Hard Luck Hank: Basketful of Crap (30 page)

I sat with Garm and Delovoa in City
Hall two weeks after Belvaille had been restored and the scope of our defeat
was becoming clear.

“So what do you guys plan on
doing?” Delovoa asked.

The station was in lockdown, with
no one able to leave until the authorities pieced together what had happened.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I
feel like I just helped doom our species.”

Garm took out from her safe an
expensive bottle of alcohol. She poured us all glasses.

“I’ll tell you what’s going to
happen. The Navy is going to look around Belvaille, kick us a bit, strip out
anything dangerous, and then leave. Then I’m going to buy it from them.”

“Buy the station?” I asked her.

“Yeah. Belvaille was never
profitable and they need every credit they can get.”

“How much do you think it will
cost?” Delovoa asked curiously.

“If it’s less than a billion, I’m
buying.”

Delovoa and I looked at each other.
I knew Garm was rich, but I had no idea she was that rich.

“What will you do with a junky
space station?” I asked her.

“It’s a junky space station sitting
next to the highest concentration of Portals in the Confederation. And it’s one
of the only places that isn’t fighting over something, using tanks and
Therezians and chemical weapons.”

“It’s an idea,” I said.

“I need someone smart here,” she
said to Delovoa. “Belvaille hasn’t been updated since it was created.”

“A job?” Delovoa asked, skeptical.

“A partnership. There’s going to be
a lot of business, a lot of money coming in here.”

“I’ll think about it,” Delovoa
said, but I could already see he was on board.

“Hank—” she started.

“I think I should just become a
farmer somewhere,” I interrupted.

“What are you going to do if you fall
down while planting?” Delovoa asked seriously.

“Belvaille is going to be filled
with refugees soon. Filled like it never was. It’s going to need security,”
Garm said. “I want you to be security.”

“I can’t do security for a whole
city. I was a decent gang negotiator. Terrible doorman. And very skilled civil-war-starter.
But you’d need an army to run security for Belvaille.”

“You are an army. And you didn’t start
the war. You broke your back to stop it.”

“It didn’t help.”

“Look, you can either beat yourself
up forever over something you couldn’t have stopped—that no one could have
stopped—or you can make the most of it. As Belvaille’s Supreme Kommilaire.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Whatever you want it to be,” she
said.

I scratched my head, uncertain.

“Besides, what do you know about
farming?”

EPILOGUE

The priestess finished inscribing
the protective symbols at the mouth of the cave.

The tree, the horse, the sun, the
stream.

Menfolk congregated nearby out of
curiosity. They held their spears tightly, the sounds of the woman screaming
from inside the cave making them uneasy.

The priestess picked up rocks and
hurled them at the men. Saying their presence was a bad omen and would anger
the spirits.

The men departed. They gave insults
when they were clear of hearing range.

Inside the cave, two acolytes
tended to the woman giving birth on a flat, fur-covered stone. One acolyte daubed
the mother’s head with water while the other chanted prayers.

The priestess washed the paint from
her hands and adjusted her rough tunic.

Kneeling by the birthing woman she
lent her voice to the prayers, beseeching Sre, Goddess of Nature, to allow the
baby to pass through the Deathlands and enter the world of the living.

The birthing began and the
priestess assisted. The acolytes raised the sound of their prayers to match the
screams of the mother.

The priestess was sure the baby had
tripped and fallen in the Deathlands because it did not cry nor make any sound
at all when it was free.

She instructed the acolytes to help
the woman as she carried the babe to a nearby stone to prepare it for burial.
She made thanks to the Goddess for attempting. She knew Pattoeb, the Deathlands
hunt master, did not let souls escape easily.

The priestess gasped and backed
away from the child. The acolytes stopped their activities and looked to her. The
priestess made a sign of protection and asked for guidance from the Sky Father.

The baby was not dead.

The fact it did not cry wasn’t what
frightened the priestess. It was the baby’s solid black eyes.

It seemed to be looking around the
cave, at those present. As if it were not concerned it had just been born and
escaped the wolves of the Deathlands.

Finally, as if realizing where it
was and what it had been through, the baby began crying. It was not the bawling
that newborns usually made.

It was the mournful sob of someone
who could not escape his destiny, and knew it.