Steven Campbell - Hard Luck Hank - Screw the Galaxy

“To the exact credit, yes.”

This seemed to please Tamshius and he went to his desk.

“For your time and beneficial advice,” he said, and he beamed me 10,000.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, bowing again.

“Can I reserve your assistance if I should require help with the Ddewn affair?” he asked, correctly attributing the concern to the boss and not his underling despite the origins of the debt.

“I await your inquiry and will do the best I can.”

“I can ask nothing more,” he answered.

Tamshius showed me out and I walked the long hall with my free bottle of high-end booze and a spring in my step. I was back to my original total despite an excellent night of much-needed excitement.

The guards were anxious for information on what was going down, but I told them it wasn’t something I could speak about at the moment, which they took as a dark omen.

As soon as I got out of sight of the casino, I was accosted by Rendrae. He was the owner, editor, operator, and often reporter of The News .

He was an overweight man with a greenish complexion and horrible sense of fashion. He always wore a baggy, orange plastic overcoat that had what looked like a thousand pockets, and he wore a purple hat that was reminiscent of a sad, crumpled boot planted upside-down on his head. I always wondered if he cultivated as harmless an image as possible in order to put people at ease.

He had informants in just about every corner of the station. I don’t think a cockroach farted without Rendrae knowing what it had eaten. He was annoying as hell but his articles were incredibly accurate, and people placed a lot of stock in how they were represented in the paper. I had to grudgingly give him credit for being so non-partisan. Rendrae had learned just like I had that the best way to survive was to stay impartial.

“Hank! I got you on the front page, did you see?”

I was too tired to jockey with him. But I had to walk to the train anyway.

“No, I haven’t seen it. I told you I don’t like being quoted.”

I called up the front page on my tele. He had already highlighted it for me.

Hank affirms the likelihood of an upcoming precipitous turf war is “likely” given the preponderance of goodies procured lately and the growing animosity between the legitimate businesses. When pressed about the most likely area of concern, he seemed to give special recognition to blocks 30 through 40.

I groaned. Some people were going to be mad at me for saying that.

While everyone knew Belvaille was crooked, we still pretended we weren’t. Though not very well. Consequently, The News wrote all its stories in code. “Goodies” were weapons, “legitimate businesses” were… not, etc.

“Why’d you have to say my name? Aren’t you supposed to say ‘anonymous sources’?”

He gave me a dirty look.

“If I say that, it’s just hearsay. If I put you down, it’s like a real thing. So I heard about your adventure in the warehouses today. Interesting stuff,” he said coaxingly.

The train seemed far away.

“So Hank, who has the most to lose in a fight?”

“Same as always, the people with the most to lose. Belvaille isn’t getting any bigger.”

Rendrae wrote this down as we walked. No one would allow him to record anything.

“Zadeck,” he began. “I’ve been thinking he might deserve a higher ranking in the top-twenty list. What’s your take?”

“What is he now?”

“Nothing.”

I thought about this. It would certainly be quoted and certainly have an effect on the day-to-day activities on Belvaille—far more than me running my mouth at a casino. Still, it could piss off anyone who got displaced.

“I think he has an opportunity in front of him and how he handles it will affect his ranking.”

“A bit esoteric,” Rendrae answered sourly. “Talk to our readers here, Hank. You know their intelligence level.”

There was just something about Rendrae’s voice and overall manner that broke down your normal barriers. I wondered if he was a mutant with some kind of mind-influencing ability.

“He’s a rising star,” I said.

Rendrae scribbled madly, as if my simple sentence would evaporate if not committed immediately to storage.

“Woohoo, exciting times, exciting times, Hank. And the both of us in the thick of it like always. Though you more so of course,” he added humbly.

I looked at his raggedy jacket and misshapen hat. Rendrae was almost certainly rich with his monopoly newspaper. In fact, if the “Most Influential” list were ever truly reported, Garm would be one and Rendrae would be two. Actually, Wallow would probably be first if it was simply listing raw power.

The train came and we said our farewells, Rendrae waddling back in the direction of the casinos.

The next day I sat eating curry and eggs in a small diner. I was right by the door. That was one of the advantages of being hard to maim, I could sit with my back to everyone and not especially worry about getting shot. My joke was that the ideal restaurant for Belvaille had sixty chairs and sixty corners for those chairs to have their backs against.

I knew all the best foods to eat on Belvaille, and all the restaurants knew what I ordered. The cook himself came out to see if I enjoyed it, like they did at fancy places. Except he was wearing a hairnet and smelled of old sweat.

After my meal I thought about the city’s present troubles.

I didn’t like gang wars. I could potentially make a lot of money, but everyone was so desperate and demanding it was hard to stay neutral. You’re either with me or against me, they all seemed to say. Then it turned into a gamble when you chose sides.

One time I tried to sit out a war. Just stick my head in the ground until it passed. And someone blew up my apartment. I was just hanging around doing nothing for a month, and boom. The worst attack on me since I’d been on Belvaille. So I figured I might as well get paid if folks were going to try and bring a building down on me.

I arrived in Deadsouth, the slummiest part of the station. But a romping good place to look for drugs. Specifically, floppy-eared Jyen’s drugs.

Deadsouth didn’t look much different from the rest of Belvaille except the streets were littered with refuse and people slept everywhere. You practically had to step over them. There were plenty of vacant buildings in the city, but I suppose some people like being outdoors.

No street vendors were going to be able to fill Jyen’s request, so I went looking around for some contacts. But my resources down here were thin. This wasn’t my scene.

I finally inched my way up the totem pole to Grever Treest. I was hoping he would have what I was looking for or at least a good portion. I knew him by name only and not even that well.

I buzzed his door and I could tell he was scanning me. Not sure if he knew who I was, but he was probably weighing whether or not to open the door.

After a moment he cracked it open. He had long greasy hair, which I’m pretty sure is some galactic rule all drug dealers have to possess. He had a sharp nose and was probably handsome to the ladies. I personally had a motto of “always look for the ugliest drug dealer possible.” Handsome people made bad killers and drug dealers—they had too many better options in life.

“Hello?” he asked through the cracked door.

“I’m looking for some drugs,” I said, standing in the hallway. I decided I was just going to be upfront. I don’t think Garm’s police even bothered with Deadsouth.

“Uh, who sent you?” he asked warily. I swear, even on Belvaille, drug dealers had to be the most skittish people in existence.

“Does it matter? Look, I need a list filled.”