Hard Luck Hank: Prince of Suck

by Steven Campbell

Every type of weapon existed on Belvaille. We were at the exact geographic center of fifty years of war. If someone got mad enough, or drunk enough, or drugged enough, or just plain mean enough, those weapons would be used.

  When I stepped inside the building, all the shouting stopped immediately.

  I wasn’t just a Kommilaire. I was the Supreme Kommilaire. I could sentence anyone to anything. During some of the worst times in the civil war I had carried out some rather brutal punishments to maintain the peace.

  The building was a combination bar and gambling hall. I knew it well. It was jammed to capacity, with about a half-dozen of my Kommilaire in mid-struggle with various patrons. But everyone was now frozen and looking at me.

  The outlaws, who knew they were outlaws, and knew I knew they were outlaws, put their heads down and whispered prayers to their outlaw gods. But for everyone else, this was high entertainment.

  MTB read off the crime, his nostrils flaring like he had caught the scent of approaching justice, and it was as tantalizing as cooked meat to a starving man.

  “Boss, Sav-juhn had his door closed when we came by.”

  I looked at Sav-juhn, the barkeeper and owner of the establishment.

  “Get an adjudicator in here,” I said to MTB.

  The crowd started quietly placing bets amongst themselves when I said that. Adjudicators were part of the judicial branch of Belvaille. They kind of argued on behalf of the criminal like lawyers. All of them dreamed of being real judges and having real offices and not having to stomp around with us. But I dreamed of being able to pick my own nose with my own fingers.

  The adjudicator who was riding with us today was a young man named Nelstle. He dressed like a judge in flamboyant robes and thus was perpetually in a state of near-trip. Robes weren’t meant for street patrolling.

  “His door was to remain open,” I said to Nelstle.

  “My patrons don’t want to sit with their backs to the open street,” Sav-juhn replied.

  “Your patrons murdered four of your other patrons in the last two months. I doubt they care about noise,” I growled. “That’s why your door was to remain open, based on a previous ruling.”

  “Erroneous testimony,” Sav-juhn yelled.

  “Sham! Sham!” One of the gamblers chanted. A Kommilaire hit him on the side of the head with a truncheon.

  “Your Honor, coercing witnesses!” Sav-juhn said at the abuse.

  Nelstle looked.

  “Not my jurisdiction,” he answered.

  Unless we actually brought a charge, Nelstle had no power. Adjudicators didn’t really do a lot but they made the citizens feel better. Like it wasn’t just Kommilaire making things up as we went along—which is exactly what it was.

  “Five hundred thumb fine,” I demanded.

  Some of the patrons cursed or cheered and swapped money based on my initial fine. They continued to wager.

  Thumbs were the colloquial term for Belvaille’s currency. Our scrip. The exchange rate was set by the local Ank Reserve. They were called thumbs because they used to be tubes about that size, until that proved to be too unwieldy. Now they were a complicated metal-plastic weave fabric. But the old name stuck.

  “Your Honor, that’s excessive,” Sav-juhn pleaded.

  Nelstle pondered this like he was running for office.

  “Was this a good faith bilateral contract?”

  Someone. Somewhere. Had copied a legal dictionary and sold it to all the adjudicators. They were completely insufferable now, throwing around cryptic phrases and pretending that was helpful.

  I stared at him.

  “Two hundred thumbs and probation,” Nelstle finally said.

  “What’s ‘probation’ even mean? That’s too little. Four hundred and he keeps the door open for a month.”

  “Three hundred,” Nelstle countered.

  “Deal.”

  The trial concluded, everyone exchanged money again.

  “What if I don’t pay?” Sav-juhn asked.

  “I throw you in jail. The Royal Wing.”

  Sav-juhn’s face drained. I had the ability to order public executions. But that was nothing compared to prison. We didn’t have enough forces to patrol the city but we didn’t even bother with the Belvaille penitentiary. It was a whole other world.

  In fact it was a whole other body of mass. The Royal Wing was a freighter floating next to Belvaille. We handed off prisoners via shuttle. They accepted them. No one left.

  Ever.

  One of my Kommilaire went to Sav-juhn to collect the money and I walked to the entrance. From the back of my waist, I took my electromagnet and pressed it against the building’s thick front door. It took a moment to activate and secure itself.

  I turned to the street, took a few steps, and ripped the metal door off the building. It didn’t even break my stride.

  Some people ran outside to see what happened, including Sav-juhn.

  “New guy, disconnect that for me,” I said, pointing to the magnet on the ground.

  “One day, Hank, someone is going to get a big enough gun and blow your brains out,” Sav-juhn sneered.

  The Kommilaire seemed ready to grab him based on that vague threat.

  Valia stopped disconnecting me from the door, curious what my reaction would be.

  “I’m sure they will,” I said matter-of-factly.

  http://www.belvaille.com/hlh3/hankwalking.gif

  CHAPTER 2

  A few days later two gang bosses were in my living room sitting facing each other.

  I had allowed each boss to bring one, and only one, enforcer with them. So they picked the biggest, meanest guys they could find, and they were practically standing nose-to-nose.

  “You two want a breath mint?” I asked the pair, at their display of machismo.

  “We’re here under a white banner, Dimi-Vim, have your man sit down, you’re making Hank nervous.” The boss who spoke was Vone. He was an angular man. His face and muscles looked like they were cut with a chisel from some hard stone in long gashes. He was kind of ugly as a person, but would have been artistic as a statue.

  The white banner he mentioned was gang protocol. It allowed for safe envoy and negotiations. It also meant I was dealing with them as Hank and not as Supreme Kommilaire.

  “I’m not worried about Hank, I’m worried about you. You’ve already broken one agreement and cost me two men,” the other boss, Dimi-Vim, responded. He had a lot of hair on him. Just about every square inch except for his actual eyeballs was covered with brown hair. Or fur. I wondered if he trimmed it.

  “I’m not here to judge the past,” I said. “That was between you two. I’m here to work out what the problem is now. But seriously, if you guys don’t sit down or back away, I’m going to have to make you wait outside.”

  The two thugs took a begrudging step back. Now it would be merely inconvenient if they wanted to kiss one another.

  I sighed.

  Bad blood already. This is why you leave the crazies at home. If you got two guys a hair’s breadth away from fighting right next to you, it’s hard to be conciliatory.

  “Hank, I claim a grief. Dimi-Vim opened a club on my street after striking he wouldn’t,” Vone said, throwing out some gang terminology.

  I knew the answer but…

  “Is this true?” I asked Dimi-Vim.

  “No! Lies and wrongs. I have a bigger footprint on Knost Hill than he does. I’ve been there for years and years.”

  “Abandoned buildings,” Vone declared.

  “Not abandoned. But so what? I opened a club.” Dimi-Vim shrugged.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “He’s siphoning my business. He even has people in front of my club offering discounts into his.”

  “If you can’t handle the competition, move blocks. I’ll buy your club,” Dimi-Vim smiled.

  The two thugs stepped forward again and were about to come to blows. It’s like they were the mental puppets of their bosses and responded to their ang
er.

  “Buy my club?”

  “Hey! Hey!” I yelled. “You two, I’ve had it. Go outside.”

  The thugs were glaring at each other, barely hearing me.

  “If you make me stand up, I’m going to drag you outside and I promise you’ll regret it,” I warned.

  The bosses each nodded and their surrogates tromped to the door. I watched them go, and it was funny, they reached the door at the same time and had already morphed into normal people. They held the door for each other and walked out. They were just doing a job and the job was over until their bosses came back out again.

  “Right, so I don’t know who is lying and who is telling the truth. You should have put something down in a real contract,” I said.

  “As if that matters,” Vone said.

  “It does if you come to me. Then I got something I can look at. It’s just you versus him right now. How do I know who is telling the truth?”

  “I am!” Vone said, as if I had simply misheard him.

  “No, he’s not,” Dimi-Vim tsked.

  “How much are you down on your business?” I asked Vone, and as soon as I said it, I knew it was a dumb question. He would never tell me, let alone say it in front of Dimi-Vim. I could torture him for weeks and he’d never reveal how much money he made.

  He grumbled and mumbled something.

  “Never mind,” I quickly said. “What kind of clubs do you have?”

  “It’s a club. Booze. Drugs. Dancing.” Vone shrugged.

  “Normal club, Hank,” Dimi-Vim confirmed.

  “Come on, you know more than that, right? What kind of music do you have?”

  The two bosses looked at each other.

  “I don’t know. Smash-oz.”

  “Ropes.”

  “Beggit-time.”

  “Usual.”

  I thought. Could it be that simple?

  “Can you just have different music? That will bring in different customers,” I said.

  “No. Some music brings better customers than others,” Dimi-Vim said.

  “Fine, alternate,” I said. “That will keep people on your block every day of the week and if someone doesn’t feel like that type of music they can just hop to the other club.”

  The bosses shared glances. I could tell neither one wanted to concede anything.

  “Some of those styles cross genres,” Vone cautioned.

  “Yeah,” Dimi-Vim squinted.

  “Ugh. Alright. The majority of the music has to be a certain type. You can draw lots every month on who gets what style on what day. If you suspect any tricks, I’ll send one of my younger Kommilaire in disguise to listen. If you’re found to be cheating, you owe the other boss that night’s door and bar.”

  A very long pause between them. My modern art sculptures probably moved more than they did.

  “Agreed,” Vone said finally.

  “Agreed,” Dimi-Vim said.

  “We’ll meet at the Athletic Gentleman’s Club in a day or two and draw up a real contract,” I said.

  I stood up, and the effort it took made it clear that everyone should do likewise.

  “See? That wasn’t hard,” I said.

  CHAPTER 3

  The elevated train let me off near Justice Lane. There was a persistent roar of noise in this part of the city. It was hard to put your finger on the cause until you realized what it was:

  People.

  It was the weekend and that meant I had to go for a trial. A real trial. Or as real as Belvaille got, anyway.

  When I was working, I liked having a heavy lifter drive me around because we moved so much, but I was capable of walking just fine on my own. I strode up Courtroom Three Street for my appointment. I was escorted through security checkpoints by my own Kommilaire who did double-duty as bailiffs here.

  All along the way, the block was packed. The sidewalks had been fitted with bleachers so they could fit in more spectators. All the apartment buildings had been equipped with terraces—box seating that cost a fortune during popular trials.

  The hottest court cases were ones with crimes committed by the wealthy and powerful, mass murderers brought in for sentencing, things that caught the public’s imagination.

  That included any testimony I happened to give.

  Judge Naeb was the presiding judge of Courtroom Three Street during the day. His gilded bench was twenty feet off the ground.

  There were numerous judges. I’d guess around twenty. Some were good, some were bad, some incompetent. Naeb was the longest-serving judge and by far the most corrupt. It was widely-known that the outcome of any trial before him was based on how much either side paid and whether or not he held a personal grudge.

  Judge Naeb didn’t care for me, but I didn’t mind. These trials were a farce anyway. It was just to keep the city thinking we had a working system of government.

  I made my way to the witness box as the lawyers and defendant waited in front. The crowd grew hushed. This trial, like many others, was broadcast live across the city via loudspeaker. It was Belvaille’s most popular form of free entertainment.

  Work, and even crime, across the city came to a virtual stop during a big case, as people huddled around the speakers to listen to the progress.

  When I finally stood in the witness box I tried to see who the defendant was, but I didn’t recognize him.

  All the judges were appointed by the owner of Belvaille: Garm. She literally had the deed to the city. Though it was of questionable value since the empire that had signed it no longer existed. She also wrote most of the laws that Belvaille possessed, though we didn’t have many.

  They said Garm stayed at the top of her impregnable City Hall. I wouldn’t know since I hadn’t seen her in forty or more years. There was a time, long ago, when we had been good friends. We had even dated for a spell.

  I could see why she didn’t come out. I personally knew of at least five outstanding contracts to have her assassinated. And she wasn’t bulletproof like I was.

  Garm was a member of the Quadrad. It was a planet-wide society of assassins and criminals. In her prime, Garm had been incredibly skilled, but that was half a century ago.

  “Please state your name,” the bailiff said.

  “Hank.”

  Cheers rose up across the city. Those who couldn’t see the trial knew I was finally there and things were about to begin in earnest.

  “What is your occupation?”

  “Civil servant.”

  More cheers.

  “Do you promise not to lie or half-lie or twist the truth?”

  “I suppose.”

  The bailiff walked away and the defense attorney approached. He wore a suit made out of an incredibly fluffy blue animal. He looked like a creature from a very cold planet.

  The lawyers knew they were arguing not just to the judge, but to everyone. The people in the stands and poised on balconies. So they had to have good voices and be appealing to look at. Or at least distinctive.

  This lawyer’s name was Mylan.

  “Do you recognize that man?” he said, flinging out his fluffy arm behind him.

  I looked again.

  “I can’t see him well. You sat him clear across the street.”

  A pattering of laughter rose up from the block.

  “Mr. Imdi-ho, would you please approach the witness stand. I wouldn’t want to make our illustrious civil servant have to walk to you. The trial could take weeks.”

  He said it as a joke, but he could see it fell flat so he quickly filled the silence.

  “Come. Come.”

  I knew the man once he said the name of course. He had loose manacles on his hands and feet.

  “Yeah, I know him. He pulled a weapon on me a few weeks ago when we were patrolling,” I said.

  “Thank you. You can be seated, Mr. Imdi-ho. Can I ask you if this,” he went to his table and returned, “was the weapon he threatened you with?”

  He held up a submachine gun to me.

  “I don�
��t remember,” I said honestly.

  “Really?” he asked in mock-amazement. “If someone pointed this at me, it would forever be ingrained in my consciousness. Do you want to look again?”

  He held it up, but it meant nothing. I vaguely knew what type of firearm it was, but that’s about it.

  “I don’t recognize it. But you could have changed guns for all I know.”

  “True. Though I didn’t. That is Exhibit A, as both the prosecution and I agree. Is that correct?”

  “I concur. That weapon was submitted with the defendant,” the prosecutor stated. The prosecutor wore flashing lights all over his clothes. But they were subdued colors and to me it looked more respectable than the blue monster hide the defense was wearing.

  Mylan, the defense attorney, put the gun back on his table and returned to me.

  “I would like to step back a moment and examine our witness,” Mylan said.

  “What for?” the judge asked, in a lilting, feigned voice. And his tone made me look back. He was feeding a question to the defense.

  “To establish the validity of this charge at all.”

  There were murmurs from the crowd and I pondered what Mylan meant.

  “Proceed,” Judge Naeb stated at once.

  “Hank,” Mylan began smoothly, “not everyone knows of all your exploits. I, myself, have only been on this esteemed city for the past twenty and four years. How long have you been here?”

  “Uh. I don’t know. Maybe two hundred. Less? I’m not sure.”

  “And you are the same person that destroyed the Colmarian Confederation seventy-eight years ago.”

  Ugh.

  “Fifty. And it wasn’t just me.”

  “What?”

  “It wasn’t just me that done it. A lot of things happened. I was just nearby. And, yeah, I kind of helped I guess.”

  “It was seventy-eight years ago that Belvaille was transported from the state of Ginland to Ceredus,” Mylan said, confused. He thought I was trying to trick him somehow. But I was just dumb.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Yes…”

  Man, was it that long ago?

  The defense tried to recover, as the audience was growing restless.

  “And are you the one who fought hundreds of Therezians on this very station?”