Hard Luck Hank Screw the Galaxy(2)

I could also heal very fast. The government had done testing when they first classified me and they sliced off the tip of my pinky. It grew back after a few months, but felt stiff for years after. I kept thinking what jerks they were for doing that since they didn’t actually know if it would regrow. But our government was not known for its competence.

Garm was also a mutant. I think she didn’t need to sleep. Or didn’t sleep much. Maybe that’s why she was all hyper. You find a lot of Colmarians go into lines of work where they can take advantage of their mutations.

Garm ran a crooked space station and never took her eyes off it.

I was a punching bag.

“Well, I finally know your weakness. If I ever get in a fight with you, I’ll just run away.” Garm had started jogging backwards to rub it in.

The fact she had picked me up personally for this particular job was unusual—not that we never dealt with each other, but she could have sent one of her soldiers. It told me she was personally invested in this deal. I didn’t ask her about it because I knew she wouldn’t tell me.

Garm and I had a great relationship. She always lied to me and I always lied to her. But each of us knew the other was lying.





CHAPTER 2


I had to stop and catch my breath and Garm took the opportunity to fill me in.

“A delivery to the space station has come and there’s a dispute over payment. You should expect everyone to be armed and unhappy. The merchandise is for Zadeck,” she said.

Colmarian dialect was the galactic standard and this was something we were rightly proud of. Seeing as like 99.99% of the known species were within our empire, it only made sense to use our language. That said, Colmarians had widely varying accents. The joke being that if you asked two Colmarians directions to the same location and followed them both, you would continually run in a figure eight. It took me a second to register the name because of Garm’s particular pronunciation, but then I got it.

Zadeck wasn’t a big crime boss. He ran one whole block in the northeast. It was where all the truly upscale restaurants and clubs resided. He catered to those wealthy refugees on the space station who wanted the finer things.

“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.