HARD LUCK HANK
PRINCE OF SUCK
Steven Campbell
When you’ve got the world by the tail it’s got you by the hand.
Indifferent Pessimism: thinking the worst may happen but trying anyway.
This is dedicated to everyone who ever was, is, and ever will be.
Which is a sneaky way of dedicating a book to myself.
But not so sneaky now that I told everyone.
http://www.belvaille.com
cover art by Konstantinos Skenteridis
gif animation by oraystudios.com
proofreading by http://lectorsbooks.com/editing
All images and content Copyright © 2014 Steven Campbell
All rights reserved.
Web links may incur a data charge, may not be available at future dates, and are subject to change.
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
AUTHOR’S AFTERWARD
CHAPTER 1
I was on the floor of my living room, my hand clutching my chest, having a heart attack.
Again.
Actually, I wasn’t sure if it was a heart attack, or heart failure, or both. I suppose it was all academic. And I never did very well in school.
I liked to tell myself that I didn’t keep track of how many heart attacks I suffered, but in these past six months I had eight. The prior six months was five. The six months before that only two. So it was clear which way things were headed.
Unless of course I died right now.
I wanted to cough, since I had fluid in my lungs, but I couldn’t get in enough air. And I was burning up because my skin had long ago lost the ability to sweat and dissipate heat.
The insulting part was if I managed to survive this attack, I would experience them even more frequently. Because of my mutation, my body would stack layer upon layer of new cells over the damage, trying to make my organs more durable than ever, until my heart became so rigid it would be incapable of pumping even if it was hooked up to the city’s electrical grid.
I’d gotten used to heart attacks. You can get used to anything, really. You don’t have a choice.
My doorbell rang, its steady bonging mocking my erratic heartbeat.
It was time for work. I managed to suck in a big gulp of air and cough. I rolled on my side and reached out a hand.
My apartment was filled with modern art sculptures that were welded to my metal floor. They were all roughly the same: sturdy, multi-tier cylinders or rectangles. They were everywhere. People who came by thought I was some weirdo art snob.
But it was because I fell down a lot and couldn’t stand without their assistance. I wasn’t weak, far from it, but my body was inflexible and outrageously heavy. I simply couldn’t bend my legs enough to stand. At one point I had faces on the statues so they looked less abstract, but when you’re having a heart attack, the last thing you want to see as you writhe on the ground in agony is a bunch of uppity metal statues judging you.
I leaned on the sculpture nearest me and began hauling myself up with my arms.
My doorbell rang again. Why would they ring my bell twice? They knew better than that.
After some minutes I managed to stand. It felt like I had walked up a mountain backwards and then gotten kicked in the head by an angry goat for my efforts.
I put on my jacket and opened the front door.
“Sorry, Boss,” MTB said. “It was the new guy that rung your bell again.”
I looked over and saw a tiny woman standing on my porch with MTB. She had a freckled face and straight red hair that whipped around wildly, unable to be contained by an assortment of clips and braids. She wore the uniform of my Stair Boys.
MTB was my Deputy Kommilaire. “Kommilaire” was the official name of the Stair Boys. MTB was a big guy with a square jaw who liked punching people. He took his job very seriously.
There was a bit of the sadist in MTB, but if I had to choose psychological disorders, I guess his was better than, say, being a pyromaniac—we go to arrest some guy and he sets the building on fire. Besides, this whole city was pretty sadistic, so MTB fit in perfectly.
I walked out of my apartment and the new guy practically jumped over the railing to get away. I didn’t know if she thought I was going to slug her or if I was that ugly and intimidating.
I was pretty ugly and intimidating, though.
I squinted to get a better look at her. One of my eyes was a bit cloudy. I didn’t know if it was cataracts, but my eyes were too dense to be corrected surgically so it didn’t matter if it was cataracts or my body was so massive it had its own atmosphere, complete with clouds.
The new guy was definitely attractive. Very petite. Not a particularly curvy body. She wore little in the way of make-up except for some lipstick; I guess it was tough to match eye shadow with freckles without looking like a clown. Her eyes were green as emeralds.
“The new guy’s a girl,” I said to MTB.
“So what?” the new guy answered, taking it as a challenge.
“You will address Hank as sir or Boss,” MTB yelled at her.
“She’s got some swagger, eh? I said we needed forty new guys, why is there just one gal?”
“Boss,” MTB began weakly, “there’s just no one who fits what you are asking. If you lower the requirements we could get a lot of people. Everyone wants to join.”
“New guy,” I said to the woman, “come here.”
She stepped forward with gusto.
“Walk with me,” I continued.
She was on the street in a hop and turned around wondering where I had gone. I was inching my way down the ramp that led up to my front door.
I never wore shoes because they simply didn’t last on me because of my weight. I didn’t mind stepping in filth.
I used to have some special socks a long time a
go that were durable enough for me to use, but they stopped fitting and there was no one left to alter them. And then I lost them.
We had six vehicles with us and maybe thirty men. The rest of the Kommilaire were on different shifts or already patrolling the city.
“Mount up,” MTB yelled to the Stair Boys in the street.
The space station Belvaille was a solid metal city fifteen miles by fifteen miles. All the buildings were steel alloy and formed some kind of rectangle. You didn’t get fancy with designs on a space station because you had a fixed amount of real estate and it could never increase.
Belvaille was situated in the Ceredus system of space, which still had the greatest number of functioning Portals in the galaxy. The Portals were used by space craft to travel instantaneously to locations many light years away.
Quite a few Portals had been damaged during the war that had shattered the Colmarian Confederation. A war which may or may not still be ongoing. Different people had different opinions on that.
It was unclear which empire, if any, Belvaille belonged to now. What happened off-station didn’t really matter until it spilled onto Belvaille. If some warlord said we were in his territory that meant nothing unless he came down here to enforce his claim—so far, none had succeeded.
About fifty years ago I had been elected Supreme Kommilaire of Belvaille. The head of law enforcement. I had now been on the space station for about 200 years.
Because of the war and because of Belvaille’s central location, the city was filled with people. I had no idea how many. Millions, I’m sure. There were three hundred Stair Boys to keep millions of people in line.
It wasn’t working.
http://www.belvaille.com/hlh3/city.gif
“What’s your name, new guy?”
“Valia,” she replied.
“How long you been on Belvaille?”
“Five days.”
“You ride with me, then.”
She went around to a vehicle but came back when she saw I was walking to a heavy lifter, which was basically a really large fork lift.
“We’re not riding in one of the trucks?” she asked.
“No,” I said, without further explanation.
I stepped onto the platform of the heavy lifter and gave the driver the go-ahead. The engine screamed as it tried to hoist me off the ground. Valia quickly scampered up beside me.
A few years ago, as a joke, MTB had attached a scale to the lifter to see how much I weighed. Before it broke it showed that I was over 13,000 pounds. That’s why my body was failing.
I was taller than average, but not so tall that my frame could hold six or so tons without issues. I was dense. So dense that I could not only be shot with any firearm and be unhurt, but I wouldn’t even feel it. I had no arches in my feet, most of my senses were dulled or gone, I couldn’t touch the top of my head or my knees without falling over, and I ate…a lot.
I was a mutant. It was something the old Colmarian Confederation had routinely done to its citizens. The results were completely random. I also healed rapidly. And when I healed, I grew even denser. The problem was we were always healing. Our cells were constantly dying and being replaced. My body was just too stupid to know that was normal.
So every day I was getting thicker and thicker, from my nerves to my blood vessels to my muscles. But judging by my increasing number of heart attacks, there was a definite upper limit to how dense I could become.
“How many guns do you have?” Valia asked.
“Few.”
My vest was covered in weapons. They hung from cables and dangled as I moved. I had maybe twenty or so pistols, rifles, submachine guns, shotguns. All the trigger guards were cut off so I could fit my fat fingers in them. If someone was going to run away from me, it’s not as if I could catch them. And if a big fight broke out, which they often did, I liked to have a lot of weapons handy.
I also carried a large hook and clamp secured to my arms with heavy chains and a huge electromagnet around my waist. I had all kinds of tools, really. Fire extinguishers, spanners, screw drivers, welders, flashlights, first aid kits. I couldn’t remember all the stuff. It weighed hundreds of pounds but I didn’t notice.
Although we had food with us, on my back I had an emergency supply of high calorie glop. It all tasted the same to me.
“Does it bother you I’m a woman?” Valia asked, and it almost seemed like she wanted it to be a problem.
“I don’t remotely care. We got species on the force that I’m not even sure what gender they are.”
“Where are we going?” she asked, as our caravan of police vehicles moved forward.
“I pick a new spot every day depending on the crime reports. You don’t look like you’re old enough to have been alive during the Colmarian Confederation,” I said.
“How do you know I was?”
“Because that’s a requirement for joining the Kommilaire.”
“Why?”
I puffed out a chuckle.
“MTB is going to get on you for not calling me sir, so you might as well start.”
“Why, sir?” she asked with some bite.
“A couple reasons. One, you got records. And we still have a crime database we can check, if you were alive during that time. Two, you’re not so young that you’ll let this job get the best of you. You’ll have some authority and some chances to abuse it. Third, you remember a time before this.”
I swept my arm outward as we drove. The streets were filled with people. Starving people did their laundry next to open sewers. Masses of common criminals worked everything from simple bunko scams to prostitution to racketeering.
Feral children gawked suspiciously at us. They were hateful little creatures who hadn’t even learned to speak Colmarian. They were one of the biggest blights on the city, ripping apart anything not bolted down and being responsible for a fair amount of violent crime.
“Some folks like to think the Colmarian Confederation was all bad,” I began wistfully, “but it was never like this.”
“Didn’t you personally destroy the Confederation?” Valia asked.
I thought about answering, but I was tired of that subject.
Very tired.
http://www.belvaille.com/hlh3/mtbandvalia.gif
My Kommilaire and I reached our destination and we radioed one another to disembark and fan out. Most areas of the city actually welcomed us: the law walking amongst lawless Belvaille. But some areas were rather inhospitable.
I knew not all my Kommilaire were perfectly legit or righteous. Not much I could do about it, I was short-staffed as it was. I had never fired anyone. I just moved them to patrols where the Kommilaire weren’t especially appreciated. When you were busy trying to stay alive, you didn’t have much time to be dishonest.
Besides, the city didn’t pay that well. And having personal underworld contacts was helpful for a Kommilaire.
In other words, being a little crooked was one of the perks of the job.
The heavy lifter lowered me to street level.
“They call you the Stair Boys. It’s not a bad term. I use it,” I said to Valia.
“Why do they call us that?”
“I think it was an old joke about me being too heavy to walk up stairs so I had to hire people to search the upper floors of buildings. Which is true. So I guess it wasn’t a joke.”
“What all is illegal on Belvaille?”
I shrugged.
“Just use common sense, really. If someone’s screaming, it’s probably illegal.”
“Can I ask you…sir, where’s your accent from?”
“Eh. It’s just the way I talk.”
Even my tongue had thickened. I sounded like a deaf person who had been born that way. If you asked me to say “the thorny thistle shoots the shuttle.” It would sound like “dadnadadunudu.”
“Okay, find me some law breakers,” I said into my radio.
“You remember teles?” I asked Valia with a smile.
“
Sir?”
“Teles. You know, back when you could talk to anyone anywhere without sending up smoke signals. These radios don’t even have a range across the whole city.”
“I think so,” she answered vaguely.
“What did you do when you were in the Confederation?”
“I was in the Navy.”
“The Navy?” That was surprising. “Which Navy?”
“The…Colmarian Confederation’s. Before it collapsed.”
“Collapsed? How polite. It was destroyed.”
The Colmarian Confederation, most backwards of all the galactic empires. When it had embarked on a civil war with itself, it stayed true to its ways and no faction changed their names or flags. So the Colmarian Confederation was fighting the Colmarian Confederation who was fighting the Colmarian Confederation and so on. I don’t know how anyone kept it straight. Maybe they didn’t try.
I stood in the middle of the street waiting for the Stair Boys to report back.
“Boss, we got an infraction,” one radioed, after a while.
I followed the Kommilaire to the building in question. I could hear a lot of commotion coming from inside.
Hard Luck Hank: Prince of Suck Page 1
