Hard Luck Hank Screw the Galaxy(4)
“Still, if you really want to fight,” I began, “I have this thing I’m fond of saying.”
I flipped the pistol’s power on and a mesmerizing green glow burst from both sides of the weapon; it hurt the eyes, but you were still drawn to it. There was also a kind of hum that vibrated some deep organ in your chest—I’m sure medical technicians had a word for it.
“Eat suck, suckface,” I said in my most tough-guy voice.
The crew’s mouths hung open dumbly, their eyes wide and fixated on the green glow from my pistol.
The only thing Colmarians found more frightening than effective government was Ontakians: the race that had designed my very special plasma pistol.
An almost mythical species at this point, Ontakians had only occupied a single planet. Long story short, we came to them and said, “Hi, welcome to the Colmarian Confederation.” They said, “No, thanks.” We said, “No, seriously,” and invaded them. Our 50,000 species versus their one. And they beat us like a drum. We finally amassed our navy around their planet and bombarded it until it broke apart.
We never could figure out their weaponry. Any time we tried to replicate it, it blew up or just didn’t work. This pistol was supposedly my great-grandfather’s. It’s beyond illegal and I got offered 300,000 credits for it once.
I’ve never actually fired it and I’d have to be completely crazy to try. But nothing brought a potential fight to a screeching halt like flashing a scary alien artifact. If I had thought they were really going to fight, I would have reached for my shotgun instead.
There was a lull as their brains clicked over how they should proceed.
Then, as my attention was directed towards the armed men in front, a multi-ton crate was dropped on me from above.
I hit the floor face down and found my legs up to about my waist were under a cargo container. I managed to hold onto my pistol despite the force, which hadn’t hurt incredibly much but was certainly surprising. Now I was annoyed. Not because they had tried to smush me, but because I looked like a doofus pinned to the ground after I had just given my badass talk.
The sailors were still in awe. If they hadn’t been impressed by my Ontakian pistol, they were by the fact my head hadn’t popped off and my guts squirted out when this crate landed on me.
“Guys, give me a hand,” I said, realizing there was no way I was going to get myself out alone.
Zadeck’s men came over cautiously and began pulling. I held my pistol as they tugged on my arms and pried at the container.
After an inordinate amount of time they finally freed me, and I stood up with as much dignity as I could muster. This was difficult considering I no longer had pants on, which had been mostly scraped off during my extraction. I was left in my underwear and ragged strips of my pants that hung from my belt and pooled sadly around my ankles.
I looked at the crane arm that had dropped the load. Followed the line. Over to the control booth. A sailor sat at the controls. He was a youngish man, maybe early fifties, and he wore the expression of someone who realized he’d just made a terrible, life-ending mistake.
“Hey, come here,” I said to him.
He didn’t come. I suppose a lot of people lie about having mutations in Colmarian space. It’s a way to avoid getting thumped if you convince people you can exhale supercooled nitrogen or whatever. Of course, that’s usually a lot of crap, so these guys probably figured I was lying too.
Well, I wasn’t lying.
Despite this setback, I tried to clear my head and get back to business.
“Look,” I said. “I know Zadeck. I can’t imagine he’s trying to cut you out. Have you guys delivered to him before?”
It took everyone a moment to come back to reality.
“Yeah, third time. But he’s always paid at shipment,” the Captain said, seemingly more ready to negotiate now that he understood I was for real.
“See? This is probably a misunderstanding. Where are you guys staying on station and for how long?”
“We’re at the Chelsea Halfway House,” the Captain answered.
“That place sucks. Go to the Marine Marina and tell the front desk you’re a guest of Hank. But don’t bust up any of the rooms.”
“Just ‘Hank’?” he asked.
“Everyone knows him,” Rooltrego volunteered. I could tell both sides were feeling a little more comfortable.
“I’m going to go over and talk to Zadeck. There’s nothing you can do here. You made your shipment. I promise I’ll get you your money.”
“I have your word on that?” I could see he was uneasy, but it was a better option than being shot with an Ontakian weapon by a pant-less mutant.