Hard Luck Hank: Basketful of Crap

by Steven Campbell

  “The bread is one size,” he interrupted.

  “Take a normal sandwich and cut it in a third. Or a quarter. This isn’t building a Portal. Give me a tray of those. And lots of napkins.”

  “Would you like a mirror and some fluffy pillows?”

  “Hey smartass, I just gave you a hundred. And it’s not all for me.”

  One by one I called the guys over. I made it really clear to them the first order of business was keeping their traps shut. Otherwise, there would be hell to pay.

  Hell being my autocannon.

  I asked where everyone was working before offering the job to make sure no one was currently employed at the Ulzaker-Ses club.

  I did eat most of the sandwiches. But the guys helped themselves to beer.

  Not many of the people I was interested in tapping happened to be at the club at the time. People had lives. So I teled them up and told them to come down so I could talk with them.

  They thought it was very odd I didn’t want to talk on the tele and I wanted to negotiate at the Gentleman’s Club. It was a bit of a breach of protocol.

  Guys were yelling at sports monitors. And playing little table games with each other. There was a sauna and steam room. Small exercise area. And the chairs were uncomfortable with uneven legs.

  And of course it smelled.

  After about three hours of corralling people and eating sandwiches, I had hired eighteen men.

  “How much does this job pay?” one asked.

  “It’s anywhere from one day to one week’s work and it pays 20,000.”

  This guy wasn’t a good card player because his eyes bugged.

  “For what? Attacking the Navy?”

  “No. You’ll know when it’s ready. It’s nothing too big.”

  “What do I need?”

  “You. Clothes. I’m providing weapons and armor. Again, you breathe a word of this…”

  He shook my hand and rose from my table, taking a cup of beer. Quite a lot of people were hovering around the edge of my makeshift recruitment center. They saw guys come in and leave with big smiles and beer.

  They weren’t stupid. Well. They knew a job was going down. And they wanted in, whatever it was.

  “Hank, what you looking for?” someone asked, peeking over my screen.

  “If I want you, I’ll send for you.”

  I got one of my recent hires to stand guard out of earshot and shoo people away.

  I also got two guys to monitor the Ulzaker-Ses club. Balday-yow and Cad, my old doorman accomplices. Find out who was there, when. The security. The traffic. The entrances and exits. Everything. I didn’t tell them about each other, so if they were any good after a week they would also notice someone else casing the place.

  I figured it would take a week for Delovoa to get me all the gear. And a week to recruit everyone I wanted. It was easy at the start, but it would get harder to reach fifty as the pickings got slimmer.

  And the longer I waited the more likely someone was to spill. Naked Guy said there were thirty guards. I guessed that meant they were prepped and ready this minute. But no business could be profitable with thirty guards forever. Not even a casino.

  So I would wait them out until traffic died down and there was less likelihood of hurting innocent bystanders.

  And I considered myself an innocent bystander.

  CHAPTER 22

  I was now looking for 183 people.

  They were the combined passenger lists that corresponded to the blank checkin and quarantine records. Good thing I was being paid by the week.

  I was pretty sure the pale sister had jammed the scanners using whatever Quadrad skills they’re taught while being potty trained.

  “Hi, are you Jeulada Loenor?” I said to the woman at the door, fumbling over her name.

  “Yes? What’s this about?” She was an attractive woman, very short, dark hair and eyes. Seemed young and feisty.

  “And does, whew, Gwodendion Bwoew Rastonqil—or something like that—live here as well?”

  “What’s this about?” she insisted, her arms crossed.

  “I’m just doing follow-up from quarantine. Everything is okay, just need to do a count.”

  “Yes, he’s my husband,” she said.

  “Ah, good. That’s all I need. Have a great day,” I said, turning to go. That’s two down and 181 more to go.

  I was a half-block down the street when I heard from behind me:

  “Hey!”

  A man ran up to me, looking pissed. He was a muscular guy, face full of stubble. He also seemed young.

  “Yeah?” I asked.

  “You upset my wife back there.”

  This was utterly surprising.

  “I did? How?”

  “I’d like an apology.”

  I wasn’t wearing my autocannon for a change so when he ran up I must have just seemed like a big slow guy. I looked to the apartment and saw the woman standing at the front door awaiting my response.

  “No, I think it’s best I say sorry to her.”

  I walked past the man and he tried to put his hand on my shoulder to stop me and felt how solid I was.

  “Look, uh, we just got to the station. We don’t know how the authorities work here,” he said quickly.

  “Oh, I’m not the authorities.”

  I kept walking to the apartment and saw his wife growing more and more concerned. At the entrance she suddenly got the idea to close the door. I put my foot out and blocked it. She wisely retreated into her apartment.

  “Come in,” I said to the husband.

  Inside it was furnished, but cheaply. I assumed they were renting with furniture. The husband and wife were standing next to each other and didn’t look upset any longer.

  “Hi. Have a seat.” I indicated their couch.

  They hesitated.

  “I could just rip off your legs and you wouldn’t have a choice,” I said helpfully.

  They reluctantly sat.

  “Look, I get it,” I said to the man, “you’re macho, you want to show off to your wife, you want to be tough. And you,” I said to the woman, “you want to see that he cares. When you say you’re upset you want to know he’s concerned.”

  I took a step closer and leaned down a bit to put my head more at their level.

  “But you’re on Belvaille now. And not everyone is as nice as me. This could have gone a very different way if you said it to the wrong person. Do you all understand?” And I really hoped they did.

  “Yeah,” they said.

  “Sorry about coming off like a—” the husband began, but I cut him off.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I walked out with a smile on my face, feeling I had done my good deed for the day.

  CHAPTER 23

  At home I got a tele from the General.

  “Are you in a secure location to speak of our operations?” he asked.

  Secure. Operations. I rolled my eyes.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “What do you have to report?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you progressing?” His voice was accusatory. But what else was new?

  “Yeah, but you have to understand how difficult this is. I can’t say I’m looking for a disintegrator because then the thief will know I’m working on behalf of you—which won’t make me popular. And just saying I’m looking for a weapon isn’t getting me anywhere. I don’t have a real angle to approach this. I need to wait until they get hungry enough to want to move it.”

  “Would it help to inform you that Quadrad stole the device?”

  I stood there fidgeting.

  “Are you familiar with them?” he continued.

  This was a fine line. I was actively getting paid by the Quadrad sisters even if it was for another job. But they paid a whole lot less and tended to stab me. Still.

  “No,” I said after a moment.

  “Citizen Hank, you are not an effective liar. We know you have had contact with the Quadrad.”
>
  “Then why did you ask?”

  “To see where your loyalties are.”

  “There’s other Quadrad here too,” I said.

  “Your former Adjunct Overwatch is not the thief.”

  The Navy hated Garm. They couldn’t even say her name. She had sided with the short-lived resistance during Belvaille’s martial law.

  “Well then the next time they attack me, I’ll ask if they’re interested in selling.”

  “Interested—” he sputtered. “You will secure the device. Those are your orders and what you are being paid to do.”

  “Look, General,” I began, then stopped.

  A good negotiator modifies his tactics based on each person he speaks with. After all, it’s them you’re negotiating with, not yourself. There are some people that if you go in like a fighter, they will scrap it out until it kills you both; and there are some people that if you go in with a soft touch, they will think you’re weak and try to step on you.

  The trick was to recognize each type and be crafty enough to change your own style to best suit your needs. Adapting yourself was the single hardest part about being a negotiator.

  The General was not some young couple with big mouths. He was a general sitting in a battleship, in the Jam, that blocked the Portals that kept this space station alive. The amount of leverage he had was so grossly out of proportion to mine that I should be thankful he was even deigning to speak to me.

  “I want to return the disintegrator to you in working order to get my full pay. But I need time to do it. You have given me valuable information—which I really wish you had told me from the start—and I will proceed as judiciously as possible.”

  He squinted and sneered and boiled. If I didn’t know better I would think he was passing a kidney stone.

  “If you get any ideas of not returning the device to us, your existence will be very short and very painful.”

  “I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”

  CHAPTER 24

  “I can’t keep going on dates with you,” I said to Bronze Badel Bardel, as we sat in a bar drinking.

  “It’s not a date. I want you to meet my old lady,” he said, “since you’re my best friend on Belvaille.”

  That was kind of depressing.

  “I already met Qindol,” I said. “I don’t think she liked me.”

  “Who?”

  “The girl at my place. That’s her, right?”

  He honestly seemed to have no idea.

  “Whose friend got shot.” Could he really not remember her?

  “Oh, no, it’s not her,” he waved it away. “You’ll like her. I hope you will. Everyone I talked to knows you. You fight aliens and whatnot.”

  “I just have a lot of work to do right now,” I said. Bronze was super nice and enthusiastic, but I just didn’t want to sour his date and be a third wheel.

  “You have any work I could do?”

  “Bronze, you got to know…I’m kind of a sleaze.”

  “Nah, man. You’re great.”

  “Most of the stuff I do nowadays involves hurting people. Or killing people.”

  “Hey, I might not be as strong as you or have a big ol’ gun, but I can throw a punch.”

  I looked at him with sad eyes. Bronze shouldn’t be on Belvaille. The people here were already lost. No one ever left here a better person. Never. Bronze was either going to have to adapt or get chewed-up. And I just hated for either to happen.

  “Here she comes,” he said.

  I turned and my jaw hit the table.

  Garm walked up wearing high heels, a dress, her hair done up, jewelry—even earrings—and make-up.

  I hadn’t seen Garm wear any of that stuff. She looked like a bazillion credits.

  She saw me and she looked equally stunned.

  Bronze jumped up.

  “Garm, this is my good pal Hank. Hank, this is Garm.”

  Silence.

  Garm sat down woodenly at our table. Bronze was to my left and prattled on about things at his usual high speed. I felt my face burning as I looked at Garm and she did her best not to look at me.

  I just couldn’t believe it.

  I was really, really pissed.

  When I dated Garm she was just Garm. Not that there was anything wrong with that. But Bronze shows up and in a week he’s turned her into Miss Sex-Bod-Hot-Face. What the hell?

  I was shaking my head at it all. Some guys just got that. I never thought Garm could be flipped. And I could tell she knew it, because she looked embarrassed. I’d known her for decades and at this point. I was pretty certain she had a medical condition that prevented her from wearing dresses. Like she would literally die if she put one on.

  And Bronze? I liked the guy, sure, but he was all flash. He lived in Deadsouth. He washed dishes—when he was lucky. Garm was only interested in the richest of the rich. She even looked down on me. Yet here they were together.

  I wasn’t jealous. I mean, maybe a tiny bit. But I wasn’t so petty as that. I know Garm had been with people since she was with me, I wished her the best. But this? I was sure if I had given Garm a million credits to put on some sexy clothes she would have told me to shove it.

  What little faith I possessed, had been taken down a notch.

  I just couldn’t handle this. I put my hands under the table and ripped it from its moorings so I could stand.

  “Got to go to the bathroom,” I blurted, as I hastened away.

  CHAPTER 25

  I had gone through eighty-five names from the passenger list at this point. They were not difficult to find since they were brand new to the station and not trying to hide.

  I also recruited everyone I needed for the corporate job, equipped them, and was just waiting for a window of opportunity.

  I decided to go out partying to blow off some steam. Maybe I would run into the other pale sister twirling a disintegrator.

  I was not a real party person. I liked to hang out at the occasional casino, go to bars, spend an inordinate amount of time at the Belvaille Gentleman’s Club, and frequent enough restaurants that they often had a table—and reinforced chair—specifically for me.

  Belvaille had three blocks called The Strip. That was its official name. It was five blocks north of City Hall and the hippest place on the station. All the really popular clubs were there, live music, comedy shows, edgy restaurants. Basically anything that was new, youth-based, and imported red hot from the rest of the Colmarian Confederation.

  At night you could not drive a car down the streets because the people overflowed the sidewalks. It was just complete craziness.

  Belvaille was a serious place. Deadly serious. And that wasn’t lost on folks. Those who weren’t bulletproof knew they might die at any time of any day. The Strip was a release valve for them.

  A defiant, loud, raucous celebration of life while it lasted.

  I came up to it in my metal shoes with my autocannon and silly hat and felt immediately out of place.

  Everyone was joyous, yelling to strangers, hugging, making out, and running from club to club as if they were on fire and the next establishment was an extinguisher retailer.

  Even the streets themselves looked different because every inch of every building was covered in graffiti. People doing their best to leave a permanent mark when they knew very well how fleeting this life could be.

  Colored street lamps provided unique illumination. Not disco or flashing, just colored lights. I think this was the only place on Belvaille that didn’t rely on the lighting from the latticework.

  Looking at all these people running around I couldn’t tell if they were drunk or drugged or just youthful—maybe some combination. When I was a doorman, if I saw people acting like this I wouldn’t have let them inside. But that was a casino and you were expected to behave a certain way.

  “Hey!” A woman screamed at me and grabbed hold of my arm. She said something else and I couldn’t hear her.

  “What?”

  She was talking to me
excitedly and I couldn’t hear any of it. The Strip was just too loud. Or I was too deaf.

  She held my arm and had her head against my shoulder as we walked down the street together. I couldn’t tell if I knew her. Stupid lights. Everyone looks the same under a blue filter.

  She was a medium height woman with blonde hair and dressed in black synth strips that crisscrossed her body strategically. She had a black synth miniskirt on and had to take very fast baby steps to get around.

  I definitely saw people doing drugs and drinking. It was unusual to me to see that in an open street. It felt almost like Deadsouth except people were happy. Maybe The Strip was what Deadsouth started out as.

  We were walking languidly, just people-watching. The woman attached to me was bumping around and unsteady. Because of her weaving I kept checking to make sure I didn’t step on her feet. These metal clogs and my weight on those little open-toed shoes were going to be painful.

  “Where are we going?” she asked me finally.

  “I don’t know. I was just walking.”

  She laughed at that hysterically, covering her face with both hands. She reached up to put her arm around me and pulled back, confused.

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s my autocannon.” I turned to show her.

  “What’s it do?” she asked.

  “It’s a gun. It shoots ten miles.”

  “It’s really big. Is it true what they say about big guns?” She poked her finger at me seductively, and I felt I should be flirting, but those skills atrophied decades ago.

  “It has a lot of recoil,” I confessed.

  She giggled and continued walking. I took a few steps and caught up.

  “We should go into a club,” I said.

  “I want a Rodye,” she said.

  I kicked that word around in my head and had never heard it before. I knew she was younger than me, a lot younger. And I knew this wasn’t my scene. She could be talking about a drug, a drink, a candy, a cybernetic modification. I had no idea. I didn’t say anything.

  “Let’s go to your place,” she said suddenly.

  “Okay.”

  On the train ride back I got a better view of her without colored lights. She was pretty, had good bone structure and great skin. It’s funny, at my age, when people look good, you have to really be taking care of yourself. But at her age, you have to really go out of your way to be ugly.