Hal Spacejock

by Simon Haynes

  Chapter 2

  "Is he dead yet?"

  Hal came round slowly, trying not to breath the electric-tainted air washing over his face. He opened one eye and saw Brutus inspecting him closely.

  "Nearly," growled the robot.

  "All right," said Vurdi. "Let him go."

  The robot hesitated, then released Hal and stood up.

  "Let's start again, Mr Spacejock." Vurdi lifted the queen from the chessboard. "Where's the money?"

  "I told you, I don't have anything."

  Vurdi tumbled the chess piece in one hand, over and over. "You know, it's just as well your insurance is paid up."

  "What are you saying?"

  "Imagine if the unthinkable happened to your ship. Garmit would get their money, I would earn my fee and you ... well, you'd get a few lines in the local paper."

  "You'd never get away with it!"

  "Several of my ex-clients expressed the same opinion." Vurdi shook his head sadly. "Alas, I proved them wrong."

  "Look, there is something."

  "There always is. How much?"

  "Not cash, it's a job. This guy was looking for a freighter."

  Vurdi raised one eyebrow. "Why didn't you mention it earlier?"

  "What earlier? The minute I opened the door your robot tried to rip my head off."

  "Drama bores me, Mr Spacejock. Give me the details."

  "This guy's regular ship is out of action. He wants me to cover it."

  "Most convenient." Vurdi's dark eyes studied Hal's face. "When will this job be completed?"

  "I've got twenty-four hours."

  "Very well. Brutus will collect the money tomorrow afternoon." Vurdi laid the chess piece on the board. "No need to show me out. Come, Brutus."

  Hal jumped as the robot's foot thudded down next to his face. He felt its hands grabbing at his clothing, pulling him up until he was staring into its blood-red eyes. Breath hissed between its wafer-thin lips as fans worked overtime to keep its circuits cool. "I'll be b--"

  "Brutus, come!" snapped Vurdi from the airlock.

  The robot dropped Hal and left the ship with slow, measured footsteps. As the outer door thudded to, Hal sat up. "Navcom?"

  There was a crackle from the console. "Yes, sir?"

  "Call Jerling Enterprises."

  "The front company for the local crime lord?"

  "Yes. Tell them I'll take their cargo job."

  "The shipment of stolen goods?"

  "That's it."

  "But you turned them down!"

  Hal rubbed his neck. "I just changed my mind."

  * * *

  Jerling eyed the fast-moving scenery. They were leaving the dreary, run-down part of town, and he could already feel the weight lifting from his shoulders. He'd grown up in the area, and there wasn't a shred of nostalgia for his past. "I should have charged that kid for the balloon."

  "Would you like me to raise an invoice?"

  "Focusing on the small stuff is a beginner's mistake. It pays to keep your eye on the big picture." Jerling gestured impatiently with his cigar. "Anyway, it's probably blown away by now."

  They travelled in silence, and then Jerling remembered something. "Speaking of small stuff, what was that crap on my screen this morning?"

  "I don't understand."

  "That memo about a dental plan. I don't deal with garbage like that. Put someone else onto it."

  "Employee benefits are an important aspect of your business."

  "They should be bloody glad they've got jobs." Jerling sniffed. "Opening shopping centres, dental plans. You'll have me organising a retirement party next."

  "Nonsense, Mr Jerling. You perform a vital function."

  "Don't patronise me." Jerling puffed his cigar. "Find me something interesting. Give me something to think about."

  "You know what your doctor said, Mr Jerling. He advised against direct involvement in the decision-making process."

  "All right, sack the doctor and then find me something interesting."

  "I'm sure that won't be necessary." Carina looked inside her briefcase. "There's a batch of equipment due for recycling. I need final approval on the order."

  "Recycling? That's the best you can do?"

  "It's vital to the health of the company. Turning over equipment is good for staff morale, leads to lower maintenance costs and cuts our exposure to taxation." Carina handed over a bound report. "Here's the information."

  Jerling sighed as he felt the weight. "In the old days I listened to the facts and made up my mind on the spot. When did all this red tape come in?"

  "Standard corporate governance. Everything by the book."

  "And a book for everything," muttered Jerling. He flipped through the pages, glaring at the tiny print. "What is it, anyway?"

  "Depreciation schedule. Every item of equipment in the company, listed by purchase date and accrued tax benefit."

  "Care to explain that in layman's terms?"

  "The further you go in the book, the older the equipment. I recommend we dispose of everything after page seventy."

  "Are you crazy?" Jerling stared at her. "I'm not getting rid of perfectly good equipment."

  "There's a tremendous tax advantage if you do."

  Jerling squinted at the page. "Vehicles, ships, computers ... we only just bought some of this stuff!"

  "I'm afraid not. The minimum age is five years, and some items are almost thirty. Take those robots ..."

  Jerling groaned. "Not robots. Not openly."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Do you know what happens when you strip a bunch of robots from a company?"

  Carina shook her head.

  "The rest go moody, that's what. They don't say anything but their eyes follow you everywhere. Accusing, sad, angry ..." Jerling shook his head. "You have to remove them one by one, send them off on a long-term errand. Then you tell the rest their dear old metal pal was purchased as a companion for someone's grandma, or to help a sick kid recover."

  "Isn't that rather elaborate? They're just machines."

  "No, they're machines with brains. Big difference."

  "However it's done, this equipment must go. It will save the company thousands."

  "Really?"

  Carina nodded. "The tax benefits will almost pay for the replacements. Then there's the human element - new equipment is conducive to a happy work environment, people want to be at work and sick leave falls dramatically."

  Jerling grunted and handed the report back. "Put a summary on my desk and I'll take a look in the morning."

  "You can't leave it too long," warned Carina. "I've negotiated new contracts with our suppliers. They won't hold their prices forever."

  Jerling's eyes narrowed. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

  "No, Mr Jerling."

  The limousine slowed and Jerling glanced out the window. They were travelling along the broad avenue leading to head office, and as they rounded a bend the building came into view. It was an impressive sight - twelve storeys high, fronted with acres of glass and chrome. Across the top a huge sign spelled out 'Jerling Corporation' in glowing red letters.

  After admiring his building for a moment or two, Jerling turned back to Carina. "What's next?"

  Carina hesitated. "One of our senior engineers is retiring tomorrow. They're not sure what to buy him."

  "A wreath," muttered Jerling. "Look, that's not what I meant. I'm talking business deals, something hands on." He frowned. "What was it I heard this morning, something about a shipment they're having trouble with?"

  "Your staff are very efficient, Mr Jerling. I'm sure they'll handle it."

  "Give me the details and I'll tell you whether they're efficient or not."

  Suppressing the tiniest of sighs, Carina took out a thinscreen and paged through several memos. "Did they mention Orthagon?"

  "No, Seraph."

  "That would be the shipment of robot parts."

  "Oh joy," sighed Jerling. "Such a step up from company dental. So
what's the problem?"

  "The shipment is sitting on Seraph IV, waiting for collection."

  "And?"

  "The Seraph military are conducting war games - live fire exercises. It's been running for a week now, with another fortnight to go." Carina shifted in her seat. "Last time they held manoeuvres on this scale they blasted three cargo freighters by mistake."

  "I begin to see the problem."

  "None of our people will fly there, because it's too risky. And we're not insured against that kind of loss."

  "What's the hurry with the parts?"

  "We're assembling an order of serving robots for the Emperor's summer palace. He's planning a grand ball and our robots have to be ready on time."

  "Can't we get the parts elsewhere?"

  Carina shook her head. "There's a shortage."

  "Why don't we hire a ship?"

  "Who would fly it?"

  "One of our old robots, of course." Jerling gestured at the recycling report. "You've already decided they're expendable."

  "Robots can only be co-pilots. You need a human in control. Anyway, we're still liable for the replacement cost of the vessel."

  "All right, hire a freelancer."

  Carina grimaced. "We tried, but they're all aware of the war games. Mind you, there was one ..."

  "Yes?"

  "He was convinced it was a cargo of stolen goods."

  "You should have put him on to me," growled Jerling. "I'd have set him straight."

  "To be honest, I didn't think he was suitable. His record is terrible."

  "We all have to start somewhere."

  The car slowed, and the interior darkened as it entered the undercover parking. Jerling's cigar glowed in the darkness, and then the interior was bathed in artificial light. Jerling puffed in silence as they drove past rows of gleaming cars, and then he came to a decision. "I'm taking charge of this matter. I want to handle it personally."

  "Mr Jerling, you have talented staff. This job can be handled without your intervention."

  "Do you know what will happen if we disappoint the Emperor? We'll lose our preferred supplier status. The Hinchfigs will pounce, and before you know it they'll be supplying the Emperor and we'll be faking crowds." The car stopped, and Jerling crushed his cigar and shoved his door open. "I want this pilot put through to my office. Immediately, you understand? Otherwise you'll be the one looking for a new job."

  White faced, Carina nodded.

  * * *

  Hal was pacing the Black Gull's flight deck, ready to put his fist through the nearest wall. "What do you mean you can't call Jerling back? What do you mean you didn't save his details?"

  "I erased the record after you turned the job down."

  "So look it up again!"

  "We can't afford the search fees." The Navcom hesitated. "Incidentally, it's your move."

  "How can you think of a bloody chess game at a time like this?"

  "You're only saying that because you're losing."

  "The hell I am." Hal strode to the console and stared down at the board, where his white king and a single pawn were surrounded by a complete set of black pieces. "Switch sides?"

  "Negative."

  Hal sighed. "Isn't there any way you can get hold of Jerling?"

  "No."

  "At least think about it, all right? I'm going to get something to eat." Hal crossed to the rear of the flight deck, where a battered metal ladder poked through a circular hole in the floor. He'd just put his foot on the first rung when a chime echoed around the flight deck.

  "Inbound call for Mr Spacejock."

  "Take it, will you? I can't handle debt collectors right now."

  "It's not a debt collector. It's Jerling Enterprises."

  "Are you mucking about?"

  "No, it's Walter Jerling himself."

  "Well don't keep him waiting, you overgrown calculator. Put him on!"

  The viewscreen flickered and wavered, and Walter Jerling's head and shoulders appeared. His gaunt face was bathed in green light from the screens set into his desk, and there was a cigar clamped between his teeth. He spotted Hal, removed the cigar and blew out a cloud of smoke. "Hal Spacejock?"

  "That's me," said Hal, dropping into his seat. "Listen, I was just --"

  "Freelance cargo pilot?"

  "Yes. I was --"

  "Something wrong with my company? Pay not good enough?"

  "No. I --"

  "I told my staff you'd come round." Jerling waved his cigar. "The cargo's on Seraph IV, I want it delivered to my premises on Forg within twenty-four hours. Can you handle that?"

  "Sure."

  Jerling picked a shred of tobacco from his lip. "There's a couple of things you should know. First, Seraph traffic control are a bunch of bureaucratic idiots who'll tie you up for days with their ridiculous paperwork. And we don't want that, do we?"

  "I guess not," said Hal.

  "Right, so you're going to bypass customs. Second, you'll be landing in a field at night. The pick-up is near the equator and there's a few dwellings, light industry, that kind of thing."

  Hal wondered if his hearing was playing up. "Did you say a field?"

  "You got a problem with that?"

  "Well, er --"

  "Good." Jerling frowned at the darkened tip of his cigar. "What was the other thing? Oh yes, the landing. I want you to take one of my pilots along. Give him a lift to Seraph."

  "I thought this job was urgent? If I have to wait for your pilot --"

  "No waiting, he's already there at the spaceport. He was supposed to get a lift with one of my ships, but you can take him instead." Jerling waved his cigar. "If things get sticky on Seraph he'll take over the controls."

  "Is he any good?"

  "He works for me, doesn't he?" Jerling snapped his fingers and a squat robot appeared, holding a short rod with a glowing red tip. Jerling pressed his cigar to the tip, puffed once or twice to get it going, then waved the robot away. "Look, he's had years of training. Flown everything from a hover bike to a megafreighter. Believe me, he's a first-class pilot."

  Hal felt a surge of relief. A night landing in a field sounded like a recipe for disaster, but with Jerling's pilot it would be easy.

  "Right, that's everything covered," said Jerling. "I'll get the pilot over to your ship, and you get my cargo here as quick as you can."

  "Hang on, what about payment?"

  But the screen was blank.

  The car drove towards the tower block's imposing entrance before veering off at the last minute. It passed the ornate columns and liveried doorman, skirted the side of the building and emerged on a large, flat expanse of concrete where two spaceships could be seen in the distance: graceful white vessels surrounded by maintenance vehicles. There was also a battered wooden office with faded lettering across the front: "Jerling Inc."

  The limo drew up to the small office. Jerling stepped out, slammed the door and leaned through the open window. "Get onto that freelance pilot and put the call through to me here."

  "Mr Jerling, you have talented staff. This matter can be handled without your intervention."

  "Listen, do you know what will happen if we disappoint the Emperor? We'll lose our preferred supplier status, that's what. The Hinchfigs will pounce, and before you know it they'll be supplying the Emperor and we'll be faking crowds." Jerling banged his fist on the polished metal roof. "You get this clown of a freighter pilot on the line, and you get him now. Understood?"

  White-faced, Carina nodded.

  As the car drew away, Jerling extracted a worn key from his pocket and unlocked the door to the ramshackle office. Inside, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, savouring the familiar smells of stale tobacco and warm electronics. There was a plush office awaiting him on the top floor of the main building, but he refused to move into it. Partly because it had no soul, mainly because they wouldn't let him smoke there.

  After gazing fondly at the faded sales charts and outdated calendars hanging on the walls, Jerli
ng crossed the wrinkled carpet to his desk. He sat in the snug, familiar chair and snapped his fingers at a squat robot hunched in the corner. As the robot raised a spindly arm and lurched towards him, a satisfied smile crossed Jerling's face. This was the nerve centre of his business, doctors or no doctors.

  Chapter 3

  "No sign of Jerling's pilot," said Hal, who was peering through a scratched, yellowed porthole in the Black Gull's airlock. He cupped his hands to the plastic and squinted, but it made little difference. "There could be an army out there and I wouldn't know it."

  "Why don't you open the door?" asked the Navcom.

  "What, and let Vurdi's bloody great robot in again? No thanks!" Hal gave up and returned to the flight deck, where he gathered a stained mug and held it under the nozzle of the drinks dispenser. When the machine had finished burping and spluttering he raised his mug to sniff the steaming brown liquid. "Is this tea or coffee?"

  "Neither. It's an infusion of edible fungi."

  "Really?" Hal took a sip and smacked his lips. "It could grow on me."

  "Don't spill it, or it'll grow everywhere."

  Hal returned to the chessboard, but his mind was on the upcoming cargo job. He'd never landed in the dark before, especially in a field. What if Jerling's hot shot pilot didn't turn up? What if he wasn't as good as Jerling said he was? What if ...

  "Would you like a hint?" asked the Navcom.

  "How can I play if you keep interrupting?" Hal moved one of his pieces at random. "Queen to C6."

  "King's knight to C6," said the Navcom. "Warning, checkmate in three moves."

  There was a ringing noise. "About time he turned up," muttered Hal. As he left his chair he jogged the chessboard with his elbow, scattering pieces all over the deck. "Oops, silly me."

  "Desperate situations call for desperate measures," intoned the Navcom.

  "Eh?"

  "Cheats never prosper."

  "Oh, shut up."

  "Daily quote mode ... disabled."

  Hal strode into the airlock and waited impatiently as the outer door grated open. To his horror there was a robot standing outside, and he was just about to slam the door in its face when he realised it was half the size of Vurdi's enforcer. Bronze all over, this robot had a squashy furrowed face, a dented torso and mismatched legs splattered with grimy patches of lubricating fluid.

  "What do you want?" demanded Hal, once he'd finished looking it over.