Hard Luck Hank: Robot Farts by Steven Campbell

Author:Steven Campbell [Campbell, Steven]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2016-12-14T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 39

I was in the Ontakian club, the Society of the Free and Easy, having a drink that tasted like dirty socks rinsed in pure alcohol.

At least it gave me a buzz, which was more than I could say for the conversation.

“What am I doing here?” I asked Najosa. We were alone, the rest of the group off doing whatever they were doing.

I didn’t feel especially comfortable in the club, despite being an Ontakian. My original joy at finding there were so many other Ontakians left in the galaxy gave way when I learned that most Ontakians were surly, sour, and prone to punching me in the face when they danced.

My attempts to learn about Ontakian culture and history were met with dull stares. Most Ontakians considered culture and history to be foreign concepts.

Frank was still the only one who seemed to know anything of substance about our past, and he tended to leave out huge sections—like the fact my parents might still be alive.

“You’re here because we’re meeting one of our patrons,” Najosa said.

“Patron? For your music?” I asked.

“No,” she said, without elaborating.

“What the hell is this drink made out of?” I finally asked.

“It’s a traditional beverage. Ethanol filtered through perspiration-soaked cloth that has been worn by combat or labor Ontakians,” Najosa said.

“Holy crap, it is alcohol and dirty socks! Why would anyone invent this drink?”

“When we were slaves, we had to make do with what materials we had. We found that the sweat from certain types of Ontakians enhanced the flavor,” Najosa continued.

“Enhance is a generous word. Maybe my taste buds are mutated too, because this stuff is terrible.”

I hesitantly took another sip. The drink was expensive. I didn’t want to waste it.

Suddenly I realized the club had gone completely quiet. The music was off. The talking had stopped. Everyone looked downcast and introspective.

I panicked and wondered if the Agglatar had resurrected himself and followed me to this club, looking for donations.

But I saw a small form making its way through the crowd.

It was a man. Old. And he was in a wheelchair.

“No way,” I mumbled.

“Greetings, Ontakians. I have come with the details of your next assignment,” the old Rettosian said.

It was him! It was the ancient Rettosian who had mutated the entire System some years ago. Who had created a clone army to fight in the civil war. Who had the ability to teleport things across the System. Who had created mutant glocken teams to play for Thad Elon.

I didn’t know his name—because he hadn’t told me and I didn’t ask. Delovoa had shot and killed him, but we assumed it was only a clone.

I could tell right away it was him.

He wasn’t as old as he had been before, but he was still ancient. So maybe a thousand years old instead of two thousand. He was shriveled, his fingers crooked, and his face was sunken from missing all his teeth.

Rettosian skin is liquid, flowing across their bodies like a colorful ocean. But this man was so old his skin had dried and crusted.

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