Hard Luck Hank Screw the Galaxy(13)

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.”

He appraised me for a while.

“Are you Hank?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, not knowing if that would be good or bad.

He opened the door warily. Inside it was just a normal apartment, slightly messy. It was a version thirty-one layout. There were only fifty or so different types of apartments in the whole city. I lived in a version fifteen, which was larger but had fewer rooms. It smelled like incense inside and there were music holograms on the walls.