by Simon Haynes
Hal Spacejock
Copyright © Simon Haynes, 2011
Book one in the Hal Spacejock series
An incompetent, accident-prone pilot is given one last chance to save his ship, an elderly robot is trusted with a midnight landing in a deserted field, and a desperate businessman is prepared to sacrifice both of them to get what he wants ...
Combining relentless action with non-stop laughs, Hal Spacejock explodes onto the science fiction scene with the subtlety of a meteor strike and the hushed reverence of a used car salesman.
www.spacejock.com.au
Hal glanced in the mirror, studying the robots huddled in the back seat. "I think it's time for introductions."
The tall, bronze robot gestured at his shorter companion. "This is DO-P, and I'm FRT-1."
"What are your proper names?"
"We've never had any."
"Well I'm not calling you Dopey and Farty." Hal inspected the fugitives, then pointed to the bronze one. "You can be Clyde, and he can be Albion."
"I think that's Bonnie."
Hal looked pleased. "I'm glad you like it. My name's Hal, by the way. Hal Spacejock."
"The quirkiest genre satire to hit bookstores
since Terry Pratchett's Discworld"
The West Australian
What are readers saying about Hal? No spoilers!
"I would just like to say these novels are probably the best I have read in a long time, and that is no mere comment as I am a avid reader. They give me so much joy to read them it is one of the few stories that consumes me, I actually feel like I am there - a part of the adventure you might say."
"An excellent effort with the books. Truly an excellent effort. Your characters are a welcome relief from the everyday boredom that surrounds us. This is the funniest series I've read."
"It was a laugh a minute, it really was. I carried it around for three days reading whenever I had some free time. I think this is the first series I've read where the books have done nothing but get better."
"Hal Spacejock was the damn funniest sf book I have ever read and I have read a few! Keep this up and you might just shock people with a bloody bestseller!"
"Can't wait to read the new book, absolutely love the series so far. They are p--s-my-pants laugh-out-loud hilariously funny."
"I love your books. When I got my hands on the first one I read it in a couple of hours. I was so absorbed. I read the other two by the end of the week. Can't wait to get my hands on No Free Lunch."
"To let you know how much I enjoy your books, I feel that Hal and Clunk are not just characters in a book, but friends of mine."
"I absolutely love your books! They're brilliant! I couldn't stop laughing and i couldn't put them down."
"I loved the first three Spacejock books and can't wait for No Free Lunch. (My daughter loves them too) Thanks for such a great read."
"Thanks for the wonderful, amazing, brilliant books! Keep on writing!"
Read more feedback here:
https://www.spacejock.com.au/Hal1Feedback.html
Dedicated to my family
Chapter 1
Hal Spacejock was hunched over the Black Gull's flight console, studying a small chessboard balanced amongst the toggle switches, warning lights and status displays. Recently he'd read an article promoting the ancient game, claiming it would sharpen his mind, improve his memory and increase his attraction to the opposite sex.
After two hundred and seventy-six losses in a row Hal was beginning to doubt the article's claims. He didn't feel any smarter, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken to a member of the opposite sex, let alone attracted one.
"It's your turn," said the Navcom, in a neutral female voice.
Hal eyed the full set of pieces, all of them in their starting positions. "I'm working on my strategy."
"While you're flipping coins, can I tell you about a special offer?"
"What kind of offer?" asked Hal suspiciously. He'd already picked up his chess set in an 'exclusive limited deal', using a banner ad embedded in the article, and he still wasn't convinced the pieces were carved from rare mint wood.
"Planet Books have a chess title on sale."
"Really? Put it on main."
The viewscreen above the console turned red, and the word 'SALE' appeared in vibrating yellow text. Just before permanent eye damage set in, the letters grew stubby little legs and jogged off the screen.
"I don't need all this crap," said Hal. "Just show me the deal."
"Almost there," said the Navcom. "Keep watching."
A shopping trolley rolled into view, releasing a flock of doves. They exploded in mid-air like a kettle full of popcorn, and clouds of feathers fluttered to the ground. Swarms of ants picked up the feathers and formed the words 'Special Offer', before a gust of wind blew the ants and feathers over the horizon. Finally, a book title flashed up on the screen.
"Chess for the intellectually challenged?" said Hal, staring at the cover in disbelief. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"It's part of a popular series," said the Navcom.
"What are the others? Navigation for nutters? Moon landings for morons?"
"Shall I add them to your basket?"
"I don't want any of them. And if you get any more offers like those, keep them to yourself." Hal moved a pawn. "E2 to E4."
"E7 to E5," said the Navcom without hesitation. Outdated and underpowered, the Black Gull's flight computer was more than capable of running life support, accounts and navigation while simultaneously thrashing Hal at simple board games.
Hal moved his knight and the Navcom responded. After several additional moves Hal casually shifted his bishop into position.
There was a lengthy delay. "B8 to C6," said the Navcom at last.
"Aha! Got you thinking eh?"
"Negative. I was deflecting an enquiry about an unpaid account."
"Bills won't be a problem much longer."
"No?"
Hal shook his head. "I've organised a meeting with the finance company. We're getting another loan."
"You haven't paid off the first one."
"Don't worry about it." Hal gave a casual wave. "These people love lending money."
"Not if they don't get it back again."
"You fly the ship and I'll handle the cash. Got it?"
"You want me to place the Black Gull's finances in your hands?"
"Absolutely."
"Very well." The console screens flickered. "On monitor one you will notice a final demand from Lamira Ground Control for landing fees, amenities and stamp duty. Monitor two contains an overdraft penalty from the bank and monitor three is displaying a list of fuel bills in descending date order."
Hal looked from one screen to the next in growing concern. "You'd better hide that lot before the loan people get here. They might get the wrong idea."
"Or the right one." The screens refilled with pictures of credit tiles, gemstones and gold bullion. "Is this better?"
"Very funny," growled Hal.
"Your financial situation would improve if you weren't so fussy selecting cargo jobs."
"I've told you before, I'm not doing anything illegal. Governments are short of ships, and they'll snatch the Gull if I so much as look at a double yellow line."
"What about that cargo of medicinal products you were offered?"
"Drugs."
"And the shipment of home defence equipment?"
"Weapons."
"Those young men who wanted passage to Forg?"
"Escaped convicts. Broke and desperate."
"What about Jerling Enterprises? They seemed legitimate."
Hal snorted. "A front for the local crime lord."
"How do you know?"
"Instinct. I could
tell by the way they spoke. And the cargo sounded shifty."
"What's suspicious about robot parts?"
"They're stolen goods, of course. Painting 'Robot Parts' on the crates might fool some, but I'm too quick for that old dodge."
"Very well, perhaps you could describe an acceptable job so that I might filter out the undesirables."
Hal shrugged. "Something quick and easy. Pays well, no risk."
"In the freelance cargo business?" The Navcom was silent for a moment. "Have you considered another profession?"
"No I bloody haven't. I know there are jobs out there, you'll just have to find them."
"There may be suitable jobs elsewhere, but we're docked on Lamira. This is a mining colony, so the range of freight work is somewhat limited."
"It's the only place we could afford the landing fees."
"Which you still haven't paid."
"Me?"
"You're in charge of accounts. Incidentally, there's a call from Ground Control. Shall I put them on?"
"No, tell them I'm busy. I want to win at chess first."
"Complying."
"Did it work?"
"Yes. I told them you're watching a little pawn."
* * *
Ding Dong!
Hal looked up from the chessboard, where a typically one-sided contest had decimated his pieces. "What was that?"
"There's someone on the passenger ramp."
"The loan arranger?"
"I cannot say. The external camera is missing."
"So how do you know there's anyone out there?"
Ding Dong!
"They're pressing the doorbell," said the Navcom patiently.
Hal stood, strode to a set of controls on the wall and pressed the upper button. Hydraulics whined as the heavy circular door swung open, and Hal ducked into the cramped airlock. Once inside, he used a second set of controls to open the outer door, but before it was half open there was a hair-raising growl and a huge robot squeezed into the ship.
Hal took one look at the grasping hands, jagged steel teeth and blood-red eyes and fled to the flight deck. He slammed the inner door and fumbled for the lock, but before he could activate it the door burst open. Hal dived for the access tube at the rear of the flight deck, hoping to escape via the cargo hold, but he only managed two steps before the robot cut him off.
Hal and the robot faced each other for a couple of seconds, and then a short, middle-aged man strolled into the flight deck. He had a smooth, pale face and slicked-back hair, and his heavy overcoat was buttoned up to his neck.
"Who the hell are you?" demanded Hal.
"Vurdi Makalukar at your service," said the man softly.
Hal nodded towards the hulking robot, unwilling to point in case it tore his arm off. "Is this thing yours?"
"Brutus accompanies me on my rounds." Vurdi crossed to the console and turned the pilot's chair, grimacing as he saw the exposed stuffing. He looked around for an alternative and found none. "Let us begin," he said, sitting on the edge of the seat. "I represent Garmit and Hash, Mr Spacejock, and I'm here to --"
"You're the loan guy?" broke in Hal.
Vurdi nodded.
Hal gestured at the robot. "Do you treat all your clients like this?"
"Brutus usually breaks a leg or two first, but in your case I felt it wasn't necessary. After all, it's a relatively modest sum of money."
"Breaks a leg?" Hal eyed the hulking robot. "Do you get much repeat business?"
"None, if I do my job properly." Vurdi sat back. "Now, are we paying by cash or cheque?"
"I don't care. It's all the same to me."
Vurdi smiled. "I confess, I came here expecting the worst. It's most gratifying that you have the money to pay me."
"Pay you? No, you've got it all wrong. You're here to set up a loan."
The smile vanished. "You don't honestly believe that? Mr Spacejock, your computer has been fobbing me off for weeks. You're months behind with repayments."
"You mean it was a trick? You're not giving me any money?"
"I believe we're on the right track at last. You see, I'm here to collect back payments on your existing loan." Vurdi gestured at the robot. "If you're quick, you can stay out of hospital."
"I don't have anything to give." Hal spread his hands. "It's been quiet. Nobody's hiring."
"We must honour our debts, Mr Spacejock. Payment in kind perhaps? A limb or two?" The chair squealed as Vurdi turned his back. "I suggest you stand still, it'll be quicker that way."
"Quicker? What --" Hal dodged as the huge robot reached for him with hands the size of shovels. "Hey, call it off or I'll ..." The threat died as banana-sized fingers grabbed him round the neck, and a split second later he was flat on his back.
The giant machine crouched over him and tried to push him through the cold metal deck, and as the steel grip tightened Hal saw his life flash before his eyes -- a series of heavy landings interspersed with explosions and multiple fractures.
The lights in the flight deck dimmed, and then ... darkness.
* * *
On planet Forg, a small crowd had gathered outside the local sky hockey stadium. Forgtown was not a prosperous area - the semi-detached houses were modest and the residents struggled to live within their means. It was unusual to see building work or renovations, and the refurbishment of the decrepit old stadium had been a talking point for months.
Opening day had arrived at last, and light blazed from the new ticket booths, glistening off the gold and silver ribbons stretched across the entrance. There was a lighting rig to one side, a spindly tower festooned with coloured spotlights. Perched on top, a stocky man in baggy jeans was adjusting the largest of these lights, directing an intense white beam onto the centre of the gleaming floor tiles. When he was satisfied, music blared from concealed speakers and the crowd parted to allow a young man in a gold suit onto the impromptu stage. He slid to a halt, threw his head back and raised an oversized microphone to his mouth. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to witness a miracle," he bawled. As he strode up and down the technician struggled to keep the beam on him. "They said it would never happen! They said the people of Forgtown didn't deserve a new stadium!" He gestured at a blank wall. "So who came to your rescue?"
On cue, a huge portrait was projected onto the wall. It showed a middle-aged man with a bristling black moustache, gleaming black hair and a thick cigar gripped in the corner of his mouth. "Mr Walterrrr Jerling!" screamed the young man. He stuck the microphone under his arm and clapped wildly, trying desperately to rev up the crowd.
Off to one side, Jerling took a last puff from his cigar, dropped it on the fresh new tiles and ground it to shreds under his heel. Then he strode onto the stage and took the microphone. He waved the crowd to silence and began his speech, but nothing came through the speakers. Jerling glared at the young man, who took the microphone and fiddled with it.
"... bloody thing working or it's your job," boomed Jerling's voice, as the microphone was handed back. He recovered quickly. "Thank you for coming," he said, forcing a smile at the crowd of onlookers. It was the usual turnout - young mothers with prams, old ladies clutching oversized handbags and a smattering of unemployed youths with nothing better to do. Impulsively, Jerling decided to cut to page seven. The PR people would moan, but they could splice old footage for the news release. "And so, it gives me great pleasure to open this refurbished stadium, and to wish the Forgtown Rhinos the best of luck for the coming season!"
The crowd clapped politely as Jerling moved to the entrance and snipped the ribbon. "I declare this stadium open!" he said, to further applause.
On the way to his waiting limousine Jerling passed a mother standing by her young son. The boy was looking up at a bunch of coloured balloons tied to the barrier, a wistful look in his eyes. On impulse, Jerling separated one of the balloons from the rest. "Here you are kid, look after it."
The mother beamed at him. "Thank you, Mr Jerling. I'm sure he'll treasure
it for life."
Jerling made a casual gesture, indicating that such momentous gifts were easy to bestow. Inside, he felt the warm glow of a deed well done.
"But mum, I wanted the red one," whined the boy.
Jerling turned and strode to the car, ducked inside and sank back in the comfortable upholstery. The door closed and the car drew away from the crowds with a hum of powerful motors, quickly gathering speed. Inside, Carina Rinoret was sitting primly on the edge of her seat, briefcase on her lap. Her dark brown eyes studied Jerling intently, trying to gauge his mood. She didn't have to wait long.
"Sack that bloody MC," growled Jerling.
"Yes, sir."
"Gold suits and spotlights ... what the hell was he thinking? I'm a businessman, not a goddamn pop star." As the car turned onto the highway, Jerling tore the wrapper off a fresh cigar and jammed the tip into the door console. "What happened to the last guy?"
"Fired," said Carina. "You said he was dull."
"And did you see that crowd? Pathetic!" Jerling jammed the lit cigar between his teeth and dragged on it hungrily. "I saw Hinchfig on the news the other day. He had twice the crowd for his stadium, and they were all cheering louder."
"I suggested a virtual crowd, but you insisted on the real thing." Discreetly, Carina activated the air purifier. "They weren't exactly cheap, either."
"You paid those losers to show up?" Jerling stared at her in surprise. "I thought they were loyal Rhinos supporters!"
"The Rhinos don't have any supporters. They never win."
"Sack the players and buy some good ones."
"Noted."
Jerling took the cigar from his mouth and stared at her. "Wait a minute. Hinchfig fakes his crowds?"
Carina nodded. "He's got a brilliant programmer and a room full of computers. We should have the same."
"Forget it. They're overpriced, highly-strung, and always breaking down." Jerling blew out a cloud of smoke. "I'm not wasting money on computers either."
