The Long Drop 1

You’re in a stim-bar on Cyrax VI. It has the same acrid chemical stink to it that they all do, prickling at your nose. You gag. You asked for water, but they don’t do water here, so you have nothing. The pornographic holo on the wall near your table is broken, stuck on a loop, thrusting at nothing, over and over and over again.

You’re getting distracted. Stop looking at it.

You’re meeting Greasy Kaliff because he has a job. Greasy Kaliff plans to stab you in the back, but that’s okay, because you plan to stab him in the back first. It’s a bad time for backs. These are the terms of your relationship with Greasy Kaliff. There is a reason he isn’t known as Honourable Kaliff, or Trustworthy Kaliff, or Leave Him Alone With Your Valuables Kaliff. Never mind. You have reached an equilibrium with him, and he with you. This time, one of you will draw first. Next time, the other.

The gravitational acceleration constant is 9.81 metres per second. That isn’t important yet. Concentrate. He’s coming in.

Greasy Kaliff could skulk in a brightly lit room. This is not a brightly lit room. This is a dimly lit stim-bar. You almost don’t notice him coming in, even though you’re looking out for him. That’s how good of a skulker he is. He could skulk professionally. He could give lessons.

You check your pockets one last time. You only had time to grab one thing before you jumped ship after the incident on the Godspit.

You chose your gun. A K-Series Flechette Pistol, the grip worn smooth from years of use. You trust it like it is an extension of your body.

You chose your knuckle dusters. They’re built into your gloves. Sometimes you don’t need to kill a man, but you do need to break his jaw.