Steven Campbell - Hard Luck Hank - Basketful of Crap

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.”

“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.

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.