Hard Luck Hank: Prince of Suck (24 page)

“Why do we have all these clones all of
a sudden? And who would want a clone of Two Clem?”

I used the heavy security door to pull
myself to my feet.

“Maybe Two Clem created it himself,”
Delovoa shrugged.

“That’s the dumbest…actually…that’s
probably it. Two Clem was a huge narcissist. If he could have a clone of
himself I think he would do it in a heartbeat just so he could be his own best
friend. Or have sex with himself. And he could probably afford it—if such a
thing could be bought.”

“I suppose they could. I just don’t know
where.”

“And it doesn’t tell us why clone 19-10
would want to kill a has-been actor’s stunt double.”

“I didn’t say 19-10 was a clone. I said
the armor was made for a clone.”

“Who else could wear it?”

“Anyone who could fit inside and
interact with the controls.”

“So no one.”

Delovoa shrugged again

“It’s a big galaxy,” he said.

“Why can’t you just say 19-10’s a
clone?” I asked, annoyed. “At least concede that.”

“That’s not the way it works, Hank. The
probability of there being a mutant like you, standing on Belvaille, talking
about clones, is so infinitesimal that you would say it could never possibly
happen. But you’re here and you’re doing it.”

“So he could be a rainbow of kitten
flowers?”

“I barely know enough to keep this
station functioning. You can’t expect me to know every mutation and species
that exists in this entire galaxy. No one does. I doubt you even know all the
different races on this space station,” he said.

“Well. Now I know there are clones here.”

I was not very well-liked in the city. I
could tell because on my way to my new trial on Courtroom One Street, I was
booed by all the spectators.

It sure was a quick descent going from
folk legend to having garbage thrown at you.

The judge was Moer-lox-n. He wore an
enormous black furry hat that made it look like smoke was coming out of his
head.

I had no idea what this trial was for. I
had even thought of ignoring it. What were they going to do? Ask me to arrest
me?

Now that I was here, I really wished I
hadn’t come.

The prosecutor was rambling on about my
excessive use of force and overstepping my bounds. I had been provided no
defense.

The plaintiff was someone I didn’t even
know, but apparently three years ago I had arrested him. Or confiscated his
goods. Or beat him up. Or all three.

The case rambled all over with the
judge, plaintiff, and prosecutor taking turns calling me names, basically.

This was just a ploy to embarrass me or
harass me. I had been the bully of Belvaille for so long, now that they were
able, everyone was going to enjoy kicking me in the teeth.

The judge would score political points
and the prosecutor would score political points and the plaintiff would get
whatever restitution he was looking to get. I sensed a long line of trials in
my future if I put up with it.

“What’s the point?” I finally asked,
frustrated.

“The point of what?” the judge replied.

“This whole mess? Will you get to it and
charge me with something or do you just want to smell your breath when you talk?”

There were some chuckles from Belvaille,
but mostly there were more boos and catcalls.

I didn’t care.

If the city wanted me out, that was fine
by me. See how long the peace lasts. I’m happy to go…fishing. Or whatever.
Plant flowers. Or not flowers, but something to eat.

Just find a nice, non-toxic planet to
settle down on and get off this metal heap. I bet I’ll even stop having heart
attacks when I don’t have to worry about this place anymore.

“I’ll have you know, you are on trial,
Supreme Kommilaire,” the prosecutor blared with great umbrage.

“When you’re in my courtroom you will
address me and our judicial process with the respect it deserves,” Moer-lox-n
added.

“You owe me ten thousand thumbs,” the
plaintiff fired, since everyone else was raising grievances.

I waved them away.

“Get on with it. You’re not getting paid
by the hour and I’m hungry,” I said.

They all sputtered and spat and the
judge finally gaveled.

“Two, no, three hundred thumb fine!” He
yelled.

“For what?”

“Civil disobedience!”

“And who is going to take my three
hundred thumbs? You? You’re going to have a tough time yelling your moral
indignation with that hat shoved down your throat.”

I was not winning the popular support of
Belvaille from what I could hear.

“Your size and position does not make
you immune to the law,” Judge Moer-lox-n stormed.

“What
laws
? There are no laws. I decide
how to keep this city safe.”

“You work within the boundaries set by
the adjudicators,” he countered.

“Who are you kidding? Adjudicators are
just fancy tiles on a bathroom floor. Their only value is to count their swirls
and loops while you’re taking a crap.”

The judge, prosecutor, and entire city
were hollering at me.

What a waste of time. And I didn’t even
mean this trial, I meant the last seven decades I had been trying to save this
worthless city.

I wouldn’t miss it. I should take
Delovoa with me, just to nail this coffin shut definitively.

As I sat there stewing, I saw a courier travelling
up the street.

The galaxy, with teles gone, had to rely
on antiquated methods to communicate. Belvaille used bicycle messengers.

They wore gold uniforms and zipped
through the streets. They carried packages, messages, and delivered price
updates to neighborhood markets from the Ank Boards. They were so omnipresent
they were usually ignored.

But seeing one riding up the street
during a trial was unusual.

The crowd grew quieter as the courier
pedaled onward. Only the prosecutor and judge continued their rants against me.

At the edge of the bench, the courier
ran up to me and handed me an envelope. I signed for it and the courier got back
on his bike and rode down the street.

Now everyone was silent as I opened the
outer envelope and found another, red envelope inside.

I opened it and read the contents of the
letter.

I couldn’t believe it!

I sat there, uncertain what to do. My
mind raced through the repercussions of this message. There was nothing good
that could come from it.

“Well? Supreme Kommilaire, may we
continue the trial?” the judge asked.

I reluctantly read from the letter.

“Judge Moer-lox-n, by order of the owner
of this city, you are hereby stripped of your authority and position within the
government and any legal proceedings you are administering are invalidated
forthwith. Signed, Garm.”

Outrage!

But also confusion.

Didn’t Garm hate me? Rendrae testified
that she hired an assassin to have me killed.

I didn’t get it either. What was Garm
playing at? She hadn’t done me any favors by dismissing the judge. It saved me
one useless trial at the expense of making everyone detest me even more. Not
only was I a bully, a dupe, a fat blunderer, but I was immune to even the most
basic prosecution.

Hobardi declared his candidacy for
Governor almost immediately.

Then Peush declared.

Hong declared as well and also filled in
forms to run for every seat on the City Council. I wasn’t sure if he could do
that, but I wasn’t sure he couldn’t.

They were all taking advantage of the
sudden, and violent, distrust in the current leadership. If there really was an
election for Supreme Kommilaire, I was pretty sure I would lose out to anyone
who wasn’t a serial killer. And even then it really depended on who they had killed
serially.

The Ank Boards crashed.

The prices for food and precious
commodities and interest rates shot through the latticework. Company stocks and
disposables plummeted to nothing.

I wasn’t an expert on trading, but I had
worked with gangs and helped negotiate transactions for a couple centuries. I
understood that if companies couldn’t pay back their debts, they’d have to fire
people, or cut wages, or close shop. Then people lending money would stop
lending money, and the same things would happen to even more businesses. Then I’d
have a city full of unemployed people.

If things were bad now, when no one had
a job they were going to be a lot worse. And that was the
good
scenario.
If people couldn’t afford food, we’d have city-wide riots within a week.

I had to go talk to the Ank.

Someone must be manipulating the Boards.
I knew it was…possible. I had heard lots of talk about it at the Athletic
Gentleman’s Club. There were people who did nothing but invest in the Boards.
They didn’t actually own anything or produce anything it was all just Board chalk
marks and tickets.

I didn’t comprehend how it was done, but
I assumed it was screwing up Belvaille’s economy.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled as people cursed
at me as the heavy lifter trundled toward the Ank Reserve.

They could say what they wanted, I was a
big boy. I saw a guy about fifty feet ahead winding up his arm to throw
something at me and I took out a shotgun and aimed it at him.

The cursing died down substantially and
the would-be thrower decided to rub his shoulder nonchalantly instead.

The area outside the Boards was chaos.
They were always chaos, but I could sense the panic. Traders were screaming and
clawing at each other.

The values on the Board were changing so
fast they had double the usual personnel setting prices. I stared at the
numbers, but it was all Qwintine to me.

The Ank had increased security, though I
saw a few fights break out in the trading pit.

Inside the Reserve, I was left waiting
as usual.

Two Ank finally joined me and when we
adjourned to the nearby meeting room my knees were aching from standing for so
long.

“We are glad you came to visit us. What
may we assist you with, Supreme Kommilaire?”

“The Boards. You guys need to fix them.
People can’t buy anything. Half the local markets are shut down. My Stair Boys
had to break up a riot at Grain Street.”

“The Boards are correct,” one of the Ank
responded in his sing-song voice.

“The market is always correct,” the
other added.

“Correct in what? You got traders
punching each other in the face right outside your front door. A lot of
companies are going to go under. Even gangs.”

“Then that is correct.”

“I’m not getting what you mean,” I said,
the Ank making me feel even dumber than usual.

“The Boards reflect the sentiment of the
people,” one started.

“Their fears, their hopes, their present
situations,” the other said.

“The market takes every variable into
consideration. It is a living organism.”

“What? Really? I thought they were just
big chalk boards,” I said, now really confused.

“We do not mean literally. But they are
a representation of a living organism. In fact, they are a representation of
all living organisms that contact Belvaille.”

I sat there. I had just looked at the
boards and I didn’t get what they meant.

“When people are afraid, they buy
certain things.”

“When people are comfortable, they buy
other things.”

“That affects prices.”

“Well, those prices are wrong,” I said.
“People can’t afford stuff.”

“There are no wrong prices. The Boards
understand and react to the supply and demand of the people,” the Ank said.

“People are going to go hungry and die,
though.”

“And the Boards will react to their
deaths.”

That kind of stunned me.

“So you’re just going to let people die
because the Boards are being manipulated?” I asked.

“We do not interfere with the market.”

“The Boards are far more knowledgeable
than we are about what is needed and what is not.”

“If we interfered, we would only create
a false market which could not be sustained and which would have even worse
consequences.”

“But the Boards are just chalk on
blackboards, right? Why can’t you go up there and make food less expensive? Or
lower interest rates?” I asked.