Hard Luck Hank: Screw the Galaxy (4 page)

As soon as I got out of sight of the casino, I
was accosted by Rendrae. He was the owner, editor, operator, and often reporter
of
The News
.

He was an overweight man with a greenish
complexion and horrible sense of fashion. He always wore a baggy, orange
plastic overcoat that had what looked like a thousand pockets, and he wore a
purple hat that was reminiscent of a sad, crumpled boot planted upside-down on
his head. I always wondered if he cultivated as harmless an image as possible
in order to put people at ease.

He had informants in just about every corner of
the station. I don’t think a cockroach farted without Rendrae knowing what it
had eaten. He was annoying as hell but his articles were incredibly accurate,
and people placed a lot of stock in how they were represented in the paper. I
had to grudgingly give him credit for being so non-partisan. Rendrae had
learned just like I had that the best way to survive was to stay impartial.

“Hank! I got you on the front page, did you
see?”

I was too tired to jockey with him. But I had
to walk to the train anyway.

“No, I haven’t seen it. I told you I don’t like
being quoted.”

I called up the front page on my tele. He had
already highlighted it for me.

Hank affirms the likelihood of an
upcoming precipitous turf war is “likely” given the preponderance of goodies
procured lately and the growing animosity between the legitimate businesses.
When pressed about the most likely area of concern, he seemed to give special
recognition to blocks 30 through 40.

I groaned. Some people were going to be mad at
me for saying that.

While everyone knew Belvaille was crooked, we
still pretended we weren’t. Though not very well. Consequently,
The News
wrote all its stories in code. “Goodies” were weapons, “legitimate businesses”
were…not, etc.

“Why’d you have to say my name? Aren’t you
supposed to say ‘anonymous sources’?”

He gave me a dirty look.

“If I say that, it’s just hearsay. If I put you
down, it’s like a real thing. So I heard about your adventure in the warehouses
today. Interesting stuff,” he said coaxingly.

The train seemed far away.

“So Hank, who has the most to lose in a fight?”

“Same as always, the people with the most to
lose. Belvaille isn’t getting any bigger.”

Rendrae wrote this down as we walked. No one
would allow him to record anything.

“Zadeck,” he began. “I’ve been thinking he
might deserve a higher ranking in the top-twenty list. What’s your take?”

“What is he now?”

“Nothing.”

I thought about this. It would certainly be
quoted and certainly have an effect on the day-to-day activities on
Belvaille—far more than me running my mouth at a casino. Still, it could piss
off anyone who got displaced.

“I think he has an opportunity in front of him
and how he handles it will affect his ranking.”

“A bit esoteric,” Rendrae answered sourly.
“Talk to our readers here, Hank. You know their intelligence level.”

There was just something about Rendrae’s voice
and overall manner that broke down your normal barriers. I wondered if he was a
mutant with some kind of mind-influencing ability.

“He’s a rising star,” I said.

Rendrae scribbled madly, as if my simple
sentence would evaporate if not committed immediately to storage.

“Woohoo, exciting times, exciting times, Hank.
And the both of us in the thick of it like always. Though you more so of
course,” he added humbly.

I looked at his raggedy jacket and misshapen
hat. Rendrae was almost certainly rich with his monopoly newspaper. In fact, if
the “Most Influential” list were ever truly reported, Garm would be one and
Rendrae would be two. Actually, Wallow would probably be first if it was simply
listing raw power.

The train came and we said our farewells,
Rendrae waddling back in the direction of the casinos.

The next day I sat eating curry and eggs in a
small diner. I was right by the door. That was one of the advantages of being
hard to maim, I could sit with my back to everyone and not especially worry
about getting shot. My joke was that the ideal restaurant for Belvaille had
sixty chairs and sixty corners for those chairs to have their backs against.

I knew all the best foods to eat on Belvaille,
and all the restaurants knew what I ordered. The cook himself came out to see
if I enjoyed it, like they did at fancy places. Except he was wearing a hairnet
and smelled of old sweat.

After my meal I thought about the city’s
present troubles.

I didn’t like gang wars. I could potentially
make a lot of money, but everyone was so desperate and demanding it was hard to
stay neutral. You’re either with me or against me, they all seemed to say. Then
it turned into a gamble when you chose sides.

One time I tried to sit out a war. Just stick
my head in the ground until it passed. And someone blew up my apartment. I was
just hanging around doing nothing for a month, and boom. The worst attack on me
since I’d been on Belvaille. So I figured I might as well get paid if folks
were going to try and bring a building down on me.

I arrived in Deadsouth, the slummiest part of
the station. But a romping good place to look for drugs. Specifically,
floppy-eared Jyen’s drugs.

Deadsouth didn’t look much different from the
rest of Belvaille except the streets were littered with refuse and people slept
everywhere. You practically had to step over them. There were plenty of vacant
buildings in the city, but I suppose some people like being outdoors.

No street vendors were going to be able to fill
Jyen’s request, so I went looking around for some contacts. But my resources
down here were thin. This wasn’t my scene.

I finally inched my way up the totem pole to
Grever Treest. I was hoping he would have what I was looking for or at least a
good portion. I knew him by name only and not even that well.

I buzzed his door and I could tell he was
scanning me. Not sure if he knew who I was, but he was probably weighing
whether or not to open the door.

After a moment he cracked it open. He had long
greasy hair, which I’m pretty sure is some galactic rule all drug dealers have
to possess. He had a sharp nose and was probably handsome to the ladies. I
personally had a motto of “always look for the ugliest drug dealer possible.”
Handsome people made bad killers and drug dealers—they had too many better
options in life.

“Hello?” he asked through the cracked door.

“I’m looking for some drugs,” I said, standing
in the hallway. I decided I was just going to be upfront. I don’t think Garm’s
police even bothered with Deadsouth.

“Uh, who sent you?” he asked warily. I swear,
even on Belvaille, drug dealers had to be the most skittish people in
existence.

“Does it matter? Look, I need a list filled.”

He appraised me for a while.

“Are you Hank?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, not knowing if that would be
good or bad.

He opened the door warily. Inside it was just a
normal apartment, slightly messy. It was a version thirty-one layout. There
were only fifty or so different types of apartments in the whole city. I lived
in a version fifteen, which was larger but had fewer rooms. It smelled like
incense inside and there were music holograms on the walls.

Grever closed the door and faced me, looking
uneasy. I handed him Jyen’s list to get right down to business.

“I need this,” I said.

He looked it over for a while.

“Wow, this is some zippy-duty stuff. I didn’t
think you did drugs.”

“I didn’t say they were for me. That’s just
what I need.”

“Who’s it for?” he asked.

That struck me as an odd thing to request.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Oh, I’m just—,” he stammered. “You know, with
the way things have been going lately, I just want to, you know, be sure who
I’m dealing with.”

“You’re dealing with me. That’s all,” I said
calmly.

Grever looked over the list again.

“A few of these, more than a few, probably
aren’t anywhere in the entire state of Ginland. I don’t even know what this one
is,” he said, pointing.

“How much of it can you get?”

He took a deep breath and started adding it up.
Then he bit his lower lip.

“Uh, this is going to cost a lot of credits to
put together.”

“Give me an idea.”

“Well, a lot.”

“I’m on a schedule here. Do I have to go
elsewhere?”

He added it up for a bit.

“I can get half of this. It’ll cost about…”
Grever paused, looking at me closely. “15,000.”

That was about what I was figuring, so I was
happy with that number.

“If you can get me half I can get you 15K.”

“When?” he asked.

“Right now.” I took out a token with 30,000 as
proof.

“Don’t move,” I heard a voice say behind me.

I turned around. There was a shivering junkie
standing there holding a pistol pointed at me. A big pistol. His eyes were
screwed up, his hair a mess, and he had the blotchy, wrecked skin of someone
who had done a whole lot of drugs in his life.

I really didn’t need this.

“Crayv, man, put that away. This guy is
buying,” Grever yelled at him.

“Shut up. Shut up. You, give me that token.
Give it here!”

I looked at Grever. This was his apartment.

“Crayv, what are you doing? This guy is Hank.
You know like from
The News
.”

“I-I don’t care who he is, h-he’s going to be
dead if he doesn’t throw that token over here.” His voice was high-pitched and
stuttering. I saw there was no negotiating with him.

“Is this guy a friend of yours?” I asked
Grever.

“He was just smoking out in the back. Ain’t no
friend, man,” Grever answered nervously. He put his hands up as if to completely
disassociate himself.

“I’m talking to you!” the junkie screamed.

“You know him though, right?”

“Do what you got to do, man,” Grever said.

I apparently wasn’t getting anywhere with
either of them. I took out my four-barreled shotgun from under my coat.

It was an intimidating weapon for sure. I had
the top two barrels loaded with very tiny steel pellets about the diameter of
sand. Since the barrels were cut so short, I was basically blasting…well,
anything unfortunate enough to be in the general direction I was aiming, within
thirty feet. Those shots weren’t lethal unless I fired point blank.

The bottom two barrels I loaded with buckshot.
So the first two shots were to slow them down and convince them to reconsider
whatever actions made me fire. The next two shots were to cut them in half if
they didn’t listen. I only carried eight shots, including the four in the gun.
Most fights were usually over before then.

Seeing four shotgun barrels pointed at him from
ten feet away convinced the junkie it was a judicious time to shoot me. Or
shoot at me anyway.

I actually looked behind me to see where he
missed because I heard the
pang
against the metal wall. If I had stood
on a ladder and jumped to the side, that shot might have hit me.

“Hey, you idiot,” Grever yelled at him as he
dove for cover.

I walked forward and the junkie shot me in the
right shoulder. It hurt. A lot. I reached out with my left hand and grabbed him
by the wrist holding the pistol. I pulled his arm to the side. I then stepped
on his feet and that’s what really caused him pain—I was not a light guy.

“So do you know him or not?” I asked Grever
again.

“Hey, it’s your call. I’m not even here,” he
said hurriedly.

I rolled my eyes. The junkie was struggling
with me but there was no way he was going to push me off his toes. I could
barely push myself.

On one hand, this guy was obviously high. On
the other, I can’t have people shooting me without repercussions. Grever had
known me by reputation. When I leave here, he’s going to tell people what
happened and that’s going to affect me from then on.

I lifted my shotgun high and brought it down on
the junkie’s head like a hammer.

I wanted to make some bold pronouncement, some
tough speech, but I think I would be the only person who heard it. The junkie
was crying on the carpet, holding his bleeding scalp, and Grever was so checked
out of the situation he was practically at another space station.

I picked up the junkie’s pistol and walked over
to Grever, who was in his kitchen eating—or pretending to be eating.