Steven Campbell - Hard Luck Hank - Prince of Suck

I was on the floor of my living room, my hand clutching my chest, having a heart attack.

Again.

Actually, I wasn’t sure if it was a heart attack, or heart failure, or both. I suppose it was all academic. And I never did very well in school.

I liked to tell myself that I didn’t keep track of how many heart attacks I suffered, but in these past six months I had eight. The prior six months was five. The six months before that only two. So it was clear which way things were headed.

Unless of course I died right now.

I wanted to cough, since I had fluid in my lungs, but I couldn’t get in enough air. And I was burning up because my skin had long ago lost the ability to sweat and dissipate heat.

The insulting part was if I managed to survive this attack, I would experience them even more frequently. Because of my mutation, my body would stack layer upon layer of new cells over the damage, trying to make my organs more durable than ever, until my heart became so rigid it would be incapable of pumping even if it was hooked up to the city’s electrical grid.

I’d gotten used to heart attacks. You can get used to anything, really. You don’t have a choice.

My doorbell rang, its steady bonging mocking my erratic heartbeat.

It was time for work. I managed to suck in a big gulp of air and cough. I rolled on my side and reached out a hand.

My apartment was filled with modern art sculptures that were welded to my metal floor. They were all roughly the same: sturdy, multi-tier cylinders or rectangles. They were everywhere. People who came by thought I was some weirdo art snob.

But it was because I fell down a lot and couldn’t stand without their assistance. I wasn’t weak, far from it, but my body was inflexible and outrageously heavy. I simply couldn’t bend my legs enough to stand. At one point I had faces on the statues so they looked less abstract, but when you’re having a heart attack, the last thing you want to see as you writhe on the ground in agony is a bunch of uppity metal statues judging you.

I leaned on the sculpture nearest me and began hauling myself up with my arms.

My doorbell rang again. Why would they ring my bell twice? They knew better than that.

After some minutes I managed to stand. It felt like I had walked up a mountain backwards and then gotten kicked in the head by an angry goat for my efforts.

I put on my jacket and opened the front door.

“Sorry, Boss,” MTB said. “It was the new guy that rung your bell again.”

I looked over and saw a tiny woman standing on my porch with MTB. She had a freckled face and straight red hair that whipped around wildly, unable to be contained by an assortment of clips and braids. She wore the uniform of my Stair Boys.

MTB was my Deputy Kommilaire. “Kommilaire” was the official name of the Stair Boys. MTB was a big guy with a square jaw who liked punching people. He took his job very seriously.

There was a bit of the sadist in MTB, but if I had to choose psychological disorders, I guess his was better than, say, being a pyromaniac—we go to arrest some guy and he sets the building on fire. Besides, this whole city was pretty sadistic, so MTB fit in perfectly.

I walked out of my apartment and the new guy practically jumped over the railing to get away. I didn’t know if she thought I was going to slug her or if I was that ugly and intimidating.

I was pretty ugly and intimidating, though.

I squinted to get a better look at her. One of my eyes was a bit cloudy. I didn’t know if it was cataracts, but my eyes were too dense to be corrected surgically so it didn’t matter if it was cataracts or my body was so massive it had its own atmosphere, complete with clouds.

The new guy was definitely attractive. Very petite. Not a particularly curvy body. She wore little in the way of make-up except for some lipstick; I guess it was tough to match eye shadow with freckles without looking like a clown. Her eyes were green as emeralds.

“The new guy’s a girl,” I said to MTB.

“So what?” the new guy answered, taking it as a challenge.

“You will address Hank as sir or Boss,” MTB yelled at her.

“She’s got some swagger, eh? I said we needed forty new guys, why is there just one gal?”

“Boss,” MTB began weakly, “there’s just no one who fits what you are asking. If you lower the requirements we could get a lot of people. Everyone wants to join.”

“New guy,” I said to the woman, “come here.”

She stepped forward with gusto.

“Walk with me,” I continued.

She was on the street in a hop and turned around wondering where I had gone. I was inching my way down the ramp that led up to my front door.

I never wore shoes because they simply didn’t last on me because of my weight. I didn’t mind stepping in filth.

I used to have some special socks a long time ago that were durable enough for me to use, but they stopped fitting and there was no one left to alter them. And then I lost them.

We had six vehicles with us and maybe thirty men. The rest of the Kommilaire were on different shifts or already patrolling the city.

“Mount up,” MTB yelled to the Stair Boys in the street.

The space station Belvaille was a solid metal city fifteen miles by fifteen miles. All the buildings were steel alloy and formed some kind of rectangle. You didn’t get fancy with designs on a space station because you had a fixed amount of real estate and it could never increase.

Belvaille was situated in the Ceredus system of space, which still had the greatest number of functioning Portals in the galaxy. The Portals were used by space craft to travel instantaneously to locations many light years away.

Quite a few Portals had been damaged during the war that had shattered the Colmarian Confederation. A war which may or may not still be ongoing. Different people had different opinions on that.

It was unclear which empire, if any, Belvaille belonged to now. What happened off-station didn’t really matter until it spilled onto Belvaille. If some warlord said we were in his territory that meant nothing unless he came down here to enforce his claim—so far, none had succeeded.

About fifty years ago I had been elected Supreme Kommilaire of Belvaille. The head of law enforcement. I had now been on the space station for about 200 years.

Because of the war and because of Belvaille’s central location, the city was filled with people. I had no idea how many. Millions, I’m sure. There were three hundred Stair Boys to keep millions of people in line.

It wasn’t working.

“What’s your name, new guy?”

“Valia,” she replied.

“How long you been on Belvaille?”

“Five days.”

“You ride with me, then.”

She went around to a vehicle but came back when she saw I was walking to a heavy lifter, which was basically a really large fork lift.

“We’re not riding in one of the trucks?” she asked.

“No,” I said, without further explanation.

I stepped onto the platform of the heavy lifter and gave the driver the go-ahead. The engine screamed as it tried to hoist me off the ground. Valia quickly scampered up beside me.