Steven Campbell - Hard Luck Hank - Screw the Galaxy

“You heard that? But no, it’s two. What do they need two of the empire’s largest ships out here for?”

“But hey, that’s good,” I said, thinking.

“What? No, it’s not.”

“No, listen. I was worried they were going to use the dreadnought to blow up the station. But they don’t need two for that. So they must have another reason.”

Rendrae seemed to think about this.

“Maybe we’re going to attack someone. The Dredel Led,” he said to himself.

My face immediately contorted into disbelief.

“The Colmarian Confederation start a war? You kidding? We’re the fat kid of the galaxy, who could we possibly beat?”

“I don’t know, ask Garm. But it’s clear we have to stand up to the military before they completely take us over. It’s us against them. No one has ever bothered Belvaille before now.”

“Except the Dredel Led,” I corrected.

“But they’re gone.”

“Rendrae, just lay low. Print some…sports stories or something. I don’t know. Just don’t keep pushing. At least for a while. Otherwise Garm really is going to take a hit out on you. And standing in the corner isn’t going to save you.”

Rendrae mulled this over.

“Tell you what, if you can get Garm to promise to stay off my back, I’ll do like you say. But I need your word.”

“No problem, you have it. But don’t be surprised when the battlecruisers show up, you get a personal invitation to meet them. You’re making it hard on yourself, too.”

“I am prepared to die for my principles,” he said, sticking out his chest.

“And what principles are those? Keep Belvaille dirty?” I said with a snicker.

“Keep Belvaille free,” he countered with conviction.

Now I had to go threaten Garm’s snitches.

I didn’t like messing with normals for the most part. They did their jobs and we did ours. Sometimes our paths crossed and they lost, that’s the nature of the business. I mean, if we try and lay down a bribe and the guy won’t accept, what are we supposed to do? Say, “oh, well,” and move on? Of course not.

Besides, this was for the safety of all of us. When the troops got here, no one was going to listen to people like me. I’m a murderer. I haven’t worked a real job in my life. But some straight-laced folks with perfect records, they’ll listen to them. And if they start pointing fingers it could go bad.

I had never been this close to the telescopes, which looked like huge satellite dishes. They were aligned all across the northern edge of the city and there were far more than I’d ever realized.

Garm had given me an electric pass that let me into the offices.

Inside it was crammed with machinery and workers and desks and tables. It looked pretty impressive, actually.

A mousy little man in a formal suit walked up to me.

“Can I help you?” he asked with an air of disdain, as if he was certain I didn’t belong there—and he was right.

“I need an office, or a room where I can speak to some people,” I answered.

“What is this regarding?” he sniffed.

“It’s regarding you finding me a room before I smash your face.”

I could have just said it was official Adjunct Overwatch business or blah blah, but I didn’t feel he deserved the courtesy. People talk about criminals being jerks, but I found it’s just the opposite. If a thug has an attitude problem he’s going to be out of work pretty quick or dead pretty quicker. But regular slobs have to put up with all kinds of crap and they can’t do nothing about it.

The mouse returned with a security guard who also moonlighted as muscle for Garm. He recognized me immediately.

“Oh,” he said to the manager. “You need to do what he says,” indicating me.

The manager had a mini-outrage, as if the brutes were suddenly taking over. He sputtered and gurgled and I nearly expected his eyes to pop out from steam pressure. Regardless, the security guard left and the manager was alone and his neck was the size of my thumb.

“I suppose you can use room 23 down that hall.”

“Thanks,” I said. I then took out my tele and read to the room full of workers, “Is Houtin Lovecraven here? Houtin Lovecraven?”

There was a pause and a plump, middle-aged woman raised her hand shyly. I sighed and waved her over. The workers all stopped as the woman nervously made her way to me. I escorted her down to the room that had been indicated.

The room was small and cramped and didn’t have any furniture. The door also didn’t have a lock, so I stood blocking it once we were inside.

The woman looked up at me expectantly. You could be certain she was someone’s grandmother and likely great-grandmother.

I held out my tele to her.

“Read this,” I said.

She began reading and I could see recognition slowly dawning.

“You know that?” I asked.

“Yes. I wrote it,” she said quietly.

“Did you think no one would read it?”

“I was hoping someone would.”

It was at this point I realized she thought I was some person from the military. Or government. Or wherever she’d sent her message off to, come to heed her call.

“Your tele never cleared this station,” I said. “It was intercepted.”

She was confused.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out my Ontakian pistol and powered it on. In the cramped room the vibrations were positively jaw-aching.

“You know what this is?” I asked rhetorically.

“No,” she said, staring into the light.

“Really? Uh.” I turned it off and put it back into my jacket. I then pulled out my shotgun. “You know what this is?”

“No,” she answered with her tiny voice.

“You sure?” I held it at different angles for her to see.

She looked at it, but I could see no understanding in her eyes.

“No, I’m sorry. Should I?”

“Do you not get out?”

“Excuse me?”

I put my shotgun away and scratched my nose.

“What is it you do here, Houtin?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say,” she replied delicately.

“That’s okay, I’m here to kill you so it doesn’t really matter.”

She recoiled against the wall, eyes wide. Suddenly my appearance seemed to make sense to her. Maybe even my guns. She dropped to her knees and began sobbing uncontrollably.

A few times I tried to interject, but she was hysterical and I could tell she was beyond processing anything I said.

I waited. I mean she had to stop at some point or she was going to get dehydrated.

A half hour passed and she was sitting on the floor with her knees to her chest and her head down, wailing just as loud as when she started.

I teled a guy I knew. Asked him how he was doing. Said we should get together later this week. He asked me what the screaming was in the background. “Work,” I said.

My knees hurt so I sat down as well.

After ages, the crying began to slow a bit and I stood back up to resume my position of menace.

“Houtin?” I began. “Houtin. Hello, Houtin?”

She wiped her eyes but did not look at me.

“You know, I’m not supposed to do this,” I said, “but I just might be able to let you live.”

She finally looked up. Her face was a swollen reddish-purple. I did feel like a heel, but what could I do?

“If you agree to not talk to any military officials regarding what you wrote, I think I can convince my boss you’re trustworthy. You’ll have to sign this, though.”

I handed her my tele, where I had whipped up a couple-sentence agreement while I was waiting for her to finish weeping.

She hesitated.

Great, was she going to start crying again?

“It…,” she said weakly.

“Yes?”