http://www.belvaille.com/hlh3/uulath.gif
CHAPTER 12
There was a little bit of a hassle at the entrance to the four block district that was the Ank Reserve.
The guards demanded I remove all my weapons, but I had too many and I didn’t feel like it. Finally, I simply walked past them. The guards thought better of firing on me.
Besides, I had been personally summoned.
The Ank were, or at least had been, the bankers of the galaxy. They had nearly been exterminated in the war. Not because anyone particularly bore them ill will, but the Ank were never very populous, and when one side wanted to end the funding to the other side during the civil war, they would attack the Ank planets. Eventually, they were almost wiped out.
My motto was to never take sides.
The Ank seemed to have a motto of take every side equally. Some people even blame the Ank for increasing the scale of the civil war, because they funded so much of it.
Between losing the Ank home worlds and our teles, the financial system across the galaxy simply ceased to exist. Barter and trade became the most common form of conducting business.
But Belvaille still had some Ank.
They set the rates for every kind of good or service that existed, even dealing with the local currencies of other planets. They also lent money, sold stocks in companies, set interest rates based on credit ratings, set credit ratings, sold insurance, and did anything you could conceive of that could be done with money other than maybe liquefy and drink it.
Prostitutes and gigolos even had costs based on the Ank scales, which were changed hourly.
Four enormous Boards, three stories tall, facing each direction from the Reserve, recorded the galaxy’s prices. Thousands of people crowded around these Boards, buying and selling commodities every minute of every day.
I didn’t understand any of it of course.
But I understood that the Ank were incredibly valuable. Before they had arrived and started maintaining a unified system of currency, it was chaos. There was no concept of money. As soon as the Ank said, “these four plastic cylinders are as good as a barrel of alcohol,” people believed it right away. Because they were the Ank, and that’s all they did.
I was escorted into an inner building and instructed to go upstairs by one of the guards.
“I don’t do stairs,” I said.
We stood in the lobby awkwardly.
For controlling all the money in Belvaille, in a sense, the Ank weren’t showy. The lobby was a lobby. The fake plants were dusty. There was a receptionist desk, but he or she must have been out to lunch. The carpet was a bit faded and worn from foot traffic.
The elevator dinged and I was happy to see three Ank exit.
Ank all looked the same. And I don’t say that to be racist, they literally all looked the same. Not even a mother could identify her own children from a random stranger’s.
They had pale white, almost translucent skin, with basically no features at all. They were taller than a normal Colmarian but thinner. Their arms were so spindly as to be useless.
They all wore a kind of long-sleeved robe that went down to the floor. They differentiated one another by what they put on those robes.
They had jewels, trinkets, chains, writing, relics, sculptures, symbols, electronics, and anything else that would make them distinct from their cohorts. I heard that when an Ank was going to place a new bauble on his robe, it was a major celebration with many there to view the ceremony.
They also had insanely long names that people stopped paying attention to after the second or third minute of them trying to say it all.
In consequence of all this, we had no idea how many Ank there were on Belvaille because we couldn’t tell them apart. And it’s not as if there was ever an Ank street festival where they danced around and we could count them. Most of the daily activities at the Reserve were handled by other races the Ank had hired and trained—a highly sought-after career. If you ever met in person with an Ank to settle a deal, you knew you were a big shot and it was important.
The Ank had melodious voices with no great inflection. All their words sounded pleasant. There’s a phrase, “Ank-talk.” If you Ank-talk something you are making something bad sound good.
Of all the major factions on Belvaille, I perhaps felt most uncomfortable with the Ank. Not for my safety, but because I felt perpetually like I was a little kid being talked down to by knowledgeable teachers.
“Greetings, Supreme Kommilaire,” one of the Ank chimed.
“I don’t do stairs,” I said, already embarrassed by their scrutiny.
“We shall adjourn to a conference room,” another said, in exactly the same voice.
The only way I knew a different one was speaking was because their many accoutrements jingled when they talked.
I followed the tinkling trio down a hallway and was glad they walked even slower than I did.
The room had subdued lighting, a table, more dusty plants, and some Ank chairs. They had special chairs that they could lean into and which only touched them with numerous rods, so their robes wouldn’t get disturbed.
While their arms were useless, apparently they could still use their hands, and at Ank-height beside each chair there were numerous tools which…I actually don’t know what they did. Ank stuff.
They also had a chair for me, surprisingly. It was similar to theirs without the rods, and of substantial construction. Basically a big block of metal at a small angle. I tested it and found it could hold my weight so I took a seat.
“So,” I said.
“We want to thank you, Supreme Kommilaire, for helping maintain law and order in our city,” one said.
“The free flow of capital and business interests must be enforced at all costs,” another added.
“We have made much progress in the allocation and distribution of resources and liquidity of funds,” someone said—not sure which.
“Yeah,” I answered, just to be participating.
“We do hope you plan on continuing with your progress to curtail violence within the city.”
There was a pause until I realized they wanted me to answer.
“Oh. Sure. I’m always looking to make things safer. But that’s not always easy.”
“We are impressed with the work you have done, Supreme Kommilaire.”
“We have established contact with other Reserves, and in most cases their situations are less fortuitous.”
“Hmm,” I said.
“Belvaille’s location near the Portals, as well as its collection of communication telescopes, which have allowed us to transmit market information, has left us in an enviable position.”
“You guys use the telescopes too?” I asked.
“For many years.”
“The other Ank have agreed that, barring any great disturbances, Belvaille should become the Central Reserve for the rest of the galaxy.”
I perked up.
“What was that?”
“Although the population is slight by comparison to some habitations—”
“We believe that is a benefit,” another finished.
“The city’s exposure to all the galaxy’s species and remaining empires as well as frequent ship trade provide us the greatest perception of market fluctuations.”
“So what does that mean?” I didn’t want to say “in Colmarian,” because they were speaking Colmarian. I didn’t want to say “in stupid people talk,” but that’s really what I was getting at.
“The forthcoming election is of grave concern to us and the other Reserves.”
“How?” I sighed.
“It is imperative that whoever is elected pursues a policy of law and order, support for markets, equanimity among peoples, financial governance, adequate taxation, and personal freedoms.”
“Well…why don’t one of you run for office?”
“We are not political.”
I blinked at them a moment. Because their damn voices didn’t
inflect I couldn’t tell if they were being sarcastic. Wasn’t all this politics?
“What do you expect me to do?” I asked.
“There may be candidates that do not conform to the standards suitable for galactic recovery.”
“They should be removed from running,” another Ank added.
“You want me to prevent people from getting elected?” I asked, surprised.
“It would be your right as Supreme Kommilaire to ensure proper governance. We have studied all the relevant documentation on the limits of your role and have concluded there aren’t any.”
“None that would prevent you from prohibiting candidates, that is.”
“Let’s take a step back,” I said, trying to understand. “There are other Ank on other planets?”
“There are a number of Reserves throughout the galaxy. We are attempting to make a cohesive monetary system as—”
The Ank stopped speaking because we all noticed something strange. At first I thought it was an optical illusion, but after a few moments, it began to change.
In the center of the room, what looked like eight or so different pieces of gold appeared in the air. They quickly grew in size and moved towards each other.
I saw gold and silver and white followed by a burst of light.
And then 19-10 stood before us.
I had never seen him before, but I didn’t need a photo to know the armored form was in fact the assassin Zadeck had mentioned at the Athletic Gentleman’s Club.
He was maybe seven feet tall, about half as wide as a normal Colmarian male, with four arms that appeared to have ball and socket joints at shoulder, elbow, and wrist. It shimmered like a polished gold mirror. The armor had no front or back, with the knees, arms, and feet being bi-directional.
The helmet had the spherical shape of a Colmarian’s but was devoid of features save for thin black lines that modulated spasmodically. I did not know where he was gazing or if he was at all.
But I didn’t guess he came to admire the plants.
“Crap!” I yelled.
I got to my feet and pulled out a shotgun with my left hand and a pistol with my right.
I saw 19-10’s arms and hands spin and array themselves with blinding speed. His three-fingered hands all had some kind of small pistol or firearm attached at the back.
Bshzow!
The weapons all fired at the same time.
I unloaded my guns at 19-10.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The three Ank all slid to the ground from their chairs. Each had been shot in the left leg at the same location by 19-10’s guns.
I had shot…nothing. The wall opposite me.
19-10 was gone.
I spun around the room looking for him, waiting for him to pop back and attack.
The door burst open and I turned my guns on it. Two Reserve guards stood in the door with their weapons drawn.
“Get these men to safety. A small room. The elevator!”
I’m sure the guards thought I had shot their employers. It was unlikely they guessed a teleporting battlesuit did it since those weren’t exactly known to exist.
“Do as he says,” one of the Ank said, and even shot, he sounded just as sweet as when he had been unshot.
http://www.belvaille.com/hlh3/ank.gif
We had a dozen guards covering the elevator, a dozen more outside. Ten Stair Boys patrolled the immediate area. Two medical technicians and I were in the elevator.
The elevator was locked on the bottom floor so it could handle the weight.
The technicians patched the Ank and confirmed the wounds were not life-threatening.
As I thought about the attack, it made less and less sense. From a fixed position 19-10 had shot three targets at the exact same time in the exact same locations on their bodies: their upper left thighs. That alone required vast skill, as 19-10 was not close to being equidistant from them all, so each pistol had to be aimed independently at a different angle.
But if he could pull off shots like that, he could just as easily have killed them instead of aiming for the legs.
Was it a taunt? A challenge? A warning? I sure as hell didn’t come close to hitting him with my return fire. He probably disappeared a good second and a half before I fired, which was a lifetime in a gun battle ten feet apart.
The weapons he used weren’t all that dangerous—for guns. I guessed they would have done nothing to me. They didn’t even cause major wounds to the Ank, who weren’t exactly a hardy species. Is that why he didn’t shoot at me?
I explained to the local guards as much as I could about the assassin and recommended attacking on sight. I also posted ten of my Stair Boys as extra security.
I had doubted Zadeck’s description of 19-10. People loved their tall tales. There were plenty about me.
But I couldn’t teleport into a locked room, shoot three guys, and teleport out in the blink of an eye.
http://www.belvaille.com/hlh3/19-10.gif
CHAPTER 13
“What do you know about Messahn battlesuits?” I asked Delovoa at his compound.
He was wearing a fluffy robe and fluffy slippers. Come to think of it, he seemed to always wear a dressing gown and slippers now. I guess if you could pull it off, why not?
“Promise you won’t get mad,” he said sheepishly.
“If you have to start with that, you know I’ll get mad.”
Delovoa had really poor judgment sometimes. He had gotten us into trouble in the past due to his curiosity and not thinking things through. I had petitioned the city to lock him away in this block not just for his safety, but for ours.
Not only was he too valuable to lose, he was too careless to be loose.
Delovoa once had top secret clearance in the Navy. If anyone on Belvaille knew about 19-10, it was him.
“Well,” he began, tugging at the cords of his robe. “Someone came to me a few months ago asking for some chrodite-399 and information on a Messahn battlesuit. Chrodite is an isotope, a kind of metal. It decays over time and powers the Messahn armor you encountered.”
“And you gave it to him?” I yelled. “You have that metal now?”
Delovoa reached around to the back of his robes.
“Yeah, I have some. Let’s see…it’s in my butt.”
“What?”
“I just told you it’s radioactive. No, I don’t have any. But I informed him about the project that created the armor. It was instituted right at the end of the Confederation and apparently was created for use by clones. As only they could handle all the sensors and fit inside. Like most of the later year war projects, it was funded by the Ank.”
“Ironic it comes back to shoot them. But clones are stupid, right?” Delovoa and I had dealt with clones some decades ago. He had even dissected some.
“Single-minded of purpose might be a better description. They can handle simple tasks and instructions. If he was really designed to be an assassin, then he would be doing what he was created to do. I said the Ank traders were the best way to get some chrodite, if any still existed.”
I grunted in exasperation.
“You gave all that information to an assassin who just shot three Ank?” Delovoa really did lack wisdom.
“Three Ank were attacked?”
“Yeah, I haven’t told anyone. I don’t want there to be a panic.”
“Did he steal any chrodite?”
“Not that I know of,” I said. “What did the person look like you explained all this to?”
“I don’t know. Normal. Man. Colmarian.”
“Not this tall and this wide with four arms?” I asked, indicating with my hands the approximate dimensions of 19-10.
“Not at all,” he said.
“But wait a minute, even a single-minded clone wouldn’t be taking on contracts. And travelling. Or coming to talk to you.”
“Yeah. He probably only understands how to kill people.”
“But he didn’t kill them. He purposefully injured them.
And not even badly.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t know. The other thing is that the armor can portal,” Delovoa said.
“I could have told you that. He blipped in, fired, blipped out. Do you know how it works? Even a-drives are supposed to be huge. I was exposed to a Portal before and it almost turned me inside-out even though I was blocks away from it. This one was nothing. Just some bright light.”
“I don’t know how Portals work,” Delovoa said.
“What are you talking about? You fix our Portals.”
“I’m a mechanic. I tighten screws and weld cracks. I know the engineering of a Portal. I don’t have the faintest concept of the physics involved. I doubt there is any one person in the galaxy who knows that anymore.”
“So you gave a bunch of information to an assassin or his handler whose job may or may not involve killing me. But what the void did you get out of it?”
Delovoa walked across the room to a glass cabinet. He opened the door and carefully removed an ornate sculpture of some kind.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a crystal-porcelain figurine from Onyeu representing happiness. It’s a water fowl. They didn’t allow any to be taken off the planet. And of course, the planet was essentially destroyed in the war. It is probably the only one left in existence.”
I glowered at Delovoa, who was lightly stroking the object.
“That’s a duck?”
“They had a different word for it,” he said haughtily, “zshu-maen.”
I couldn’t believe it.
“Give me that,” I said, stepping forward.
“No!” Delovoa screamed. “Help! Help! Help!” He shrieked.
One of his boy-toy twinks came running into the room.
I pointed a gun at him.
“Go away,” I demanded.
The twink screamed and ran.
I plodded a few steps forward and it hit me square in the chest. I felt my head go light and my feet and hands turn to ice.
“Great,” I managed to squeak.
My gun dropped from my limp fingers and I soon followed it to the ground.
Hard Luck Hank: Prince of Suck Page 8