“Yeah, there aren’t any rules or organization. Not like here,” the other said.
Wow. Holding up the Royal Wing as a paragon of sophistication.
“It might have been after your time, but did a robot or person in shiny armor, with four arms ever talk to you? Or did you see him?”
They both seemed incredibly confused.
“A Dredel Led?”
Oh well, I guess it was just that one time. I was trying to determine how long 19-10 had been around here and interfering.
“No. Never mind. Another question.” I thought how to phrase it. “Had anyone ever asked you to do something for them when you were feral kids?”
They both answered immediately.
“Sure.”
“Yes.”
“I mean like outside the ferals. The person who asked you wasn’t one of you. And they asked you to do something that didn’t involve other ferals.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s how we got a lot of our stuff.”
“What? So this was a ‘normal’ person? He just came to the feral kids and gave you jobs?”
“Paya’ Man we called them.”
“We called them Cleana’. I guess because they were clean.”
“Yeah, we called them that too.”
I looked at Uulath who seemed to not know this either, but he was letting me do the talking.
“So what did this guy look like?” I asked.
“There were different ones.”
“Lots.”
“How did they give you work?”
“There were a few blocks where they would show up. They would say how many kids they would need and we would jump in to do it. They gave food.”
“Or clothes. Or blankets. Or whatever.”
“Why didn’t you just rob him?” I asked, surprised anyone would go to the ferals to barter.
“All the other kids would protect him because they wanted jobs.”
“And there were usually a few of them with guns. Kids aren’t stupid. No one is going to get shot for a blanket when you can just steal it from the person who got it after the job.”
The other feral gave the one who just spoke a dirty look.
“What jobs did they have you do?” I asked.
“Attack buildings. Rob.”
“Set fires. Steal people.”
“Steal from people or kidnap?” I asked.
“Both.”
Huh. I wonder if Two Clem could have been kidnapped by feral kids. They made the perfect thugs. They were untraceable. They didn’t even know what they were doing. And you could buy their services for comparatively nothing.
I couldn’t even ask them if they had kidnapped Two Clem because he would be meaningless to them.
All these problems we’ve been having with feral kids over the years turns out to be because they were hired to do it. Then they would run into me and my Kommilaire and I would send them here if we caught them.
“Did they wear robes?” I asked.
“Robes?”
“Order,” Uulath clarified.
“No.”
“No.”
But that didn’t mean anything. Doubt the Order would have shown up in feral kid territory in their finest clothes.
“Do you know why they hired the feral kids?” I asked, with little hope of an answer.
“Ferals don’t worry about the motives of normals. They got enough problems of their own.”
CHAPTER 23
I figured the best way to find out what Garm was doing or not doing was to talk to Garm.
She was the owner in the tower. Belvaille’s landlord. Lawmaker, judge appointer, and rich person talker-toer.
The only area more fortified than Delovoa’s block was the area around City Hall where Garm lived.
There had always been extra space around City Hall as it was the only non-rectangular building in the city. But Garm had leveled an extra block just for security. There were a series of walls thirty feet tall and five feet thick, covered with bunkers and bristling with weapons. There were trenches in between filled with mines and traps and electrified razor wire.
It was not solicitor friendly.
It was also completely overkill since half the population lived in abject poverty and the other half wasn’t about to go charging their way into City Hall just to meet Garm who was, unless I was really mistaken, simply not that important.
Every once in a while I got a communique from her about a new law she wanted implemented. I read it and if it made sense I took it under consideration. But I was on the streets. I was down here every day. I wasn’t sitting behind a hundred feet of steel ten stories up for the last forty years. I knew what laws we needed.
“Hello?” I yelled outside one of the wall sections. “I’m Hank. The Supreme Kommilaire. I know Garm. Um. We used to date. Can you tell her I want to talk to her?”
I yelled up various things at the impassive wall for another thirty minutes until my voice hurt and I felt stupid.
On my way back home I saw a Totki force fanned out across a block. They were knocking on doors and talking to people.
At first I was pretty excited to see them. Maybe they had listened to me about the election and were canvassing to get votes. And then I saw them drag some poor guy into the center of the street where they began beating him with the blunt ends of their spears.
Great.
I hiked up my belt and started walking that way. It didn’t take long for them to see me. Inconspicuous was not a talent of mine.
I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I got there. Shoot them? Berate them? I was running out of sugary lies to say about their dead leader.
Like feral kids with weirder hair styles, they immediately turned and scampered out of the street in the opposite direction from me.
I went over to the bruised guy on the ground.
“What were they talking to you about?” I asked him.
He reached out and clung to my leg. They had really done a number on him.
“They asked me about Su Dival. What I knew about him. Crazy stuff. Had I killed him? Did I know the killers? Did I belong to the Olmarr Republic?”
“Well?”
“I don’t know any of those things! I’m a Water Scrape,” he said.
I knew the job. It was not a totally legal career, but more legal than most. He collected condensation from pipes and surfaces under the city, and sometimes above the city, and sold it for consumption. That didn’t preclude him from being in the Olmarr Republic, though.
I saw other neighbors on the street were coming out and they complained of the same abuse by the Totki.
Not sure if it was random or the Totki had some information that led them to this street. It seemed unlikely, since I doubt they knew of 19-10 and even if they did, he probably wasn’t hanging a sign showing where he lived.
In any case, I needed to do something about Su Dival. I had to apprehend his killer like I promised I would. And since I had almost no chance of catching 19-10, I had to invent a killer. The Totki were only going to get worse.
I couldn’t just grab some random inmates from the Royal Wing and say, “yeah, they totally killed your former spiritual leader.” That was too convenient and no one would believe me. Not only that, but the inmates would deny it and cause me even more headaches.
It needed to be plausible. It needed to be sensational. Yet it needed to leave something to the imagination.
CHAPTER 24
I woke up the next day and in my living room I saw a red envelope on my table.
Sigh.
Garm had a key to everyone’s apartment in the city. In fact, all the major systems of Belvaille were controlled from City Hall. If she felt like turning off the lights or turning off our oxygen, she could do so whenever she wanted.
When she sent me her new laws and new list of judges, she would put them inside my apartment like this.
I found it disturbing. But maybe that was the Quadrad assassin in her. Or maybe she just really did
n’t want to talk to me. Presumably she had gotten word that I had been screaming outside City Hall yesterday and was sending a response.
I opened the envelope and read the paper inside.
You are hereby appointed Secretary of City. You are to head the upcoming elections. Use the Kommilaire to organize voting. Vet the candidates and void any who are unworthy. –Garm
Isn’t that a kick in the nuts? This wasn’t even about me going to see her, but instead it’s a new job. As if I didn’t have enough to do.
And Money Bags couldn’t even give me a single thumb for my efforts?
I could just throw this paper away. What was she going to do, come down from City Hall and talk to me in person? Good!
I didn’t even know what this stuff meant. How could I vet and void someone? Ask them their favorite color and if they didn’t say blue, red, or pink I disqualify them?
There was a second page.
Add these names to the final selection of candidate choices.
And it was the list of dead candidates I had seen at the fundraiser. All of them had a political party affiliation of, “Garm’s Choice.”
What the hell? So I was supposed to kick out live people for whatever reasons and add dead people instead?
As I was stewing, I heard Rendrae talking on the loudspeakers. He was speaking about the election. I couldn’t just ignore this. The election would happen. It would be impossible to prevent at this point.
Either we were going to have fifty regions of the city all voting their own way for their own candidates and then getting into a bloodbath over the results, or I was going to do it.
“Damn,” I said to my living room statues.
“This is your Force for Facts returning with my guest, Hank, our Supreme Kommilaire and newly appointed Secretary of City. So, Hank. Dead candidates,” Rendrae said, smiling at me. “What’s that about?”
I was sitting with Rendrae at the facility they used to broadcast loudspeaker programs. I was on the floor because none of the chairs would support me.
To get the word out, I needed Rendrae. He was the easiest person to talk to and we went way back. Still, he wasn’t going to pass up the chance to take some shots.
“I don’t know, ask Garm.”
I had said I wasn’t going to endorse anyone and I sure as hell wasn’t going to endorse corpses. I got the idea Garm was sticking me with this role to imply her choice was also my choice. But I wasn’t going to be anyone’s pawn. Well, more than usual.
“Ask Garm. That’s an idea, except she never leaves the Gilded Tower and doesn’t grant interviews. At least not to the press.”
“Those candidates wishing to run for Governor or City Council need to register with me. But not when I’m sleeping. Or at the club.”
“That would be the Athletic Gentleman’s Club?”
“Yeah.”
“So if other people decide they want their dead relatives to run for office, is that acceptable?” Rendrae asked seriously.
“No.”
“Why is it Garm can put forth a unique ticket and no one else can? Are her cadavers vastly more talented than other cadavers?”
“She owns the city. If you want some dead people to run for office, buy your own city.”
“What is meant by it being your responsibility to vet candidates?” he asked.
“Well. I guess. Make sure they are okay,” I answered hazily.
“And what would that entail specifically?”
I paused since I wasn’t sure myself. Rendrae always had me on my heels.
“I suppose if I’ve arrested them in the past, then they can’t run. That’s an example.”
“Seems appropriate. So no Governors who hail from the Royal Wing? How will voting be conducted?”
“I’m going to get Delovoa to design us some voting machines,” I said.
“Delovoa?” Rendrae said, honestly startled. “Shouldn’t his resources be spared for more important activities?”
“Yes, they should. But you all want this stupid election so we’re going to have this stupid election.”
CHAPTER 25
The next week was chaotic.
I had MTB read off the ever-changing list of candidates on the loudspeakers as they made themselves known. He had a better speaking voice than I did. The Board prices would jump up 20% or drop the same amount depending on which candidate threw his hat into the ring.
Then candidates would pull out not four hours later, then combine forces, then break up. The loudspeakers were awash in the constant drama of election news.
To slow them down a bit I made a five-page form that I forced each candidate to fill out, and required a thousand thumb, non-refundable fee. I also started putting restrictions on names and party affiliations.
Like, you couldn’t call yourself the “Official Belvaille Party,” it was misleading. And you couldn’t call yourself “Garm’s True Choice.” There was even one group that had the gall to try and call themselves “The Kommilaire,” even though they had nothing to do with us.
Managing the candidate list was turning into a full-time job.
“Why?” Judge Naeb asked suspiciously.
“Because none of the people who are running for Governor actually know how Belvaille works. You’re the longest-serving judge,” I said.
We were in Judge Naeb’s quarters on Courtroom Three Street. They were well-appointed, even a bit tacky, considering he was supposed to be a judge and not a pimp.
He sat at his big desk and openly smoked some drugs in front of me.
“What do I get out of it?” he asked.
“Uh, you’d be Governor.”
“I’m a judge now. I know what a judge does. What’s the Governor do?”
“Probably way more than a judge.”
“Probably,” he mocked.
He looked at me for some time. But I had a great poker face. My face and body didn’t move. It required too much energy. Six hours from now I wouldn’t have twitched a muscle.
“Can I be blunt?” the drug-smoking judge asked, as if he cared about my answer.
“You bet.”
“Why are you approaching me? I never got the sense you particularly liked me or my service to the city.”
“Can I be blunt?” I asked.
He waved his hand for me to continue.
“I don’t think you have served the city. I think you’re a crook who has lined his pockets, obstructed justice, caused me tons of problems, and recently made it legal for people to point guns at me.”
“So why would you want me to be Governor?”
“Because then you won’t be a judge. I work with judges all the time. I’m sure the Governor will have ample opportunity to steal, but it won’t be in my way.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
“I don’t. But I know what a judge does. And there are only so many things a Governor could do. Like give out city contracts, hire and fire people, propose changes to the city design, approve and deny laws. I don’t care about that stuff.”
He squinted hard.
“Will you back me?” he asked.
“I can’t back anyone, I’m Secretary of City.”
He laughed.
“You’re an odd screw, Hank of Belvaille. What happens if I lose the election?”
“Stay a judge.”
“I heard there’s a thousand thumb fee for registering.”
“Yeah.”
“Waive it and I’ll run.”
I looked around the office. Just his artwork was probably worth fifty times that.
“Fine,” I said.
CHAPTER 26
I was meeting Fat Neep at his club just outside of Deadsouth.
Fat Neep was pretty big, both literally and figuratively, as a gang boss. He had promised me dinner, so I was bringing my appetite, which was also considerable.
I went alone, as it was late at night, and I got that this was more of a personal call.
The club was fairly upscale desp
ite its proximity to Deadsouth. Logic would tell me people would not want to come here to pay money when they could go to better parts of town. But this was why I wasn’t a businessman.
There was a lot of dancing and colored lights and I had to slowly step across the floor.
A few people began hanging off me like I was a carnival ride and I stopped moving. I wasn’t able to brush them off. Not without hurting them. So I stood there with some drugged-out barnacles until security finally noticed there was a Supreme Kommilaire hogging the dance floor and they pried the people off and cleared a path for me.
Inside the back office was Fat Neep. It was black with black couches and black chairs and everything painted black. The lights were dim and it felt like I was walking in space.
Fat Neep was…fat, obviously. Not as big as his name might imply, however. Maybe he came from a really skinny planet and was a behemoth by comparison. He wore a metal shirt and metal pants, kind of interlocking plates about two inches long. It didn’t look comfortable.
“Thank you for coming, Hank,” he said, nodding his head. “I’ve got sandwiches.”
Ah, I had almost missed them in the darkness of the room. He had a huge plate of sandwiches to the side which I immediately headed toward.
“What drinks you serving out there?” I asked. “People are loopy.”
“It’s a new designer drug.”
“You making any money?”
Bosses didn’t like talking about their business, because that was their business. I still had the mindset of a thug and it was just work to me.
“Eh, I miss alcohol. It was simple, you know? You pour a glass, they drink a glass. Now everything is dots and half-dots and twists and pinches.”
I was already through my third sandwich.
“How are the candidates coming?” he asked.
“It’s probably the most useless thing Belvaille’s ever done,” I said.
“That’s saying a lot,” he smiled.
“I don’t see the point,” I said, accidentally spitting some sandwich onto his carpet.
“If a City Councilman were to request something, what would you do?” he asked delicately.
“Huh?”
“Like if your office was contacted for assistance.”
Hard Luck Hank: Prince of Suck Page 12