He needed to determine where his destiny lay. He needed to sleep.
The morning began to hum in the Hive as he walked. Workers left their homes and headed out to factories or the mines or the docks. Faceless, nameless, futureless drones trudging back and forth through their lives. This was the monotonous existence the gangs rebelled against: the endless sameness, the senseless tedium of working for little or no reward, of moving forward but never getting anywhere.
Some turned to adventure, hooking their hopes on the one big score. Others sank into violence, wreaking vengeance for their tiresome lives on all they encountered. Still others, a dismal few, really, looked to a higher power to find some meaning in their lives. He thought it was unfortunate that so many Cawdor fell into the first two categories and never discovered the third possibility.
As he pondered these universal ailments, Jobe’s feet kept walking, turning corners periodically and even climbing or descending stairs without any conscious effort. And then he stopped moving. Francks looked up, confused by his own lack of motion. He was standing in front of a door. He looked around to see where he was. Hive City. How had he got all the way into the middle of Hive City?
He looked at the door again. There was no name plaque above the frame. No number to signify an address. Just a brass knocker in the middle of the iron door. The Universe brought me here for a reason, he thought. So he knocked. A shuffling noise came from behind the door; not of feet but of paper and books. There was a bang, like a door closing or a drawer slamming shut. Then, finally, the sound of feet. The door opened.
‘Good morning, Jerod,’ said Jobe without even a hint of surprise in his voice. Jerod Bitten stood in the doorway, wearing a thick, red morning coat. The wall behind him was lined with bookshelves and a large desk occupied much of the room. Oil paintings hung on the walls and there were even a few sculptures on pedestals in the corners. Jerod Bitten had done quite well for himself in the past twenty years.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Bitten. He looked completely bewildered by the visit.
But it made perfect sense to Francks. His body had guided him to the one place he could rest and meditate on the past. The one place in the entire Hive where he could be safe for a time. ‘I just need a place to sleep,’ he said. ‘Can you put me up for a day?’
Kal strolled down the road just inside the Glory Hole dome. He hadn’t been down to this section of the Underhive since that whole vampire incident kicked off. He’d been drugged and kidnapped right outside of Hagen’s Hole and things went downhill from there. Now he wasn’t quite sure how to get back to Hagen’s.
That’s why he kept Scabbs around. The little man remembered every step he’d ever taken. Of course, he left a trail of dead skin wherever he went, so it couldn’t be too hard to find his way back again. But now he was lost again, and he’d just stepped inside the dome. Every blasted-out building looked like the last, and it wasn’t like he could just stop someone and ask. He was Kal Jerico. It wouldn’t look good for the famous bounty hunter to ask for directions, especially to a bar.
He walked into the middle of an intersection and scanned all four streets, looking for some clue, some landmark to jog his memory. One of the streets was completely blocked off by a pile of debris. It looked odd, like it had been piled there instead of happening naturally – meaning from a grenade or a missile or perhaps a hive quake. Then it hit him. He’d created that pile himself; well he and Scabbs had while Yolanda watched and criticised.
They were going to try to trap a bounty up against the blockade, but Yolanda messed it up and Scabbs ended up blowing up the side of a building that fell on their quarry. Kal smiled. Looking back, that was a lot of fun – a lot more fun now than when it happened, of course.
He turned to look down the other way to see if the rubble from the explosion that killed their bounty was still there. What he saw instead was a group of Redemptionists walking toward him, weapons in hand. He looked back the way he had come. A second group of Redemptionists had appeared and now headed towards him. Kal hardly had to look to know what waited for him down the last street. A third group stepped out from a door, drew weapons, and fanned out across the street.
He had one exit and he knew it to be blocked. He had blocked it himself a few months back. ‘Scav,’ he said. ‘I wish Yolanda was here. This is how you set a trap.’ Kal drew his laspistols and fired into the first group. He then turned and ran toward the blockade, zigza
gging down the street as las-blasts hit the ground around him.
Scabbs pushed away the plate of food the mavants had served. ‘That tasted pretty good,’ he said. ‘Like mom used to make.’
Yolanda tried not to imagine Scabbs as an ugly scab-covered boy sitting down to a meal with his ugly, scab-covered family, but the image popped into her head unbidden. She shivered and put it out of her mind.
She stared straight down the tunnel, not wanting to look at her companion at the moment for fear the image would return. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘There are some places in the Underhive where you can get a decent meal, but Jerico insists on going from one hole to another,’
‘He likes the barmaids,’ said Scabbs. ‘He says they help him think.’
Yolanda humphed. ‘Only because his brains are in his pants.’
‘What do you mean?’
Now Yolanda looked at Scabbs. There seemed to be an honest look of bewilderment on his face, although it was tough to tell underneath all the sores and flaky skin. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Let Jerico have his barmaids. ‘I’ll take an Escher-run restaurant any day. The mavants know how to cook.’ Of course, one bad meal will get them ten beatings, she thought to herself.
‘The food was good,’ said Scabbs, ‘but those waiters were awfully dirty.’
Yolanda stared at Scabbs as they walked. He had taken a bath a couple days earlier, but that had only washed off the top layer of crud. Still, she had to admit that he was cleaner than most mavants she’d kicked around. ‘That’s just part of the… décor,’ she replied after a moment. ‘Like the barmaids in the Sump Hole. Something to take your mind off how dirty and poor you are.’
Scabbs nodded his head but Yolanda doubted he truly understood. He seemed to revel in being dirty and poor. It was the only thing that explained why he had stayed with Jerico so long.
As she pondered why she stayed with the disgustingly swarthy bounty hunter, Yolanda heard something rumbling behind them. ‘Did you hear that?’ she asked.
‘Hear what?’ said Scabbs. He picked at the sores on his elbows as they walked, which made a scraping sound. Glancing down at his arm, he said ‘Sorry. Didn’t realise you could hear that.’
The rumbling continued and began to get louder. Yolanda shook her head. ‘Not that,’ she said. ‘But stop it anyway.’ She pointed back down the tunnel. ‘I think something is coming. Probably those scavving Goliaths again.’
Yolanda scanned the tunnel, looking for somewhere to hide. They were at least a mile from the entrance to Glory Hole, and it was a pretty featureless tunnel. They were trapped. The rumbling sound grew louder and began echoing all around them. Yolanda wasn’t sure, but it sounded like engines.
‘I hear it now,’ said Scabbs. ‘What is that? Chainswords?’
Yolanda shook her head again. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Bigger. Much bigger. Run.’
Around a bend in the tunnel emerged three men on motorcycles. They belched black smoke, leaving a roiling dark cloud in their wake. Yolanda ran. She glanced over at Scabbs. He was running as well, his short legs pumping twice as fast as hers, but he was still falling behind.
The motorcycles gained on them. Yolanda could now see the riders. They wore what looked like Orlock colours and waved chains over their heads. ‘What’s their problem,’ she asked. ‘We haven’t ticked off the Orlocks… not lately.’
In a moment, they were on top of Scabbs. The lead biker swung his chain toward the little half-breed. It snapped out and caught him in the calf, wrapping around his legs with a clang and pulling his legs together. Scabbs pitched forward and hit the ground hard as the bikes zoomed past.
They’d be on her in a second. She stopped and drew her sword. The second biker tossed his chain at her. A large hook swung on the end as it flew. Yolanda sidestepped and slashed her sword down in front of her legs. The chain hit her sword and whipped around it several times before catching on the hook.
Yolanda braced herself as the biker drove by. When the chain went taut she yanked back hard. There was a moment of tension and Yolanda’s sword bent dangerously far over. Her bare biceps bulged as she fought against the biker’s momentum.
With a snap, the tension eased and the biker flew back off his cycle. He hit the ground hard on his back and Yolanda heard a sharp crack. The riderless motorbike wobbled and fell over, skidding down the tunnel until it came to a stop against the wall.
‘That’s one,’ she said, but she knew the other two would be back to finish the job. Yolanda turned to see how Scabbs was doing, but he was nowhere to be seen. A pit formed in her stomach as she realised what had happened. She turned toward the departing bikers. Scabbs trailed behind them, bouncing and scraping against the ground as he clawed at the hooked chain wrapped around his ankles.
‘Helmawr’s rump,’ yelled Yolanda as she ran toward the downed bike.
‘You can’t stay here,’ said Bitten. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘Another assassin tracked me down,’ said Jobe Francks. He pushed his way inside and closed the door behind him.
Bitten stared at the closed door, unable to object, but unwilling to give in just yet either. He wondered how his life had got so complicated so quickly. Assassins. Jobe Francks. His own past with Ignus. It was karma, he decided. He was paying for the sins of his youth and now they’d come back threefold.
‘Fine,’ he said, resigning himself to the realities of the day, just as he had always done. ‘But only for the day. We’ll smuggle you out to another gang hideout tonight.’
Francks dropped into a chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. He looked exhausted. Bitten crossed to his desk and sat as well. He thought about the packet in his drawer, but decided it could wait for now.
‘Who’s after me?’ asked Francks. He sat stretched out in the chair, rubbing his eyes with his fists. ‘I can’t see past the hate and the passion. I can’t see the face.’
Bitten let the question and Francks’s odd wyrd-talk hang in the air for a minute, as he considered his response. Perhaps it was time. He might never get another chance. ‘It’s Ignus,’ he said. ‘At least I think it’s Ignus.’
‘What?’ asked Francks. He sat up in the chair, his face going flush. ‘You said he was dead.’
‘I said he was gone,’ said Bitten. ‘And even that was not quite true.’
‘How do you mean?’
Bitten wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. ‘He’s not the man you knew. He’s changed. Jules Ignus did die – he is gone, for good – but the man he became, the one who came after, that man is no more Jules Ignus than I am. He’s more. More powerful. More influential. More righteous.’
‘You’re not making much sense,’ said Francks.
Bitten laughed out loud. ‘You. The prophet. Telling me I’m not making sense,’ he said and laughed again. ‘Now that’s funny.’
Francks wasn’t laughing. ‘That’s why I couldn’t see him before,’ he said. ‘There’s a thread of Ignus still woven into the plan. So I looked for him, but he wasn’t here. But you say, it’s not really Ignus anymore. I can use that. I can seek him out now.’
Bitten stopped laughing. ‘You can’t do that,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t do that. I told you I can’t save you this time. He’ll keep coming. You can’t beat him.’
‘I don’t have to beat him,’ said Francks. I just need to show him. I need to make him understand.’
‘Understand what?’ Bitten was starting to shake. He didn’t like where this conversation was going anymore.
‘His own mortality.’
With that, the conversation ended. There was nothing more Bitten could say. He couldn’t help. He had to stay out of it if he had any chance of living through this. After a while, Francks fell asleep in the chair. Bitten opened the drawer and pulled the envelope full of credits out and walked across the room. He dropped the envelope in Jobe’s pocket and then left the hab to run an errand.
Kal shot blindly behind him, just trying to scatter his pursuers and give him a little mo
re time. He scrambled up the pile of debris, desperately trying to reach the top before they regrouped and got a bead on him with their weapons.
So far, he’d been lucky. They were either terrible shots or he was just that good. As much as he wanted it to be the latter, he knew the odds of dodging that many blasts were pretty darn low.
He grabbed at the back of a chair lodged between a chunk of masonry and an overturned crate and tried to pull himself up another few feet. A laser blast screamed over his shoulder and obliterated the chair. ‘Maybe they’re better shots than I thought,’ said Kal as he slid back a metre.
‘Come down and you won’t be hurt, Kal Jerico,’ called one of the Redemptionists. ‘We just want to talk.’
Kal caught himself on a table leg and turned around. There were about a dozen blue-robed gangers spread out in a loose group on the street. Kal wished Scabbs were here with his bandolier of grenades. That group just begged for a large explosion.
Behind the gangers stood a man wearing robes with a thin slick of hair pressed against the side of his head. One of Crimson’s deacons. This was worse than Kal had thought. It wasn’t some random gang of Cawdor trying to protect the prophet. Crimson had finally entered the hunt.
‘We don’t want to kill you,’ said the deacon. He held his arms out wide in the universal greeting of friendship.
‘Well that changes everything,’ said Kal, who had no intention of becoming friends with a Redemptionist deacon. ‘Because I have no problems killing you.’ He aimed and fired both laspistols. One of the blasts caught the deacon in the shoulder, spinning him around and knocking him to the ground.
The gangers opened fire again. Blasts sizzled all around Kal, but none came close. They had orders not to hurt him. Kal wanted to wonder why, but he didn’t have time. He fired back, dropping two of what he now assumed to be Crimson’s personal guards.
The deacon, who had a much higher tolerance for pain than Kal had thought possible, pushed himself to his feet. ‘We won’t kill you, Kal Jerico,’ he said again. ‘But I have no problems causing you pain. Take him down.’ This last was an order to his men.
Cardinal Crimson Page 11