“Did the judge overstep his bounds?”
“Um…”
Judge Naeb had likely been bought and this whole outcome planned. But I still had to tiptoe around this. I couldn’t say half of the city’s law and order was invalid, even if it was true.
“Let me rephrase that. Should judges be elected by the people of Belvaille, just as you, our Supreme Kommilaire, are elected?”
I guess technically I was elected. But no one ever ran against me. I wasn’t even sure when the elections were held or how it was determined I won. By weight?
It’s not that I was all that special or anything, but name value means a lot. I’ve met refugees from every part of the former Colmarian Confederation, and even in those far-flung places they have heard of Hank. The Hank.
History gets simplified over time, especially with the collapse of society and technology. What were fifty pages of complex details and reasons, becomes five pages, becomes one, and then becomes a sentence.
“Hank of Belvaille brought about the destruction of the corrupt Colmarian Confederation” is a common folk legend.
And how often do you get to elect a folk legend to office?
Rendrae had been doing this reporter business for a long time. Since before I had destroyed the galaxy—or whatever. He had competition now, but he was better than they were. He knew what people wanted.
“Garm picks judges from her stronghold in the Gilded Tower,” Rendrae said, referring to City Hall. “She created the majority of our laws by fiat. Do you think the upcoming election will change that or will she still wield ultimate power?”
Rendrae had never much cared for Garm. But Belvaille could, in a second, turn into anarchy. A handful of Stair Boys wouldn’t stop this city if it wanted to pull itself apart.
And it really wanted to.
We had an election coming, the first ever in Belvaille’s history. We were electing a Governor and City Council.
We had no clue what they would do.
It was hard to shake off our Colmarian Confederation inefficiency. So we were going to elect a bunch of people and then decide what we were electing them for later.
Rendrae was covering the election continuously, which was why he was personally at this trial interviewing me. He didn’t care about the case. He wanted some juicy sound bites on the election.
“Rendrae, I have to say that I am excited about Belvaille’s future. To this day, we are still one of the most important cities in existence. We have room for improvement, but I don’t believe in change just for the sake of change. With the election to come, I feel Belvaille will have a chance to exercise its freedoms at a degree never yet seen.”
I hoped that was a fuzzy enough speech of non-talk to appease people. I could hear a general murmur from Courtroom Three Street, and from its pitch, it sounded placated. You quickly learn the tone of a mob.
“I want to thank you for your time, Hank. As my listeners know, I have been covering news, and your place in it, for centuries now. This is Rendrae, your Force for Facts, signing off.
The other reporters jostled and yelled for quotes, but I was fed up and began my walk back to the train.
CHAPTER 4
That night I headed out to escape the crowds.
The Belvaille Athletic Gentleman’s Club was the most exclusive club in the city.
Actually, I have no idea why I said that. I’m not sure what the most exclusive club was. It was the oldest club, though. Sort of.
It had formerly been two clubs: the Belvaille Athletic Club, where all the crime bosses met; and the Belvaille Gentleman’s Club, where all the thugs and goons met.
The Old Belvaille concepts of bosses and thugs were a lot hazier nowadays so the Clubs had merged, taking the Athletic Club as its base of operations. The Gentleman’s Club, which was now apartment buildings, still smelled like rancid foot odor seventy-eight years later.
But the name. Every time I saw the name of the club I got angry. It was so ridiculous.
Athletic Gentleman?
“Good to see you again, Mr. Hank, Supreme Kommilaire!” Dample said obsequiously at the door.
Dample was the grandson of Krample, who had been the coat check of the Belvaille Gentleman’s club for maybe two hundred years. Krample had been so bitter and angry, his very blood must have been lemon juice.
It was the kind of personality you expected to be coat check in the social club of a bunch of murderers and bandits.
Dample was simpering and kind. I didn’t like him.
“Is there anything I can get ready for you, sir?” he asked, bowing. Not sure why he bowed.
“Sandwiches,” I replied tersely.
The Athletic Gentleman’s club only served bad sandwiches. Oh, and this kind of meat cake with meat frosting and vegetable sculptures on it. But no one ate that. I think they had it just to say they had more than one thing on the menu.
The club itself was a mixture of highbrow and lowbrow. There were card games and sports games, but there were also paintings and the odd fountain. Half the guys were unshaven, wearing shorts, and the other half were in suits of the latest style.
I had a special booth at the club that was made out of reinforced steel. As I was walking to it, a blond-haired man hurried up to me.
“Hank?” he asked, as if there were a thousand people on Belvaille who fit my description.
“Yes.”
“Excuse me for interrupting. My name is Jorn-dole. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.”
The man was extremely good-looking. It was hard to tell when a man was attractive. Women had the ability to give honest appraisals of other women. But men were terrible at it. Not sure how that ever came about. I thought MTB was a handsome guy with his square jaw and rugged features, but I had been told, quite frequently by women, that he was in fact not attractive. Even I could tell Jorn-dole was handsome, however.
“How did you get in here?” I asked him. It was clear right away that he did not belong in the club for a lot of reasons. He was too pretty. He didn’t know who I was and I had been in this club for several hundred years. And he had an unusual manner that was simply not Belvaille.
“What?” He was taken aback. “I just bought a membership.”
“Who sponsored you?” I asked.
“Fifty thousand thumbs,” he said.
I sulked. He had bought his way in. I guess the club wasn’t as exclusive as I thought. Athletic Gentlemen indeed.
I reached my table and sat down with a crash. I think the whole club was slightly tilted from me always sitting in the same spot.
Jorn-dole was still at my heels like a puppy, with a face and eagerness that matched.
“Do you think Belvaille is dangerous?” he asked.
Who was this guy? If I was faster, and a bit meaner, I would punch him in the nose for asking such a candy-ass question. The people in this club made the station dangerous!
“I mean, is it true that Belvaille used to be much safer?” he continued.
“Eh, sure. Yeah, it was. But it had maybe a tenth the population and hadn’t gone through a war. That Belvaille is gone. That galaxy is gone,” I said.
My guess was this guy was a businessman. He probably took a look around and was shocked. But Belvaille could use more jobs. People with jobs were too tired to cause problems for me and my Kommilaire.
The waiter rolled on over with a huge tray and deposited about fifty pounds of sandwiches and gallons of beer. It took it a few minutes to unload all the food.
When it had left, Jorn-dole stood with his mouth open. He leaned in to whisper.