[Necromunda 10] - Lasgun Wedding

by Will McDermott - (ebook by Undead)

  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.

  He marvelled at both their strength and the durability of their fingernails and teeth. It was said they could claw the bones out of a man’s body and bite through his skull. He no longer doubted these claims.

  But it was their small victory that precipitated the muties’ ultimate defeat. As soon as the second panel hit the ground, the rear of the transport opened up. Las blasts sprayed out of the opening, dropping two dozen muties in the opening salvo. A squad of royal guards took up defensive positions around the door, dropping any who charged them. More las blasts ripped into the mutie ranks from inside as well, followed by rocket propelled grenades that blasted holes in the ash dunes and sent mutant bodies flying into the air.

  But he gave the muties credit. They regrouped quickly, moving out of range of both the interior and exterior royal forces. Then, after a deathly calm, the muties brought out their own artillery — rocks and chunks of rockcrete — that they launched through the air with just the force of their own arms. The projectiles hit the ash all around the rear guard. A single rock couldn’t do any real damage, but the constant barrage had a cumulative effect, and the cloaked man saw at least two guards fall, wounded or possibly even killed, and dragged inside.

  As the bombardment continued, the royals had no choice but to give up on their defensive position. Two squads charged out of the transport and fanned out around the sides. Their first target: the remaining muties on top of the transport. Once they took those out, a third squad climbed up to claim the high ground.

  Several more royals dropped, screaming, with chunks of metal sticking out of their body armour or blood spewing from broken noses and slashed foreheads from lucky shots. But they were slowly gaining the upper hand.

  A shuffling noise behind him made the hooded man turn. The leader of a ragged group of scummers, hired mercenaries the cloaked man had brought out into the wastes with him, stood impatiently behind him. He thought his name was Kyrian.

  He could see little more than Kyrian’s eyes beneath the slightly built man’s cloak and respirator, but those eyes kept darting back and forth between him and the battle raging below them. “Just give the order, sir,” he said with a half-hearted salute, “and we’ll move in on the transport.”

  The “sir” was more sneer than respect, and by the snickering of the other scummers behind Kyrian, the cloaked man was certain the salute was some private insult. The scummers had been told to obey the cloaked man; he was in charge of the expedition. They were little more than hired guns, and it seemed to irk Kyrian and the rest somewhat. The damn scummer had been calling him “sir” ever since they left the hive.

  He glared at the snickering scummers, almost daring one of them to make a move. Of course, the respirator and cloak minimized the power of the glare, and he couldn’t tell if it had any impact since they were all covered as well.

  He did notice several scummers drop their hands down to the butts of their weapons, and that satisfied him. If he couldn’t get fear out of these killers then anger would suffice, so long as they took that anger out against the enemies they were being paid to fight.

  They were only twenty strong, including Kyrian, but he’d been told they were the best. They certainly looked the part. The cloaked man hadn’t seen such a large arsenal in many years. Each member of Kyrian’s group had a lasgun as well as a smaller sidearm, and a full third of them carried heavy weapons, while the rest had a shotgun as a back-up. Before they’d donned their ash cloaks, he’d seen some impressive armour as well, plus a wide array of grenades and even a few chainswords. Still, the cloaked man would reserve judgement until he saw them in action. All of the advanced weaponry in the hive mattered little in inexperienced hands.

  Kyrian gave him that odd half salute, again. It was starting to get quite aggravating. He growled a little before answering and was gratified when the scummer took half a step backwards. “Give the muties more time,” he said. “They can’t defeat those royal scum, but perhaps they can thin out their ranks a little more before we move in.”

  “We’re not afraid of royal troops,” said the scummer leader. He cupped his hands over his eyes and scanned the distant battle. “We can handle them.”

  He pocketed his spyscope and stared at Kyrian for a moment before continuing. Was this scummer really that green? Where had they hired this idiot? “You should be afraid,” he said, “because you can’t handle them; not an entire platoon anyway, and that’s what they’ve got in there. We wait.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And stop calling me ‘sir’,” he growled. “And if I see one more salute, I’ll rip that arm out of its socket and slap you on the forehead with it myself.”

  Kal Jerico, Underhive bounty hunter, awoke in an unfamiliar bed. Of course, he rarely rose from the same bed twice and more often than not hadn’t even made it to a bed before passing out from the night’s festivities. Then there were the countless times out on the hunt when he’d been forced to bed down in the wilds of the Underhive, amidst vermin both human and animal, covered in muck and blood and other bodily fluids too horrible to think about.

  But this was different, and yet familiar at the same time. For one thing, the bed moulded around his body, gently pulling him into the comfort of its folds. The cool, crisp sheets slid against his bare legs and chest like a soft caress. It was a far cry from the lumpy, sawdust-filled mattresses and burlap covers of the various Underhive dives where he normally woke up in the morning.

  And then there was the light. A bright, white light permeated everything, reaching into every crevice of his brain. Even with his eyelids shut tight, it seemed to assault him from all sides. Kal squinted as he opened his eyes, trying to keep the light out a little longer. He couldn’t make out anything past his toes pushing up the covers into two little towers, but he already knew where he was. The soft sheets, the enveloping bed and the bright glare of natural light could only be found in one place in the hive.

  He’d been kidnapped and transported to the Spire. Again.

  He might even be in the same apartment that had served as his ersatz prison the last time his father had required his services. As his Underhive eyes adjusted to the direct sunlight, more and more of the room came into focus. A tapestry hung on the wall above him depicting Lord Helmawr directing a great space battle from the bridge of a huge ship — a scene Kal knew to be pure fantasy. To the side, a mahogany table held a bowl of real fruit and a pitcher of water so clear it sparkled in the sunlight. Beneath the bank of windows opposite the bed were several plush velvet couches. And, backlit by the bright sunlight streaming in behind them, three lovely ladies lounged on the couches.

  Kal sat up, letting the sheet covering his naked body drop to his waist. “Candi?” he asked. “Brandi? Sandi?”

  The girls rose to their feet almost as one. Blonde, brunette, and Sandi, the redhead. Their silk nightgowns shimmered, turning nearly transparent in the direct sunlight, offering tantalizing glimpses of the wonderful curves beneath as they slinked their way to the bed.

  “We were wondering when you would wake up,” said Sandi.

  Brandi and Candi just smiled and nodded as they crawled up the bed towards Kal and pushed him back down onto the sheets.

  “So, whatcha wanna do?” asked Scabbs.

  Yolanda glared at him. “Don’t start that again,” she warned. Her brow furrowed, making the gang tattoos snaking across her forehead and around both ears seem to pulse with intensity. Scabbs decided he’d better heed her warning.

  He considered the runny, brown eggs and the black brick he supposed was toast on the plate in front of him and shrugged. “Looks like the Sump Hole got a new cook,” he said.

  “Somebody shot the last one,” replied
Yolanda. She wasn’t even looking at Scabbs now. She seemed to be staring at a spot on the wall far behind him.

  “Again?” he said, tossing the fork onto the plate. It sloshed through the eggs and landed on the table, leaving a brown smear in its wake. “Don’t you think they’d get the message and find a better cook?”

  “This one is better,” she said.

  A silence descended on them, broken only by occasional whimpers from beneath the table. Scabbs peered down at Wotan. The metal mastiff hadn’t moved since Kal ran out of the bar the night before. The bartender had tried to make the dog leave at closing time, but it had growled and almost snapped the poor man’s hand right off.

  Scabbs had told him the bar would be safer with a watchdog and that he’d try to get Wotan to leave in the morning. Now, he looked at the mastiff and wondered how he would accomplish that feat. Wotan must not have seen Kal leave, and Kal’d been in such a hurry, he had forgotten to give the mastiff any new orders. It was now following the last command Kal had uttered, which was “Stay.”

  Scabbs looked back at Yolanda. She seemed almost as lost as Wotan. No. Not lost. There was something else there on her face. Disgust? Disdain? Anger? They all looked pretty much the same on Yolanda. Scabbs had always found her hard to read.

  “What should…” he began slowly, and then continued more quickly as Yolanda’s brow furrows returned, “…we do with Wotan?”

  “What do I care about Jerico’s scavving dog?” she said. Yolanda picked up the toast and whipped it at Scabbs.

  He ducked just in time to avoid a concussion. Behind him, Scabbs heard the sound of glass shattering. He turned to see the toast imbedded in the wall behind the bar. The contents of several bottles of wildsnake dripped onto the bald head of the bartender.

  “You’re paying for those, Yolanda,” he said. “I covered you on the cook, but broken bottles is bought bottles.”

  The bartender took his brown-stained rag and wiped the remnants of the bottles onto the metal grate floor where, Scabbs knew, it would all congeal together into a thick paste that gave the Sump Hole the wonderful odour it had been named for.

  Wotan whimpered again, bringing Scabbs’ attention back to the table. “We’ve got to do something about Wotan,” he started again, ready to duck if the eggs followed the toast. “Or else, those bottles will be the least of what we owe here.”

  Yolanda growled something vulgar and kicked her leg out under the table. The resulting dull clang was quickly followed by a scream of pain. “Damn Jerico,” said Yolanda. She pulled her foot up onto her other knee and massaged the toes. “This is all his fault. Again.”

  Scabbs remained silent. He knew better than to get in the way of this particular tirade. “If it’s not Nemo and Crimson, it’s his scavving family. We go from crisis to crisis, always looking over our shoulders in case one of his enemies wants to take a pot-shot at him. And you know he’ll come out smelling like fresh, Spire air while we end up in the cesspool. Scavving Jerico.”

  Scabbs hardly even listened. It was the same rant he’d heard a thousand times. He picked at a sore on his chin and considered his eggs. He was almost hungry enough now to eat them. Maybe he could get his toast back to sop up the brown yolk from the table. That might just soften up the black brick.

  “We never just go out and hunt down bad guys anymore,” said Yolanda, continuing into the second verse. “It’s always family business and doing Nemo’s dirty work. Just once, I’d like to go on a good, old-fashioned bounty chase. Or a treasure hunt. We could go looking for the Mother Lode or even just a cache of artefacts.”

  She stomped her foot down on the floor, shaking the table and with it Scabbs’ plate full of eggs. It clattered dangerously near the edge. Scabbs was torn between wanting to save his breakfast and wanting an excuse to not eat it. He decided to let the plate fall on the floor. The rest of the yolk sluiced through the grating followed by the grey outer parts. Wotan whined and chomped down on the plate, quickly reducing it to dust that mixed in with the eggs beneath the grating.

  Scabbs was officially no longer hungry. But he was happy about one thing. Yolanda’s perpetual gripe was finally winding down to its inevitable conclusion.

  “We don’t need that family-obligated, danger-attracting, ego-inflated rogue, do we Scabbs?” she said. Yolanda jumped to her feet, knocking the chair over, which hit the grating with a slosh and clatter.

  “Are we bounty hunters or are we sidekicks?” She tried to strike an awe-inspiring, Kal Jerico pose, which would have succeeded if she hadn’t slipped on the slick Sump Hole floor and landed on her loincloth.

  Yolanda pulled herself back up and slammed her fist on the table, which made Wotan jump to his feet underneath. “Come on, Scabbs,” she said. She walked to the back of the bar and yanked a bounty poster off the wall. “We’re bounty hunters. Let’s go make some bounty.”

  Yolanda stormed out of the Sump Hole, obviously unaware of the brown stain across the back of her loincloth. Scabbs wasn’t going to tell her, that was for sure. In fact, anyone who knew Yolanda well enough to make such a personal comment knew her well enough to keep that comment to himself, assuming he wanted to continue breathing.

  Scabbs took one last look at Wotan and realized if he didn’t leave now with Yolanda, the bartender would soon ask him how he planned to get rid of the mastiff. It only took the scabby half-ratskin a second to decide which wild animal he’d rather deal with. He slipped off the chair and slunk out of the sump hole. Yolanda had turned right and strode down the street. Scabbs pumped his little legs to catch up. Behind him, he could hear the bartender yelling at Wotan.

  The hooded man had to admit it. The scummers were no slouches. Perhaps Kyrian, their leader, hadn’t been all that naive when he’d said they could handle the royals. Still, their competence was no reason to enter a battle against two potential enemies.

  Mutant bodies littered the ground around the downed transport as the mercenaries advanced on it. The wastes would claim the bodies by morning. Creatures far worse than muties roamed the ash after nightfall and what was not devoured or dragged off by carrion eaters would be consumed by the dunes themselves not long after.

  The first barrage of weapon fire from the scummers had finished off or driven inside the remaining royals, but the battle was long from over. He counted fewer than ten royals amongst the dead. There would be that or more still inside.

  The leader stood at his side again. The man could move quite silently. The hooded man reminded himself to watch this one closely during their remaining time together.

  “They’ve closed the hatch,” he said. “We’ll set up the missile launcher to take it down. My men will move in to finish the job amidst the ensuing smoke and confusion.”

  “No,” said the hooded man. He pulled at the cloak, the folds of which had once again caught on the metal beneath.

  “But we should breach the ship quickly,” said the scummer leader. “They are most likely waiting for reinforcements.”

  “Exactly.” He stared at Kyrian, driving holes into the young warrior’s forehead with his eyes. The scummer tried to maintain eye contact, and lasted longer than most men under his scrutiny, but eventually looked away.

  “If military ships do arrive,” he continued, “we’ll need the launcher to defend ourselves from the greater threat. Besides, we can’t take any chances of destroying the package. Find another way.”

  He gave the scummer leader credit. The man only hesitated a second before replying. “Fine,” he said. “Any suggestions?”

  He sighed. “Draw them out,” he said, pointing a cloaked hand at the top of the transport. “It worked for the mutants.”

  “Helmawr’s rump!” cried the bartender as the door closed behind Scabbs. “Where in the hive is that ratskin off to? He promised to take that scavving metal mutt with him. Damnation!”

  The bartender, an oddly thin man named Roddy, with a shock of thick, black hair fluttering around his head, came out from behind the bar and ran to t
he door. Throwing it open, he stepped outside and looked up and down the street. Other than a fresh pile of cracked masonry that had fallen from the abandoned building across the alley, the shadowy morning streets were empty.

  Grumbling, Roddy kicked open the swinging door and slipped back inside the bar. He smoothed down his apron and ran his fingers through the curly bangs that always threatened to fall down over his eyes. It was all mental preparation for the dangerous job he knew lay before him.

  Wotan had nearly taken his hand last night, but this was business, and when it came to business Roddy had a determination rarely matched in the Underhive. Most bartenders were fat and jolly from constantly partaking of their own wares. Not Roddy. Every bottle in the place was bought and paid for. Even his waitresses and cooks had to pay for their own drinks. This was business and Roddy never mixed business with pleasure. Well once, but he’d regretted it ever since.

  “Never did get paid for that bottle,” he muttered as he walked towards the table.

  The metal mastiff had to go. It would drive off paying customers. Roddy knew that because it routinely snapped at patrons even while Kal Jerico was here to control it. Roddy had always left well enough alone because the bounty hunter brought in more business than the mutt drove away, but now it was him or Wotan.

  As Roddy neared the table, Wotan began to growl. It was an unbelievably scary sound, reminiscent of a revving chainsword. It made you think that your arm was about to be cut off, which was pretty apt really.

  “Good dog,” said Roddy in a sing-song voice. He saw the remnants of the busted plate and leaned back towards the bar to get another. He lowered the plate towards the table. “Here you go, Wotan,” he said. “Want the plate?”