Steven Campbell - Hard Luck Hank - Screw the Galaxy

“What’s the shipment?” I asked.

“Booze.”

“Really?” That struck me as an unusual product for Zadeck. But a man’s allowed to diversify, I suppose. “How much are we talking?”

Garm looked off in the distance as she answered in a small voice.

“1.3 million.”

I blinked. That was an outrageous sum for consumables. Very rarely, the station would require some major components to be shipped over and those might run over a million credits, but the idea of food or even alcohol costing that much was incredible.

“Just booze?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

I guess it made sense that Garm was involved. This was probably a shipment for a sizeable chunk of the bars and clubs in the city. Or they were trying to corner the market and be the sole supplier for a year or so. But a scary idea came to me:

“How much am I authorized to cut the price?” I hazarded. This was a polite way of me asking if they had the money.

“Hank, I’m counting on you to get that shipment unloaded and delivered. Talk to Zadeck when you’re done and settle up.

Garm left, saying we would speak later. I headed for the warehouse to earn my paycheck.

There’s a reason people hire me. It’s not because I’m a genius. Or an expert marksman. Or because of my stunning good looks. No, it’s because I actually listen. I take in both sides of every disagreement, evaluate their interests, squeeze as much as is equitable from everyone, and make the fairest deal possible.

Also, I’m hired because when things go wrong around Belvaille there’s a high probability it ends in violence. But because of my mutation, I’m resistant to most weapons, so people know they can’t just shoot their way out if I’m around, they actually need to stop and talk. And that’s good for everyone in the long run.

I’m not bragging when I say there wasn’t one Colmarian on Belvaille I was truly afraid of. Sure, Garm could have me dragged to the port and thrown into space, but we were friends—sort of.

The warehouse had one door for loading and one for pedestrians. I could vaguely hear yelling within, which was better than gunfire. Sounded like a lot of voices.

I knocked on the door and the shouting ceased. There was a pause and then someone answered from behind the door.

“Who’s there?”

“Hank.”

The door opened and I saw Rooltrego Denke, his mouth slightly ajar. He took my hand and shook it vigorously, as if he were suffocating and my arm dispensed oxygen with every pump.

“Hank. Hank. Man, it’s good to see you. We got a real problem here.”

I followed him in. There were about two dozen men inside, clearly squared off. The building was of large enough proportions that it could receive goods directly from spaceships docked at the port. Mechanical movers were laden with crates that had obviously just been unloaded. The boxes were still packaged for zero gravity.

Half the men looked happy to see me and welcomed me as graciously as hoodlums could. They were definitely Zadeck’s guys, as he had a dress code for his people. Except for their numerous scars and generally vicious demeanor, they looked like wealthy art patrons.

I knew most of them or was introduced. I made a point of saying their names to myself mentally after I met them to try and remember. Makes people feel good when you know their names.

The other dozen men were from the ship. Some were wearing their undergear from spacesuits. You could tell they weren’t from around here. Belvaille wasn’t exactly up with the latest styles and a bunch of these guys had on those embedded, glowing tattoos. To me it was like wearing a neon sign, but whatever.

“I’m Captain Ulsaker, who the void are you?” one of them asked. His outfit was somewhat better than the others, using bright golds and blues and whites that hadn’t yet been dirtied from use. He had a few medals on his chest he’d probably bought from a store, as they didn’t match the uniform or each other. These were all working men, covered in grease and grime.

“I’m Hank. I’m here to help.”

The men looked even more wary.

“Zadeck hasn’t paid. When they pay, they get the shipment, nothing to discuss.”

“Where’d you guys come from?” I asked, hoping to steer the conversation to a less tense destination for a moment.

“It’s none of your damn business,” Captain Ulsaker answered.

The Colmarian Confederation was a vast, vast empire with a truly insane amount of cultural idioms, not to mention appearances. It was quite simple to accidentally be rude because you didn’t know someone’s culture, though it was also a Colmarian trait to forgive such lapses.

But this guy was trying to piss me off.

I could respect their frustration. They’d spent at least a month in space. They haul this stuff out here and all of a sudden they’re greeted with a big fat nothing.

“Tell them to give us our credits and we’ll be on our way,” the Captain reiterated.

“Zadeck already transferred the credits. We weren’t instructed to pay anything,” Rooltrego said.

“I’m getting tired of this runaround. I knew we shouldn’t have come to Belvaille. This damn space station is so far away it wasn’t even on our navigation.”

“We do that to keep out the riffraff,” I said. But he didn’t get the joke. Or didn’t think it was funny.

There were a million citizens currently on Belvaille. The overwhelming majority were involved in illegal activities or were wanted as criminals. Everyone knew it, but as long as we didn’t make too much noise and the right bribes went to the right people, the government didn’t care.

That’s how Belvaille originally became what it was. Being so remote, fugitives fled here to avoid prosecution. After a while, so many villains in one place naturally formed their own unique society.

“Do you guys work alone or do you have a boss?” I asked the Captain.

“Look, I don’t know who you are and I don’t care. Our business is with them, not you.”

“Hey, this is Hank,” Rooltrego said. “He works for everyone here.” There were some agreements from Zadeck’s men.

“Well he doesn’t work for us and we didn’t invite him. This whole deal is starting to stink!”

The Captain took out a submachine gun and his crew also drew weapons. A few of Zadeck’s men had pistols, but for the most part I could see they were unarmed. They backed away or got closer to cover.

Lots of time in deep space can do this to you. I didn’t blame them and frankly it very well might have been a double-cross, I just didn’t know. But that wasn’t really my concern right now.

When someone pulls a weapon, I like to evaluate just how likely they are to use it. These guys wanted to get paid. They had nothing to gain by getting in a gun battle. They certainly wouldn’t be able to leave port if they did. So unless they were suicidal, this was just a bluff. More a display of how upset they were becoming. Still, they didn’t have a good grasp of the situation.

“First off, I’m a level-four mutant. That GJ303 and Lam26 and Super Dooli can’t hurt me,” I said honestly, appraising their armaments. Then I reached inside my right holster with my offhand for my plasma pistol.

“Still, if you really want to fight,” I began, “I have this thing I’m fond of saying.”

I flipped the pistol’s power on and a mesmerizing green glow burst from both sides of the weapon; it hurt the eyes, but you were still drawn to it. There was also a kind of hum that vibrated some deep organ in your chest—I’m sure medical technicians had a word for it.

“Eat suck, suckface,” I said in my most tough-guy voice.

The crew’s mouths hung open dumbly, their eyes wide and fixated on the green glow from my pistol.