Hard Luck Hank: Basketful of Crap

by Steven Campbell

  “Ho ho ho.”

  Garm’s office was resplendent with finery and artwork and every stick of furniture was covered in precious metals. If the rooms outside weren’t filled with dozens of security guards, this would be a great place to rob.

  Garm herself was wearing black synth boots and a black synth business suit tailored to fit. I think her intention was to confuse men as to whether they were supposed to be turned on or frightened. She wore a pistol around her thigh and was pretty good with it.

  Garm was an excellent fighter overall, she was quick. Come to think of it, she was a lot like those pale ladies. She just used a gun instead of a knife and didn’t dress like a sadistic exotic dancer.

  “Hey, are those women looking for you?” I asked her.

  “What do you mean?” Garm was examining blueprints as she spoke to me.

  “Are you the person they’re trying to locate?”

  Her face scrunched up in confusion.

  “That makes no sense whatsoever. Why would they be looking for me?”

  “They didn’t tell me why. I’m just asking.”

  “They already spoke to me. That’s how they found you. They don’t need three people to find me when they just asked me for a reference. I mean, I’m right here,” she said, extending her arms.

  “Okay. Take it easy.”

  “You’ve spent too much time as a bouncer and forgot how to work real jobs, I think,” she said, returning to her work.

  “Doorman,” I corrected.

  “Oh yeah, one step above chauffer and one below waiter.”

  “When did you become an elitist?” I asked.

  “What are you talking about? I’ve always been an elitist.”

  That’s true. Garm really liked money and all things money.

  “I need to access the videos at checkin,” I said.

  “Then do it. You know everyone here. What the hell are you carrying?”

  “It’s an autocannon. Delovoa made it for me.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Boys and their toys.”

  “It can shoot high-explosive grenades,” I stated indignantly.

  “I’m sure you’ll have a lot of use for that. Now let me see you try and stand up straight without falling backwards. Where are your shoes? You’re going to get Hank-sweat all over my rugs.”

  “I’m getting them repaired. You do the trash pick-up, right?”

  “Waste Removal. That’s 4th floor. Why?”

  “I need a corpse taken away.”

  “Who’d you kill?” she asked absently.

  “No one, the body was just there. I don’t even know him.”

  “Then why do you care?”

  “Why do people keep asking that? What if there was a corpse here in your office?”

  She looked up from her work.

  “How would a corpse get in my office? Pick the lock and then die celebrating?”

  “I’m going to bring it here and leave it on your chair. Then laugh.”

  She went back to her labors.

  “Fine.”

  “Hey, can I use your bathroom?” I asked, knowing she had a private bathroom and it was really plush and clean.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” I asked, offended.

  “Because you wouldn’t ask if you just had to urinate. That bathroom isn’t well-ventilated and I know how much you eat. I don’t want it stinking for the next three hours.”

  “You suck,” I said, as I left her office.

  “I got you a job, didn’t I?” she called after me.

  On the 4th floor I visited the Waste Removal team.

  The hallway ended at a protective plastic shield behind which sat a guy looking bored. He had a huge white beard and dull eyes and he was reading The News.

  “Hi,” I shouted through the bubble. “I’d like to schedule a trash pick-up.”

  The bearded man kept reading. At first I wondered if the bubble was soundproof, which would be very inconvenient as far as customer service went. But he eventually put down his tele and looked at me.

  “You want a six month contract or one year?” he asked with a voice as white-bearded as his face.

  “No, I just want you to pick up one thing,” I had lowered my voice because his grumbly whisper came through fine so I figured mine did as well.

  “We don’t do ‘one things.’”

  “I’ll pay you guys,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said without enthusiasm. “We are a business.”

  “It’s not even large. It won’t take more than five minutes.”

  He seemed to briefly struggle between returning to reading or acknowledging me.

  “What is it?”

  “Well, it’s a body,” I said weakly.

  “A body.” He looked back to his tele and I could see I was losing.

  “It’s a small body. And it’s not even decomposed.”

  “So a dead body?”

  “Well, yeah. I’m not going to ask you to take a live body.”

  “Of course not,” he said with absolutely no inflection, but which somehow still reeked sarcasm.

  “I didn’t kill it,” I offered helpfully.

  “Where is this body?”

  “It’s right in front of my door.”

  “It’s on Hank Block in front of your door, but you didn’t kill it?”

  So this guy knew who I was and was still acting like this? I had really lost my touch.

  “What’s it matter if I did?”

  “Now you’re changing your story?”

  “What are you, a crime investigator? I just want one piece of garbage taken away.”

  “A cadaver isn’t garbage,” he stated.

  Sanctimonious trash man.

  “How much does it cost for a six month contract?”

  “Depends on volume. But the minimum is 500 a week.”

  That’s not going to happen.

  “Garm said it was alright for you guys to make this one delivery.”

  He stared at me a moment.

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  I looked at the supports of the bubble. I bet I could push out the lower part and squeeze through that way.

  He saw what I was doing and flipped a switch under the desk. A metal curtain began to lower slowly.

  “Hey! What’s your name! Hey!”

  He had gone back to reading as the curtain closed and locked.

  I gave it a push and it rippled a bit, but didn’t dent. I’d find him later.

  I went to the tape archives where they stored the information from quarantine, the docks, and checkin.

  Buddl was there so I grabbed him. He used to be one of the security guards who actually checked people at the dock, but he was a manager now.

  He was very angular and I remember when he wasn’t overweight he had a lot of women interested in him because he looked cut. Almost like a comic book character with square jaw and cheek bones. Now that he was older and let himself go, instead of big and round like most people, he was big and square. He looked funny. You could practically use his head as a straight rule.

  The pale ladies had sent me what info they had on their friend. It wasn’t a lot, but I could cross-reference it with docking logs.

  Buddl and I were in a dark office filled with screens, trying to work out which tapes to get. I put my autocannon against the wall.

  “Is that a vacuum cleaner?” Buddl asked.

  “Does it look like a vacuum cleaner?”

  “No, it looks like a really big gun.”

  “Then why did you ask if it was a vacuum cleaner?”

  “Look at this carpet,” he reasoned.

  The carpet was indeed filthy, but I didn’t get how that logic flowed, so I ignored it.

  After a bit of calculations, we deduced that there were about forty-five hours’ worth of tapes to review. And that wasn’t even fast-forwarding through. That was a solid forty-five hours with a dozen different cameras, scanners, and biometrics.

/>   It would take weeks to go through all these tapes.

  I gave Buddl 100 credits and he set me up and grabbed me some coffee. He said to call him if I had any questions or needed anything. I made a note to praise him to Garm and slander that unhelpful trash guy.

  The scan data was really cool. I had never seen actual scans. All these Colmarians coming through were really different in terms of biology. I was immune to scanning. I was too dense. Not even a hospital could get any information when they put sensors inside me.

  I watched tapes for about three hours until my neck hurt. I had to keep looking at all the different screens and different angles and my fingers were starting to flub the keys. I figured I should come back tomorrow and continue. I was worried I would get too tired and miss the person.

  Now I would try and buy myself a disintegrator.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Come on, Hexpin, just talk to me,” I pleaded.

  I was pursuing the person in question down Dolgente Block.

  Hexpin was an old-timer, spry and wrinkled. He had wisps of white hair floating around the top of his head like a smoky halo, though he was certainly no angel. He had been a major black market shipper for decades. He was fast on his feet despite his age. I guess he had to be.

  Since the change in Belvaille, there technically was no more black side of the market. But there were still things even too sticky for an Independent Protectorate to openly admit.

  He was the third person I visited and he got me interested because he immediately became uncomfortable and shifty when I broached the subject of a stolen Navy device. Now I was running after him down the street.

  “What’s the problem, we’re only talking,” I said.

  “No.” He suddenly turned to me, pointing. “What you’re talking about is dangerous.”

  “What danger?” I asked. “Who’s going to arrest you?”

  He looked around again and stepped in close and whispered.

  “I’ll do a lot of stuff, but I don’t mess with technology. Navy technology. That’s life in prison. Or death if you’re lucky. Navy guns, passes, security, whatever. Fine. Hell, I’d sell a destroyer if I could get my hands on one. But breaking the Tech Codes,” he shook his head, his eyes wide with fear, as if even completing the sentence was too risky.

  “You know me, I’m not going to rat anyone.”

  “We’re on a station that has Navy observation telescopes!” He shouted, then remembered himself and hunched back down. “There are spies everywhere.”

  “Oh, come on. What’s there to spy on?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, feigning ignorance, “you’re the one looking for something.”

  “Do you know anyone else who might have some information? I can kick you a finder’s fee of course.”

  “Try Delovoa, he’s always messing with crazy things.”

  “I know he doesn’t have anything. This would be recent. Come on, someone’s got to have said something, such as searching for transport off Belvaille.”

  “And run the Jam carrying stolen Navy tech? Good luck with that.”

  Hexpin’s eyes suddenly went large and he said:

  “Corps. Blow,” and he took off running.

  “What?”

  I turned to where he was looking and saw an armored personnel carrier driving at the end of the street. Was I in corporation territory?

  The APC started to drive forward and I suspected it was going to turn around. It was dark blue with six massive wheels and a large number of metal windows in the side that were closed. It had no obvious armaments and it was about a hundred yards away.

  The APC turned completely sideways to me and stopped. The windows all slid open and I saw movement inside.

  I stood there watching all this completely oblivious. Until all the windows lit up with the muzzle flashes from machine guns!

  Bullets were whizzing by me, striking the street, and hitting me square.

  I immediately covered myself with my arms and put my head down.

  I could feel from the impact that the guns were fairly heavy caliber. I couldn’t tell how many were shooting but it was more than two and less than six.

  I moved to the side of the street and the machine gun fire followed me, pelting me all over. It was about equivalent to a normal person getting hit with rocks thrown at medium velocity. It wasn’t lethal, but it also wasn’t how I liked to spend my afternoons.

  Let me tell you, your ability to think clearly when four machine guns are drilling you completely vanishes. I was crouched against a building but that didn’t help at all, I just heard the noisy ricochets from the wall.

  I moved back towards the center of the street and started slowly walking backwards, my head down, and my arms covering my face and neck. This stupid autocannon was slowing me down.

  Wait. I had an autocannon.

  I turned sideways and leaned away from the APC to try and shield myself so I could use my hands.

  I had never actually practiced taking it out. I probably should have done that.

  The straps were not shifting right, it was too tight on my shoulders, and the gun wouldn’t swing around.

  I got shot in the little toe. I was barefoot and I almost fell down it hurt so much.

  “Ah!” I yelled, and stood on one foot for a moment.

  I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself. I wasn’t going to free my gun by forcing it. I got shot in the ear and yelped.

  Finally I turned the gun from my back and had it beside me. One long bar was in front of me across my hips. The metal straps put weight on my shoulders. From the side I probably looked like a suspension bridge with the cables attached to the gun. I held the left grip to keep the gun steady.

  Okay, what kind of round should I use?

  Budda dudda dudda!

  Armor piercing. The autocannon wasn’t really auto. I had to manually chamber the round by sliding an enormous bolt. While I was holding this seven-foot gun with just one hand and the straps, I was tipped over and the barrel was touching the road.

  I swiveled and faced the APC with my gun about as situated as I could make it. I had my head down because I didn’t want to get shot in the eyes.

  But…how was I going to aim this thing?

  The gun rested against my waist. It didn’t have any sights on it even if I had my eye above the barrel. My head was more than three feet higher than the barrel and I couldn’t tell what angle it was at. For all I knew I could be aiming fifteen feet high.

  Just shoot.

  Should I say it, though? My catchphrase. I always say it. But when I say it, bad stuff happens.

  A bullet somehow hit me square between the eyes, even with my head down. I felt it deflect over on my cheek and my eye closed and stayed closed.

  “Eat suck, suckface!” I yelled.

  The trigger was incredibly stiff. I’d guess it took twenty-five pounds to pull. Delovoa had said he made it like that because the gun had no safety and it would be a big deal if it went off by accident.

  I kept squeezing and squeezing and I suddenly worried the gun didn’t work.

  Kachooom!

  I saw a five-foot fireball erupt out of the end of the barrel.

  The gun was basically on my right side. It even extended a little ways behind me. Because of that, the recoil of the autocannon was primarily on my right. But I was fastened to this gun with metal straps and the crossbar and of course my hands.

  What happened was, I got hurled about two feet into the air, I spun 180 degrees, and I flew about five feet backwards.

  When I landed, I was face down with the gun under me and my arms still holding onto it. I had been turned in such a perfectly-opposite direction that my knees bent and my feet were sticking up in the air.

  It took me a few seconds to realize where I was and what happened. I had never moved that fast in my life.

  The problem was I couldn’t get up. I was lying on top of my arms which were pinned under the gun. I had a tough time doing a pushup i
n the best circumstances let alone being chained to a loaded autocannon.

  I wasn’t entirely sure how vehicle fights went, but I was pretty sure that lying on my chin facing the wrong direction wasn’t the best way to do it.

  I rocked back and forth to try and get free.

  “Come on!” I yelled.

  I managed to pull my left arm out. With that I was able to push myself onto my side and get to my knees. I cycled the empty shell out of the gun and stood up. I watched the APC a moment and saw some smoke but I didn’t know if that was engine exhaust or the machine gun gunpowder or what.

  I reloaded another armor piercing round and took some time to adjust the straps on the autocannon, which had become somewhat twisted. I was afraid if I fired again they might strangle me.

  But the APC was silent.

  Was that it?

  I backed away from the corporate vehicle, keeping the autocannon at the ready. When I got far enough away, I turned and hurried as best I could from the scene.

  I didn’t know if I had won or they were all too busy laughing to continue shooting.

  CHAPTER 9

  I was in Deadsouth laying low.

  Well, not too low since I was walking around the streets barefoot with an autocannon on my back. I wasn’t sure if the corporation would be unhappy I destroyed their APC. I wasn’t even sure I destroyed it. But I didn’t want to take chances.

  My eye and toe hurt and I had a general throb along my whole body from the hundred or so bullets that had nailed me.

  Deadsouth was still Deadsouth despite the changes Belvaille had gone through. Belvaille used to have street names based on numbers and letters but after we became independent, every little boss and corporation wanted their own blocks. Even I got my own. But no one bothered to rename Deadsouth. I was on 84th and V Block.

  The inhabitants and area looked the same. The lowest of the low. The addicts and alcoholics and mental cases and those who just stopped caring.

  “Damn, boy! Well ain’t you just a meat-fed so-and-so!”

  A tall, youngish, handsome man with blonde hair stood next to me. He had a beatific smile that went from ear-to-ear and probably tied with a ribbon at the back of his head.

  “You look like you could lift a pulsar and stop it pulsing.” He said it like it was the most fantastically important thing in his life. He felt my bicep and recoiled in shock. “Goldor’s crooked teeth, what are you made of, iron?”