The Club

Drannen was the kind of city you could get lost in, or disappear in, depending on who you owed money to. What started as a company town for the Rendall corporation quickly grew into a metropolis that spread out over a hundred kilometers in all directions. I was only a child when Drannen was founded so by the time I arrived on the scene it was already a well established hive of rampant consumerism and crime. At least it was on planet Stiga.

Back on earth the holo-vids painted a different picture.

“Come to Planet Stiga! Make your fortune in Drannen, Earth's first exoplanet colony!” The street ads would scream at passing pedestrians, though few paid any attention.

Why would they? Everything in space exists to wreak havoc on human biology. Even with all the safety of the colony ships you still waste two years of your life as a popsicle getting there. And then what? Get rich?

That's what my dumbass thought I was going to do. You can imagine my surprise when I arrived at the Drannen Starport only to learn I had traded one over industrialized hell hole for another. I had come here to make my fortune, but all the fortunes had already been made. It was scraps for the rest of us.

“Welcome to Drannen.” An overworked customs agent mumbled at me through gritted teeth and tired eyes. “You are not permitted to enter The High Streets without proper authorization. Have a good day.” He stamped my passport and ushered me along.

When I stepped out of the doors of the Starport and onto the streets of Drannen I was welcomed with familiar sights and sounds. Neon street ads yelling their nonsense to anyone that could hear them, street vendors trying to yell over the ads to sell you on whatever they had managed to scavenge or strange looking meats like nothing I'd seen before.

“Hello sir!” One of the strange meat vendors locked eyes with me. “Care for some Zipback kabobs?” He shoved a stick in my face that was wrapped in a weird yellow meat.

“What's a Zipback?” I eyed the meat cautiously. Then him, his slender face and dark eyes studying mine.

A devilish smirk grew across his face. “Ah, new to Drannen are we?”

“Yes, but intimately familiar with bullshit.” I looked at the meat again and back at the vendor. “How do I know that's not something you found dead in the gutter?”

His smirk dropped. “Sir I would never!” He continued “Zipback are a nearly extinct apex predator native to the southern hemisphere of Stiga, highly prized for their tender and delicious meat.”

I hollered at someone passing by. “Hey! What's a Zipback?”

“A what?”

My eyes turned back to the vendor. He had sat the kabob down and had his arms across his chest, one hand stroking his chin. “How would you like a job?”

“Selling rat meat to tourists? No thank you.” I turned to leave.

“It pays 1500 a week. Under the table. Can't be afraid to get a little dirty.” I could tell by his voice that he knew he had me.

“How dirty?”

The next year flew by, most days were counted in blood and bullets; the others were tough to remember clearly. The street vendor had introduced me to a man named Donner. He was a tall slender gentleman from the High Streets. Soft spoken, usually, highly educated, the kind of guy that paid guys like me to keep his hands clean.

My first meeting with him went about as well as it could.

“Hello Mr. Hartley, welcome to Drannen.” He peered at me over his gold, wireframe glasses then back down at a notebook on the massive black desk he sat behind. He then gestured for me to have a seat. “The vendor told me you called him on his con?”

“Yeah, and an easy one at that. Didn't think it'd get me into your little club.” He smiled, stood and walked to a bar built into one of the walls, grabbed a decanter and poured us both a whiskey.

“No Mr. Hartley, that's not what got you invited to my little club.” He handed me a glass. “That's two-hundred and fifty year old whiskey.” He sat back down and raised his glass. “What got you in that chair was your service back home. Two tours in the UK, one in the god forsaken United States. You were on my list the second you bought your ticket. A man of your talents didn't just travel 37 light-years to work a factory job, did you?

I sipped the whiskey. “I suppose not. What do your fringe benefits look like?”

The same smirk the vendor got appeared on Donner’s face, but he knew how to wield it. “A place in Midtown. My people don't shit where they eat. A starting salary of 1500 a week with the potential to move up the ladder, should you so choose. And a company vehicle.”

“And what's the job description?”

“You do exactly as you're told and always be ready. You do those two things and we'll have a beautiful partnership.”

“What about the law?” I was willing to do some shady shit but I wasn't willing to do time for said shady shit.

Donner chuckled and finished his drink. “There is no ‘law’ in Drannen, or on Stiga for that matter. There are those that can afford to do what they want and those who can't.” He opened a desk drawer and reached inside.

“And if I refuse?” He produced a lock-card from the drawer and tossed it to me.

He chuckled again. “We both know that was never going to happen. That works with both your home security system and your vehicles. Please try not to lose it, they're a pain to replace.” I stood and turned to leave. “And Mr. Hartley?”

“Yeah?”

“Welcome to The Club.”

And Donner was right, it was a beautiful partnership. For that first year I did exactly what I was told, no questions asked, and in return he took care of me. Hell, after six months-due to some unforeseen vacancies-I started getting orders straight from the man himself. Life was good. But guys in my line of work don't usually get a retirement package and that last job? That last job crossed a line that I would die before crossing. Not even for The Club.