In the Garter Club Bordello, Frag Hole Rock, seven days to go...

There was a fly somewhere, buzzing away at the edges of his unconsciousness. He tried to ignore it, but some instinct forced him to semi-wakefulness, no matter how hard he tried to get back to the fuzzy netherworlds of dream-land. The sops were still doing enough to numb his cravings – sleep remained his primary motive. But this instinct gnawed at his guts and he knew what that meant through long experience.

Survival was pulling into the mag-lev station and if he didn't get up he would miss the train.

The buzzing got fractionally louder and more frenetic and he heard a clumping sound that had never been made by a fly. Consciousness slipped a little closer.

'Frak it!' he slurred, hoisting his limp bulk upright on trembling arms. 'Where are my stims?'

The light hurt his eyes, he reached for his shades. His throat felt swollen and his tongue furred. The numerous bottles of 'snake appeared to have been discharged without exception. Typical of his fortunes.

At least he could get a shot before the cravings reduced him to a gibbering wreck. But no, the stims were gone… He knew he'd had a full shiv left last night. He was too acclimatised to his nigh on permanent state of "high" to have lost track. Like any hardened addict, he always kept account of how much he had left, else he wouldn't have been sleeping here last night, he'd have been out replenishing his personal stock.

Something was wrong.

The buzzing got louder and he realised it wasn't a buzzing at all, he was hearing voices, muffled by the closed door. He strained his ears to catch what they were saying.

'You'll ruin my reputation.'

'You never thanked me for it in the first place so lump it,'

'C'mon, you know how things work down here…'

'Hence the reason I'm here,'

'You can't just barge in and roast my clients like this…'

'So why did you lift his sparkle, Jewel? You could have left it close to hand so he'd have a chance of putting up some resistance. Just stand aside.'

The door exploded inward in a shower of splinters and spent plasma that set the threadbare carpet to smouldering. Following the door, Escabar Corgan sauntered in like a threat. Zane Orlock's stomach felt like it had started digesting him from within. That survival instinct had fled, leaving pure terror in its place.

'Aw, shit!'

xxx

'Corgan, man, I was just on my way to track you down, rube. What's with all the pyrotechnics? That's some freaky shit, man!'

Zane was sump scum. Three weeks ago he'd come begging for a piece of Corgan's pie. He'd given him a job dealing in the Sumps Reach settlement, a territory he was steadily moving in on, but so far hadn't seen a return on his investment. In fact, he hadn't seen Zane since he'd sent that sack of nerf-shit down there. And now here he was, selling his crud on Corgan's home turf and snagging freebies from the girls at the same time. There wasn't any lying down for that, not from a jumped up little junkie like Zane, even if his did claim to have "family".

'I don't appreciate having to put up with junkies like you taking liberties on my patch, Zane.'

'He's fully paid up,' Jewel protested, inserting her scantily clad form between Corgan and the bed Zane hadn't yet been able to get up from.

'So where's my cut, Jewel?'

She looked up at him with all the petulance she could muster.

'You pay me to keep you unmolested and this is exactly the kind of trash I try to dissuade from coming here. So, unless you've changed your mind about keeping me on the payroll, I suggest you let me do my job…'

Petulance turned to a furtive nervousness. In the year since Corgan had gone solo, taking on sole responsibility for Frag hole he'd run off every heavy-handed pimp in the settlement, promising Jewel and her girls that he'd keep them safe. The last six months had been easy street for them compared to before and all for a relatively small percentage. The girls at the Garter Club were considered high-class these days, which meant they did more than just survive. They made a profit and were allowed to keep some of it to improve their personal circumstances.

The price was well worth the service Corgan provided. He'd proven himself up to the task of dissuading the neighbours from too much green-eyed jealousy. Whenever the girls got hassled, on the streets or in the club itself, it was Corgan that rained dire retribution on the culprits. One-eyed Cali had been beaten up pretty badly last month, so badly that she couldn't work. Corgan had stumped up the cash to keep her fed. She'd healed well and now she was back on the game, brimming with her former confidence while the frakker that bruised her was lying in a sump with holes in him.

Hell, Corgan had even promised them a pension, an unknown concept to any regular Underhiver, most of whom didn't expect to live to retire. The Garter Girls had the promise of being looked after for whatever old age they could expect to have… as long as they kept their benefactor around.

Corgan was pretty sure Jewel would have settled down for him, if he'd been the settling type! Her features softened.

'Just try not to raise too much of a commotion.'

'I'll send Jimny to fix the door.'

'And a new carpet?'

'Whatever.'

Zane writhed, trying to get his feet under him but unable to co-ordinate his limbs.

'Aw, frakkin-A, rube. I was jus' about t'come see you, man…' he whimpered, bloodshot eyes following Jewel as she left the room. Corgan noted that she'd kept the packet of stims she'd light-fingered from him, although he couldn't imagine where she'd secreted it in that costume.

'Time to pay the ferryman, Zane!' The shaven-headed youth closed in on the quaking mass of human detritus and dragged Zane off the bed, dumping him on the floor. The man struggled to his feet on wobbly legs.

'Come on man, I need a fix…'

'That's too bad for you,' Corgan gave him a shove that sent him rolling through the door. 'In your shoes I'd never have touched the stuff. It shows a lack of good judgement.' Zane staggered down the stairs ahead of Corgan, gripping the rails with white knuckles. He was shaking almost uncontrollably now.

The street outside was brightly lit, the power supply being plentiful and reliable compared to some areas in the low-domes region. Frag Hole Rock was a prosperous settlement these days. It had always had a fairly stable infrastructure due to strong Guilder interests in the area. Corgan had taken full advantage of this when he moved in.

The Garter club itself occupied the bottom three floors of a well-maintained building. The upper floors belonged to a small-time property mogul who had his own security, but who also recognised the expedience of keeping Corgan well paid in order to protect his protection. He couldn't work out why the man couldn't just sack his current security and Corgan direct, but as long as he got paid that didn't matter much.

He escorted Zane to a darker part of the settlement, a narrow alleyway choked with rubble and detritus. Rats scuttled in the shadows and somewhere there was the slow echo of moisture dripping from high overhead. Zane's trembling could have been withdrawal from his demanding addiction, but there must have been fear in there too.

'Where's my money, Zane? You get one chance to answer before I blow your brains out your ear.'

'That's what I was comin' to see you 'bout, man…'

'Don't tell me you lost it.'

'Shit man, it's a frakkin' graveyard out there…'

'It's gonna be a graveyard in here too, if you don't tell me who's got my money.'

Zane sobbed, dropping to his knees in the side-street.

'Please don't kill me, man…'

Corgan was getting sick of the guy's attitude. He pulled the navy service revolver Wulfenska had given him and put it to Zane's temple.

'Tell me and I might go easier on you.'

'It was that bald freak Lomax, man. He took my gear, your money… Told me to pass on a message to you.'

'What message?'

'He says he ain't scared of you, man, says he's gonna take you down piece by piece.'

'You gave him my money.'

'C'mon man, he had his goons with him.'

'I don't give a shit, rube. You think I sweated blood taking down the Guild only to take flak from some small-time hick from the arse-end of beyond?'

'Naw, man, it ain't like that!'

'The hell it is. I own Frag Hole. You all own shit! I don't even know why I'm bothering to explain this to you…'

He cocked the pistol, causing the distraught man to flinch and whimper.

'How do you want it?'

Zane sobbed with uncontrollable terror as Corgan offered him his infamous Final Choice. Some men occasionally had the wits to respond, but usually those words were merely the precursor to them shitting in their pants. Zane fell into the latter category.

'Okay, back of the head, quick and painless,' said Corgan. For more than any other reason, it was his trademark execution. When Zane's body was found, either later that day or maybe tomorrow, they'd know he had crossed the line and they'd know that Corgan had come to collect.

No one in Frag Hole crossed Corgan unless they were stupid or trying to make a name for themselves, which in Corgan's book classed in the same league. He hadn't monopolised the Rock's industries, in fact he'd taken down the Enforcers because they were doing just that. But everyone else that operated in the settlement knew that they did so because Corgan allowed it to happen. They paid him well to retain that privilege.

His protection business made him a small fortune, but as far as Corgan was concerned it was the respect, or perhaps the fear, that was worth its weight in gold.

Taking up position behind the quaking man he put the revolver to the back of his head. With a flash of light, the bark of a heavy calibre gun and the kick of its good solid recoil, Zane Orlock's addiction was well and truly kicked.

At the Greasy Spoon Drinking Hole, six days to go...

The drinking hole was as seedy as ever. The clientele, with only a few new faces amongst them, was as filthy as the tabletops and only marginally cleaner than the floor. Old Petra stood behind the bar, perpetually wiping a filthy tankard with a grimy rag, watching his customers with a suspicious eye. The ceiling was still a patchwork tapestry of naked cable sheaves and ventilation ducting and the alcoves were as dark and welcoming as ever they had been.

Dusty Piet occupied his accustomed bar-stool with his boy, Sammy Slap, attending to his every word. He was supposed to be learning at the old-timer's feet but no one could work out what he hoped to learn by doing so. Piet was a renowned and spectacular failure.

Corgan took up his own seat at the end of the long counter, deep inside the Greasy Spoon's warm, murky interior. Lucile served him his usual and leant over towards him, augmenting her generous cleavage with her arms folded in front of her.

'How's things, sugar-cheeks?'

'Been better,' Corgan replied, favouring her with a smile. Of all the women in his life he thought Luci might have been his favourite. They'd always had that certain rapport, the ability to communicate in meaningful looks. Being the man he was he found this to be an alluring trait. He was never the vociferous type, though he could turn a phrase when he wanted to.

'Aw, hon!' she cooed, adopting a sympathetic air. 'I heard about Zane.'

'There'll be trouble on that score. He might have been sump-scum but he had family…'

Luci winked at me: Nothing you can't handle, babe!

'What's on the vine?' he asked.

'Couple o' guys came through yesterday talking about a knuckle-down throughout the area. Guilders are gearing up for a revival and word has it they'll be supported by the Arbites.'

'Ha!' Corgan barked. 'Law and Order for the Underhive… That'll be the frakking day! They better not bite off more than they can chew is all I can say.'

'I also heard that Lomax and his crew have been scouting the Freeslopes out hubwards.'

'I have business with Lomax! I'll check it out.'

'Ask Little Jimny, apparently they roughed him up a bit.'

'I was meaning to find the kid anyway. I busted up one of Jewel's doors this morning…'

A flash of jealousy crossed Luci's face at the mention of Jewel O'Scally. Corgan barely managed to suppress a smirk. It wasn't like Luci had anything to worry about but sometimes he let her think she did. She turned to Petra with a solicitous smile.

'Can I take my break now, Petti?'

The old man nodded, oblivious. Luci turned that attentive gaze back on the youthful gunfighter.

'Care to join me upstairs?' she asked.

'Thought you'd never ask…' he replied.

Out in the Freeslopes 'Hood, five days to go...

Lomax had three of his buddies with him. They were holed up in the Crow's Foot drinking hole. Corgan noted the landlord's nervous tick as he entered and offered him a reassuring nod. Fendri didn't want this trouble on his doorstep. He would do what he could to take this business outside.

He approached the group of hard-nuts, limbering his primary pistols in their holsters.

'Well, well, well…' Lomax drawled, directing his pasty faced grin up at Corgan. 'If it isn't the new rube on the block… How's tricks, Corgy-boy?'

'Tricks are tricks, Lomax. Care to step outside and turn a few?'

Lomax grinned even wider.

'Not really, I prefer to wash my dirty laundry indoors…'

'You wash these rags?' Corgan replied. 'Could've fooled me…'

Lomax almost lost his cool. His heavies started to mutter amongst themselves. It was a pretty big deal when you insulted a gang's colours, they tended to get uppity about odd little things like that.

'I'll be outside,' Corgan turned and sauntered out. The street outside was typical of this part of town, littered with rusting engine parts and broken piping. Cables hung from overhead ducts that had long since been disused. Rats skittered in the darker places, haunted by furtive maul-cats gone feral.

He seated himself on the edge of a rain barrel. Occasionally the atmospherics in the low-domes region resulted in heavy rainfall. The water-stills in the area were unreliable so it paid to collect that moisture when you could, though it paid doubly if you purified it before drinking it. While he was waiting Corgan checked his weapons.

On his left hip hung the heavy navy revolver Wulfenska had given him. It had two six-round cylinder mags mounted on a clever little exchange-lever mechanism. With the touch of a button and the flick of his wrist he had an instant reload. Balancing this was his equally heavy, plasma pistol. He'd picked that up from his local gunsmith, a notable find in itself. Most plasma-induction weapons on the market would burn your hand off before even thinking of roasting your enemies but Cogan kept his in good shape to ensure a good temperament.

Inside his sleeveless jacket a shoulder harness cradled a pair of twinned Korsch 90's, compact, light-weight machine-pistols, each with a sixteen round capacity. They were his staple weapons when he knew he was going up against more than a couple of toughs. They had a high-rate of fire and a pretty good punch for the spec.

At the small of his back were the first of his regular backups in a cunningly designed double-holster. Two Velossi Sevens, compact and short-ranged but with a lot more punch than the Korsch due to the caseless, hollow-tipped rounds he loaded them with.

As if that wasn't enough (and it frequently wasn't in Corgan's line of work) he packed a slim-line pistol tucked in his left boot and a seven inch boey knife in the right. As his very last line of defence he always carried six little one-shots, disposable blasters, on a bandolier across his chest.

Corgan was a one man arsenal.

A one man arsenal that was getting bored.

The street was empty. It was almost as if the residents of this particular 'hood had some kind of sixth sense that told them to stay indoors.

The only sign of life was a rangy canid prowling the shadows, hunting giant rats. Like most feral creatures in the Underhive it looked on the verge of starvation. Its wary eyes moved furtively, assessing my threat level. After a moment it slunk closer.

Despite its malnutrition the canid was an impressive beast, with its shoulders almost as high as Corgan's waist. While it looked emaciated from a distance, up close you couldn't deny its strength. It was just that it was wiry rather than bulky, depending upon speed and cunning more than brute strength. Corgan took a strip of jerked meat from his picnic-pocket and tossed it into the street. The canid snatched it up and retreated to the gloomy recesses of a narrow alleyway to devour it.

The animal reminded Corgan of himself. It survived on its wits and latent, elemental abilities, and despite appearances it was quite successful. The canid reappeared. It sat in the mouth of the alley and regarded Corgan with cautious curiosity.

Lomax and his buddies finally deigned to accept Corgan's challenge some minutes later. They rolled out of the Crow's Foot laughing and shoving at each other. They laughed even louder when they noticed him waiting, wrongly construing it as a sign of weakness. They must have thought he was full of piss and wind. They'd soon learn otherwise.

'So you really wanna go, Corgy-boy?'

The youth stood up and rolled his shoulders back, limbering up in a casual, off-hand way. He didn't reply directly, but they caught his drift. Lomax painted a cruel sneer across his grubby face and made some kind of signal that sent his buddies out to either side of him.

They were about thirty paces away. Corgan took a slow step forward, arms hanging loose at his sides. The gang started closing the gap too. It was a game of nerve, now. Whoever lost it first would lose face no matter whether they survived or not. There were enough invisible observers to ensure that.

Corgan kept moving, his buckles clinking with those self-assured movements. Lomax's sneer deepened, his dark eyes glittering with menace.

'You must be the stupidest rube I ever saw!' he said.

Corgan just smiled.

After seven paces one of Lomax's men lost it and went for his pistol. The navy revolver was in Corgan's hand within the blink of an eye. A hollow booming rang out and a large-calibre bullet sent the man flying back, blood spurting from his chest.

A second attacker managed to get his hand to the butt of his pistol before taking a bullet through his right shoulder and a third was fried by a ball of coruscating plasma. The smell of burning flesh permeated the air. Lomax was suddenly the only one left in the fight.

He bolted, two short-pattern bolt pistols flaring out at Corgan, who was already moving to one side. The fusillade went wide. Lomax dived into a dead-end alley and ducked into cover. Corgan blasted away after him but Lomax's return fire forced him back behind a rockrete column.

Casting around Corgan saw that the wounded man had run for it. The other two lay dead or dying in the street. He had to finish this before the runner had the chance to bring his buddies.

'Come on out, Lomax…' Corgan shouted. 'Drop your shooters and keep yours hands where I can see 'em.'

'Frak you!'

'Don't make me come in there and make you come out, Lomax, you wouldn't enjoy it…'

'I'd like to see you try.'

Corgan slung his primaries and took out the machine-pistols. Ducking out to the side he moved out of Lomax's field of fire and crept up to the corner of the alley-way. What he wouldn't have done for a couple of grenades right at that moment…

With his back against the wall he took three deep, calming breaths and prepared himself for a reckless, headlong dive into the alley.

Lomax cried out, spitting and swearing. His bolt pistols barked once and the sound of metal skidding across rockrete was swallowed by the sound of snarling. Corgan stepped cautiously into the alleyway, edging toward a metal canister Lomax had been hiding behind. The man was struggling under a grey-furred whirl-wind of snarling teeth and claws. The canid Corgan had tossed the meat to was laying into him with all its wiry ferocity.

Corgan stood back and laughed at the scene.

After a few minutes or pure entertainment he shot his pistol up into the air, sending the dog skittering away into the shadows. Lomax lay panting and bleeding on the floor, his pistols too far away for him to think about going for them, especially with a vengeful Escabar Corgan standing over him.

'Get up. Come with me!'

Lomax struggled to his feet, holding his arms up to indicate his surrender.

'Up against the column!' Corgan indicated a rockcrete upright supporting the portico outside the Crow's Foot. Lomax put his back to the pillar and Corgan moved up beside him, slinging one of the pistols and putting the nose of the other to the man's temple.

He took a pair of cuffs from his jacket and secured the man's arms around the back of the post before putting the other pistol away. After a quick pat-down he located Lomax's stash and relieved him of it. The wad of credits was big enough to cover Zane's losses and then some.

'Lucky for you, Lomax, I've decided not to kill you this time. I am, however, going to teach you a lesson I hope you never forget.'

Stowing his other pistol he drew his knife and quickly and efficiently slashed Lomax's clothes and webbing away. Any other valuables he found went into his own pockets. The rest he dumped in a smoulder canister-fire

'Stay off my turf, man. If I see you again, I won't be so nice…'

He went back into the alley to retrieve Lomax's shooters, ignoring the man's pleas. They'd fetch a few credits on the open market. As he turned to leave he spied the canid once more, watching his, tongue lolling from his bloodied muzzle.

Corgan smiled and tossed it another strip of meat.

'C'mere, mutt…'

He made his way back to the Greasy Spoon, shadowed all the way by a big, grey dog with a taste for dried rat-meat.

Luci told him, some days later, that Lomax had remained tied to the post for three days and nights before someone took pity on him and filed off the cuffs. The rest of his gang never came for him. Lomax was a broken man after that. The humiliation followed him around like a bad smell until finally he left the settlement and was never heard of again.

Reputation was everything down here. It didn't matter whether it was bad or good. Without it you were just another scab.