The lower decks of an Imperial battle ship can be surprisingly similar to the underhive of a Hive city. Every ship relies on huge populations of menial laborers and serfs to operate their enormous and complex infrastructures. Some ships are crewed almost entirely by mind-wiped servitors and their Mechanicus overseers, some by prison slave populations whose every movement is controlled. But most Ships take the classic Imperial approach to the management of populations; a strange mix of total control and complete indifference. The Naval and Mechanicous operators are only concerned that the engines are fed, bolts are tightened, and systems maintained -- how it is done is of little concern to them. Workers are given their workgelt and left to organize their own societies, and only disciplined by the Naval armsmen when productivity is slowed or Inquisitorial agents detect strange warp activity.

Theoretically every worker's need is automatically provided by the ship itself. Tiny but warm and rad-shielded hab-coffins are plentiful in the labyrinthine lower decks. Autoserv Hubs are regularly distributed, each one able to dispense enough potable recycled water, corpse-paste, fungal gruel, and stim patches to sustain a huge population, so long as they are fed with the requisite workgelt.

But just as in hive cities, undership populations inevitably are trapped in behavioral sinks, devolving into dysfunctional and violent struggles for access to the theoretically plentiful resources. Whole tribes of marauding bandits arise, ambushing menials leaving engine rooms and stealing their workgelt. Family gangs claim Autoserv Hubs for themselves, fortifying access tunnels and tubes and hoarding food and water. And so the typical life of the ship-menial is one of mind-numbing and body-poisoning labor in the engine rooms for 18 Sol hours, followed by a desperate 6 hour search for safety and sustenance.

Gangs arise as a natural response to this environment; each gang can send a portion of their members into the work pits to earn workgelt, while the rest of the gangers defend their hab-tubes and resources, or attack other gangs to take theirs. And when workshifts switch over gangs escort their members and their precious gelt to and from the habs. Other gangs maintain their own crew of slaves who they force to work above-ship for gelt, and instead spend all their time fighting. This violent equilibrium is mostly maintained, but can often simmer over into outright gang war, with whole hab-blocks changing hands and countless menials and gangers losing their lives.

As in the underhive, diverse gang cultures frequently emerge. Physios, Rust-drinkers, Spooks, Acidheels, Cannibal Dukes, Wyrm Fingers, Lumpers, Slicers, Coil Heads, Gnarlslicks, Axe Men, etc. But always present are the so called Tech Gangers. When the natural habitat is the ship itself, it pays to understand technology. Instead of devoting themselves exclusively to the arts of combat, ambush, and murder, Tech Gangers are obsessed with learning the secrets of the Ship and whatever machinery they can find. Tech mechanics use the skills they learn while working above decks to repair and build new guns, rebreathers, dark-vision goggles, and electro-vests. A Tech Infochopper can even hack into the noosphere of the ship and perform all sorts of miracles, from suspending a block's gravity for surprise airtube attacks or venting lethal doses of Rads into an enemy gang's territories.

The most successful of Tech Gangs will manage to get their workers promoted above decks, moving beyond pure menial ash-shovelling and doing actual mechanical repair. Techpriests are suspicious of their pagan approach to technology, but recognize kindred spirits in their love of knowledge and hard-earned understanding of the ship. Some gangers parlay this relationship into a ticket out of the lower-decks, serving as personal bodyguards and mercenaries for Tech-adepts.

This small Tech Gang has fought it's way out of the bowels of their ship and into the employ of an eccentric Naval Tech Priest, who their venerate for his unimaginable knowledge. He has led them from ship to ship as he plies his trade, and now they and their master find themselves in the service of House Merz-Itano. The old man proudly supports bionic legs and an unnaturally muscled body, the results of glandular and bionic surgery he received as a youth to allow him to better load munitions. The Infochopper sports a custom built noospheric helmet he can use to hack into the systems around him, both friendly and foe.

(obviously inspired directly by Confronation, but also by this http://www.cabinetmagazine.org/issues/42/wiles.php)