Hard Luck Hank: Prince of Suck

by Steven Campbell

  The audience was dead silent. This was like hearing the history of creation from the mouth of the guy standing next to the Creator when it happened.

  “I didn’t fight fight them. There were hundreds, sure. Kicking buildings to pieces and stepping on people.”

  “But you survived and they all fled?” Mylan confirmed.

  “It’s not as simple as that, but yeah.”

  “And you negotiated our species’ survival with a prince of the Boranjame on his…shuttle?”

  I could see he accented that last word to force me to correct him for dramatic effect.

  “It was on his world-ship, yes.”

  Some stunned murmurs from the crowd.

  “And you single-handedly repelled a full Dredel Led robot invasion of this station, saving millions of lives—back when we were at war with the Dredel Led.”

  “I don’t know how many people I saved. I fought some Dredel Led—”

  “And they lost,” Mylan interrupted.

  “Yes.”

  “And in the dark corporate years of Belvaille you did battle with tanks.” He went on to detail what a tank was since most people had no clue. “You fought those personally?”

  “Smaller ones,” I said.

  I knew there were stories about me. Stories like this.

  Just about anyone who knew the gospel truth was dead or senile like I was. Those stories did me a world of help when I was trying to work as a Kommilaire, though. I only had to show up and fights would stop. So setting the record completely straight wasn’t in my best interest or that of the Stair Boys.

  If people thought I thrashed hundreds of Therezians, an absolutely ridiculous idea considering just one Therezian beat me into a coma, then those people were less likely to cause trouble when I attempted to maintain a semblance of order in the city.

  Mylan pounced over to his table like he had been possessed by whatever furry animal he had skinned to make his clothes.

  He picked up the gun.

  “So let me ask you, were you scared when Mr. Imdi-ho allegedly pointed this weapon at you?”

  “Scared? How do you mean?”

  “Hah, you don’t even know that concept! You want me to explain it to you!”

  “I know what being scared is,” I said.

  “When was the last time you were afraid?”

  There was a pause as I thought on it.

  “See? Our Supreme Kommilaire drives around every day dealing with the city’s most dangerous inhabitants—which does not include Mr. Imdi-ho, who has no prior record—yet he can’t tell us when he was last frightened.”

  I was frightened as hell when I was about to die from my numerous heart attacks, but I didn’t want to say that.

  “Let me ask you,” Mylan continued, “if I shot you with this gun, would it hurt you?”

  I was taken aback.

  “Are you challenging me to a duel?”

  “No! No! No!” Mylan stammered. “I just want to know if this gun could harm you is all.”

  He held it up again.

  “No.”

  “Then I vote that this charge be thrown out on account that Mr. Imdi-ho is incapable of threatening our Supreme Kommilaire.”

  Excited talking from the audience.

  The prosecutor, who may have been sleeping this whole time, suddenly became alert.

  “I object!” He shouted.

  “On what grounds?” the judge asked.

  “Bad…bad jurisprudence. Bad precedence.” He searched through his notes for more words to throw.

  “I fine the defendant fifty thumbs and confiscation of Exhibit A,” the judge gaveled.

  “What?” I shouted, but Judge Naeb had already stood and exited.

  These trials didn’t mean a lot, but I couldn’t have people pointing guns at me all the time!

  Everyone was debating the outcome after the trial.

  I stepped down from the witness box, waiting for people to start waving guns in my face, but instead I was assaulted by reporters.

  “Hank, an intriguing ruling, what is your take on it?” Rendrae asked.

  Rendrae was an old-school citizen of Belvaille. Fat and green described him perfectly.

  He held a microphone that plugged directly into the station’s loudspeakers. He was a partial owner of them along with some other groups. They hosted news and entertainment programs throughout the day and part of the night. They were a near-constant noise.

  Some news organizations put out a printed daily paper, but that was only for the wealthy. Thus their content was limited to financial dealings and society reviews.

  The lesser reporters hung behind Rendrae waiting for their turns, like pigeons waiting for a hawk to get his fill and leave.

  I cleared my throat, which echoed on the speakers as the microphone was thrust toward me. I didn’t like doing this, but it was part of the job.

  “I think it is dangerous—” I started.

  “Do you believe the ruling reflected Mr. Imdi-ho’s membership in the Olmarr Republic? That there might have been some efforts to appease them? Or maybe they even bought the ruling?”

  “Maybe,” I said dumbly. Though Rendrae was clearly correct.

  The Olmarr Republic was a powerful faction on Belvaille. They were trying to establish an empire based on their ancient civilization, which was a precursor to the Colmarian Confederation. Belvaille was in the territory that had once been part of the Olmarr Republic—so they say. It morphed untold millennia ago.

  In my view, the Olmarr Republic was just another power grab by people wanting a marketable rally point. No one’s great-great-great-great-grandparents were alive during the Olmarr Republic, so it was nonsense that anyone should care now.

  But they had money and support. I could easily see them throwing their weight into the outcome of this trial. It would score them points with their members and show they were influential. And Judge Naeb certainly wasn’t above bribes—if anything, bribes were above him.

  “What is your next step, then?” Rendrae asked. “Is it lawful for people to intimidate the Kommilaire?”

  “No. I understand the judge’s ruling to only apply to me. My Kommilaire have instructions that if anyone threatens them, they are to immediately attack. That doesn’t change.”

  “Did the judge overstep his bounds?”

  “Um…”

  Judge Naeb had likely been bought and this whole outcome planned. But I still had to tiptoe around this. I couldn’t say half of the city’s law and order was invalid, even if it was true.

  “Let me rephrase that. Should judges be elected by the people of Belvaille, just as you, our Supreme Kommilaire, are elected?”

  I guess technically I was elected. But no one ever ran against me. I wasn’t even sure when the elections were held or how it was determined I won. By weight?

  It’s not that I was all that special or anything, but name value means a lot. I’ve met refugees from every part of the former Colmarian Confederation, and even in those far-flung places they have heard of Hank. The Hank.

  History gets simplified over time, especially with the collapse of society and technology. What were fifty pages of complex details and reasons, becomes five pages, becomes one, and then becomes a sentence.

  “Hank of Belvaille brought about the destruction of the corrupt Colmarian Confederation” is a common folk legend.

  And how often do you get to elect a folk legend to office?

  Rendrae had been doing this reporter business for a long time. Since before I had destroyed the galaxy—or whatever. He had competition now, but he was better than they were. He knew what people wanted.

  “Garm picks judges from her stronghold in the Gilded Tower,” Rendrae said, referring to City Hall. “She created the majority of our laws by fiat. Do you think the upcoming election will change that or will she still wield ultimate power?”

  Rendrae had never much cared for Garm. But Belvaille could, in a second, turn into anarchy. A handful of Stair Boys wou
ldn’t stop this city if it wanted to pull itself apart.

  And it really wanted to.

  We had an election coming, the first ever in Belvaille’s history. We were electing a Governor and City Council.

  We had no clue what they would do.

  It was hard to shake off our Colmarian Confederation inefficiency. So we were going to elect a bunch of people and then decide what we were electing them for later.

  Rendrae was covering the election continuously, which was why he was personally at this trial interviewing me. He didn’t care about the case. He wanted some juicy sound bites on the election.

  “Rendrae, I have to say that I am excited about Belvaille’s future. To this day, we are still one of the most important cities in existence. We have room for improvement, but I don’t believe in change just for the sake of change. With the election to come, I feel Belvaille will have a chance to exercise its freedoms at a degree never yet seen.”

  I hoped that was a fuzzy enough speech of non-talk to appease people. I could hear a general murmur from Courtroom Three Street, and from its pitch, it sounded placated. You quickly learn the tone of a mob.

  “I want to thank you for your time, Hank. As my listeners know, I have been covering news, and your place in it, for centuries now. This is Rendrae, your Force for Facts, signing off.

  The other reporters jostled and yelled for quotes, but I was fed up and began my walk back to the train.

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

  CHAPTER 4

  That night I headed out to escape the crowds.

  The Belvaille Athletic Gentleman’s Club was the most exclusive club in the city.

  Actually, I have no idea why I said that. I’m not sure what the most exclusive club was. It was the oldest club, though. Sort of.

  It had formerly been two clubs: the Belvaille Athletic Club, where all the crime bosses met; and the Belvaille Gentleman’s Club, where all the thugs and goons met.

  The Old Belvaille concepts of bosses and thugs were a lot hazier nowadays so the Clubs had merged, taking the Athletic Club as its base of operations. The Gentleman’s Club, which was now apartment buildings, still smelled like rancid foot odor seventy-eight years later.

  But the name. Every time I saw the name of the club I got angry. It was so ridiculous.

  Athletic Gentleman?

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Hank, Supreme Kommilaire!” Dample said obsequiously at the door.

  Dample was the grandson of Krample, who had been the coat check of the Belvaille Gentleman’s club for maybe two hundred years. Krample had been so bitter and angry, his very blood must have been lemon juice.

  It was the kind of personality you expected to be coat check in the social club of a bunch of murderers and bandits.

  Dample was simpering and kind. I didn’t like him.

  “Is there anything I can get ready for you, sir?” he asked, bowing. Not sure why he bowed.

  “Sandwiches,” I replied tersely.

  The Athletic Gentleman’s club only served bad sandwiches. Oh, and this kind of meat cake with meat frosting and vegetable sculptures on it. But no one ate that. I think they had it just to say they had more than one thing on the menu.

  The club itself was a mixture of highbrow and lowbrow. There were card games and sports games, but there were also paintings and the odd fountain. Half the guys were unshaven, wearing shorts, and the other half were in suits of the latest style.

  I had a special booth at the club that was made out of reinforced steel. As I was walking to it, a blond-haired man hurried up to me.

  “Hank?” he asked, as if there were a thousand people on Belvaille who fit my description.

  “Yes.”

  “Excuse me for interrupting. My name is Jorn-dole. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.”

  The man was extremely good-looking. It was hard to tell when a man was attractive. Women had the ability to give honest appraisals of other women. But men were terrible at it. Not sure how that ever came about. I thought MTB was a handsome guy with his square jaw and rugged features, but I had been told, quite frequently by women, that he was in fact not attractive. Even I could tell Jorn-dole was handsome, however.

  “How did you get in here?” I asked him. It was clear right away that he did not belong in the club for a lot of reasons. He was too pretty. He didn’t know who I was and I had been in this club for several hundred years. And he had an unusual manner that was simply not Belvaille.

  “What?” He was taken aback. “I just bought a membership.”

  “Who sponsored you?” I asked.

  “Fifty thousand thumbs,” he said.

  I sulked. He had bought his way in. I guess the club wasn’t as exclusive as I thought. Athletic Gentlemen indeed.

  I reached my table and sat down with a crash. I think the whole club was slightly tilted from me always sitting in the same spot.

  Jorn-dole was still at my heels like a puppy, with a face and eagerness that matched.

  “Do you think Belvaille is dangerous?” he asked.

  Who was this guy? If I was faster, and a bit meaner, I would punch him in the nose for asking such a candy-ass question. The people in this club made the station dangerous!

  “I mean, is it true that Belvaille used to be much safer?” he continued.

  “Eh, sure. Yeah, it was. But it had maybe a tenth the population and hadn’t gone through a war. That Belvaille is gone. That galaxy is gone,” I said.

  My guess was this guy was a businessman. He probably took a look around and was shocked. But Belvaille could use more jobs. People with jobs were too tired to cause problems for me and my Kommilaire.

  The waiter rolled on over with a huge tray and deposited about fifty pounds of sandwiches and gallons of beer. It took it a few minutes to unload all the food.

  When it had left, Jorn-dole stood with his mouth open. He leaned in to whisper.

  “Was that,” he started, pointing at the server. “Was that a Dredel Led?”

  “Yeah. It works here,” I said of the robot.

  The Dredel Led was a wheeled metal machine about five feet tall. It was a narrow black cylinder with spindly robot arms. It made an excellent waiter because it could zip around and between people at great speed—as long as the floor was level and clean. I had never met any two Dredel Led that were remotely identical in appearance or function.

  “Didn’t they attack the station? Attack you? Weren’t we at war with them?”

  I ate some sandwiches, answering with my mouth full.

  “That was almost a century ago. We have nearly every species in the galaxy on Belvaille, with more coming all the time. This is a great place to start a business. We have Gandrine and Dredel Led. If you go outside and look up you’ll see the gaseous species Keilvin Kamigans floating around—what they’re doing up there I don’t know, maybe pissing on us. There’s even a Boranjame,” I said. “But he’s only about this big.”

  I held my arms about four feet apart. Boranjame were a crystalline species that never stopped growing. The prince I met long ago was miles across.

  Jorn-dole’s mouth still hung open.

  “And everyone gets along?”

  “I didn’t say that. But look, the war wasn’t other races attacking us, it was a civil war. We didn’t need any help destroying ourselves. But if you’ll excuse me now, I just want to eat my food. I hope you enjoy your stay on Belvaille,” I said.

  “Thank you, Hank.” Jorn-dole smiled and departed.

  I sat there eating my pile of sandwiches that covered most of the table, trying to think things through.

  Belvaille had become more and more complicated. Religions, political factions, businesses, ethnic groups, refugees, homeless, feral kids, beggars, as well as the usual gangs and gang bosses.

  Used to be when there was a problem, I would fix it. “Fix” usually involved expelling or jailing or maiming or killing the source of the problem—but more often simply talking it out.


  There were too many of them now.

  Even if I lined up every serious troublemaker and drove by on my heavy lifter kneecapping them all, that wouldn’t solve anything. I’d just have a third of the population with no kneecaps.

  And I couldn’t get personally involved in every problem like I used to. There weren’t enough hours in the day.

  I should get this stuff written down and organized. I had always trusted to my memory to keep everything straight, but I couldn’t remember millions of people and their dispositions.

  We had some files for the Kommilaire, but it simply took too much manpower to maintain them. We needed people patrolling the streets far more than we needed clerks shuffling papers.

  As for electronic storage, I didn’t trust it. The Colmarian Confederation had been run on teles. Personal communication devices and computers. When the empire fragmented, I think a big part of the devastation that followed came from our teles being disconnected. Every transaction, every interaction, was done via tele. All of a sudden they were gone and we had nothing to take their place.

  Today, if you wanted to say hi to someone on another planet, you got in a ship, travelled anywhere from a few months to a few years, landed, got out and said hi. If the other planet wasn’t connected by a Portal, you couldn’t communicate with them at all. Those systems were lost.

  Something was going to have to give. I felt like the city was barely holding itself together.

  It was like someone dropping a single feather on your shoulders one after another. At first you don’t notice them at all, but eventually those feathers are going to crush you to death.

  While I was deep in my ruminations, a man rolled up to my booth in a golden wheelchair.

  He was an elderly man, but not ancient. He was, however, hooked up to numerous machines and wore a respirator to breathe.

  “Hello, Zadeck,” I said.

  Zadeck had been one of the younger crime bosses before Belvaille had moved. His claim to fame was he had a Therezian bodyguard named Wallow. Therezians were giants, thirty, forty, eighty feet tall, and nearly impervious. Wallow had been sucked out into space, however, ages ago.

  Zadeck had adjusted and adjusted well. He was one of the most important crime bosses on Belvaille now. I didn’t know the extent of his activities, but I knew they were substantial.