Hard Luck Hank Screw the Galaxy(52)

“Move,” I said to him.

He moved.

I looked at Ddewn, who was clutching his chest. I had hit him with the small-sized shot. The synth jacket hadn’t stopped it, but it probably severely reduced its impact. Where the jacket was parted, however, was covered in blood. And a few fliers obviously hit him in the neck, as it was bleeding copiously.

“There are three hundred and fifty thousand military coming to this station real soon,” I said. And though I was speaking down at Ddewn, it was mostly directed to his men. I stepped on his chest and he screamed. “I need to know that you’re able to be a team player.”

He hurled a string of obscenities at me so forcefully I was surprised I managed to stay on my feet.

“I thought you were going to say something like that.”

I fired a buckshot tube at his head, which was instantly whisked from his body and almost uniformly spread to the clothes of the men standing around him.

The room that had been a hair away from jumping on me a moment ago was silent and pacified. Ddewn’s foot soldiers were beheaded the moment he was.

“Right,” I said. “Who’s second in command here?”

There was no answer. They hadn’t even made a move to wipe the blood from themselves. The room was motionless except for me, turning around to look at these thugs, their silly pipes and ropes feeble in their hands.

“No one?” I asked incredulously. “Who is number two? Come on.”

The men shifted a bit. They were coming back to reality. I could see a small pocket being formed around the man who had been kneeling next to Ddewn when he first fell.

“Okay, what’s your name?” I asked.

He told me and I didn’t catch it. I assumed he was just nervous.

“What?”

He repeated it and it was clear he’d said it properly.

“Uh, you got a nickname or something?”

“Big Moff,” one of them said.

I rolled my eyes at the adjective. Criminals aren’t a creative bunch when it comes to names.

“Moff,” I said. “Good. You’re the new boss. Garm is going to be coming by with her people and just cooperate with her and whatever. And no fighting with other bosses. Okay?”

Moff looked at me dumbly. He probably thought it was a cruel joke.

“Okay,” he squeaked.

And I guess that was it. We couldn’t very well have Ddewn’s guys be out on the street. That’d be about as bad as a war.

“Cool.” I turned to leave when I remembered something. “Oh, where is Oluv-Jos?”

The group parted and a man with blood on his right pant leg was left all alone. He knew what the score was and dropped down on his knees.

“Please don’t kill me! I was just doing what he said. I didn’t even know what he was up to. Ask anyone. Kello, tell him. Big Moff? Wennel?”

The men kept their eyes averted and their distance from the condemned man. They no longer knew Oluv-Jos.

But I couldn’t kill a guy on his knees who was pleading. Not when I didn’t know the details.

“Alright, alright. Um,” and I tried to think of some smaller punishment, but what could I do?

“Moff, punish him. So the other bosses are satisfied.” Then I thought of something else more important. “Oh, and you owe me…seventy thousand credits.”

“What? Why?” He wasn’t upset, just perplexed. I must have seemed like I was talking gibberish at this point.

“Because someone has to pay my fee for this job,” I said, pointing to Ddewn.

“I don’t have that much,” he said feebly.

“Sure you do,” I answered, indicating the restaurant. It was easy for him to not realize that, having only been a crime boss for thirty seconds.

At that very moment a couple walked through the front door, saw a bunch of armed men covered in blood standing around a corpse, and paused.

“Closed right now,” I said helpfully.

After they left I was feeling pretty good about all this. Took care of one of the biggest nuisances on the station and made a good chunk of money.

“So if there isn’t anything more, I’ll see you guys later.” And I left the building.

I had walked about a half block, my appreciation of the Ddewn affair rising with each step, when someone jogged up to me.

“Hank. Excuse me, Hank,” said one of Ddewn/Moff’s panting thugs.

“That’s how we do it on Belvaille, eh?” I said, pushing the thug’s chest, which was my version of a punch.

“Yeah,” he said politely. “Um, Ddewn had a wife. And a daughter.”

I stopped walking.

“Really? Here?”

“Yeah. D block and 12th, I think.”

Back inside Moff’s club, the men hadn’t moved much. They were crowded closer around the body and talked in hushed voices.