by Simon Haynes
"Yeah, but you can forget the name when we're done."
"You know it's illegal to impersonate someone?"
"It's just a bit of fun. I want to surprise some friends of mine."
"You said Gordon approved this."
"They're his friends too."
"All right, but you'll have to give me a couple of days. It's time-consuming work and I have things to finish off first."
Farrell shook his head. "I need it in three hours."
"Three hours! The rendering alone --"
"Can't you just do the head and shoulders? I don't need all those poses you were talking about. He'll only be moving his mouth."
"And blinking. And smiling."
"You obviously don't know Jerling," muttered Farrell. He remembered something. "Oh yeah, and he smokes big fat cigars all the time."
"Smoke doesn't work properly. And you'd have to do his hands as well, because they'd be visible whenever he handled the cigar."
"Okay, no smoke. Just face and voice."
"Voice?"
"Of course. I want to speak into a microphone and have him repeat the words."
"But --"
"It's all in the recording." Farrell clapped Mike on the shoulder. "Come on, you're supposed to be the best. Just the other day Gordon was defending you, saying how you'd saved the company more than once."
"He was?"
"Sure. That new guy in the computer department was mouthing off, saying he could hire half a dozen youngsters, split your equipment between them and save a very expensive wage."
Mike's lips tightened. "Is that right?"
"Yeah. Hey, there's an idea ... if you make this Jerling simuloid I could use it to offer this new guy a job at double wages. He might hand Gordon his notice."
"You'd do that for me?"
"We have to stick together, right?"
Mike nodded. "You'll have this in three hours, even if I have to slave every computer in the company to the task."
* * *
Hal crossed the Black Gull's flight deck to the access tube, grabbed the exposed part of the ladder and climbed down to the lower deck. Avoiding the loose rung, he stepped onto the bare metal decking and squinted as a powerful overhead light came on. "Turn it down Navcom."
The light dimmed, and Hal gazed along the cramped passageway to the cargo hold's inner door. He could hear the workmen in the hold: boots clumping on the hollow floor, curses as they manoeuvred a heavy crate into position, howls of pain as one of them trapped his fingers. And over these noises he could hear the even, mechanical tread of the robot as it marched in and out of the hold with crate after crate.
Hal turned away, shaking his head. Labour laws or not, it was only a matter of time before humans were completely phased out. Robots were too damned efficient.
He squeezed between the ladder and the wall and entered the cramped space behind. There were two doors, one marked 'Toilet' and the other 'Kitchen'. For a moment, Hal wondered at the wisdom of spaceship designers who could make the kitchen half the size of the toilet. Surely the preparation of food deserved twice the space of its eventual disposal?
"Probably left it to a bunch of robots," he muttered, pushing open the nearest door. He flipped the miniature table down and yanked open the freezer. A shower of ice scattered on the worn floor covering, and Hal knocked some more down as he rummaged amongst the jumble of food containers inside. "What the hell is this?" he said, taking a large round ball from the freezer. He examined the label, then stared up at the Navcom's camera in disbelief. "Christmas pudding?"
"According to my records that batch of food was purchased on Xankor. You were offered a special deal."
"Navcom, if I defrost one of these I'll be eating it for days. Anyway, it's not food."
"Strictly speaking, it conforms to my definition of comestible matter."
"You should open a hamburger joint." Hal shook the heavy mass at the camera. "It might be food, but it's not food. Understand?"
"Negative."
"Food is meat, bread, vegetables." Hal looked wistful. "Pie and chips. Steak and chips. Anything and chips!" He tossed the pudding back into the freezer and took out a square pot. "I'm not eating that stuff again," he muttered. The next three pots also went back in as fast as they came out. One pot remained.
Hal took it out and studied the damp label, which showed a pile of steaming meatballs on a bed of brown rice, running with rich, brown gravy. "I don't remember having these before."
"It's food," said the Navcom.
"Is that supposed to be encouraging?" Hal shut the freezer and took the pot over to the heater. The lid creaked open, revealing a dark circular hole whose sides and brim were liberally encrusted with the baked-on remains of past meals. Hal pressed the pot into the heater and closed the lid, counting to ten as it warmed under his hands.
He pulled the pot out and put it on the table quickly, before it burnt his fingers. He peeled back the lid and a cloud of steam rose from the pot, temporarily obscuring the contents. Then it cleared, revealing a thin, greasy soup.
Hal stirred the mixture with a disposable fork, and a couple of small brown lumps bobbed to the surface. "When I'm filthy rich, I'm going to set aside half my fortune to sue these bastards for false advertising."
"You can't," said the Navcom. "You waved your rights when you opened the package. It's part of the end user agreement."
"What end user agreement?"
"The one inside the lid."
Hal prodded one of the brown lumps with his fork. "Are these really meatballs?"
"Not on your budget," said the computer.
Mentally holding his nose, Hal forked one of the lumps into his mouth and began to chew. And chew. "Tasty," he said, after he finally managed to swallow the thing. "Navcom, how much do decent stores cost?"
"More than you can afford."
"Figures." Hal's stomach rumbled. "I can't live on this stuff, you know."
"It's edible."
"No it isn't." Hal pushed the pot away and dropped the fork on the table. "When Jerling comes through with the money, I'm spending half on new food."
"What about Mr Makalukar? He's sending Brutus to collect the entire payment."
"He thinks he is." Hal grinned. "I didn't tell him how much Jerling was paying, did I?"
* * *
"There's been a terrible mistake."
Regan looked up from his screen. "What do you mean?"
"I found this in the yard." Gently, Clunk laid Alfie's battered arm on the desk. "I knew this robot. He used to work for Jerling! Somehow, your people have ... well, they've wrecked him!"
"Of course we wrecked him. We strip the useful bits and throw the rest."
"They sent him here for a refit and retraining, not to be ripped apart!" Clunk leaned across the desk. "I was at Alfie's retirement party. He was going to a human family as a carer!"
Regan glanced at the arm. "Obviously not."
"You're going to be in real trouble when Jerling finds out."
"Why?"
"His valuable robots are being thrown away!"
"Valuable robots?" Regan shook his head. "I don't know what they've been feeding you, but we don't do repairs and we don't do retraining. This is a junk yard."
"You're a factory!" shouted Clunk. "New robots. Repairs. Spare parts!"
"My old man ran a factory. It went broke." Regan pointed at a blue and yellow 'Incubots Junkyard' sign fixed to the wall. "I run a junkyard, see?"
Clunk's eyes widened. "Jerling knows this?"
"He's my best customer."
"You mean ..." Clunk turned to stare through the grimy window. Through the fence, he could just see the crates being loaded into the Black Gull. "The shipment ... they're all pieces of old robots?"
Regan nodded. "Strip 'em and ship 'em. It's the company motto."
A determined look appeared on Clunk's face. "I'm going to speak to him as soon as you've fixed me."
"Fixed you?"
"My repairs! Jerling sent me here for ...
" Clunk's gaze fell on the muddy white arm. "Oh."
"All machines wear out," said Regan. "I realise it's a shock, but at least your parts will keep other robots working."
Clunk's shoulders slumped. "Can I say goodbye to Mr Spacejock?"
"The pilot?"
"If you let me, I won't make a fuss. Later, I mean."
"All right. But no running away."
"I won't run from this place. You have my word."
* * *
Loading was finished and Bevan's tractor was hauling the empty trailers back into the yard. Hal was near the starboard landing leg, finger poised over the control panel. One of the buttons closed the rear doors, but for the life of him he couldn't remember which.
A shadow fell across the panel. "Middle button, second row."
"Thanks Clunk." As the doors began to close, Hal glanced at the robot. "Everything okay?"
"Fine," said Clunk flatly.
"You seem a bit down. Are the digs all right?"
"Digs?"
Hal gestured towards the fence. "The facilities."
"Oh, those." Clunk sighed. "Yes, they're fine."
"So what's with the funeral act? A few days here and you'll be back on a spaceship in no time."
"That's true. Several spaceships, I expect."
"Hey, we could meet up somewhere!"
Clunk brightened. "Do you mean that? You'd really like to?"
"Sure thing! Listen, you saved my ship back there, and the least I can do is buy you a drink. Well, an oil change or something."
"That's very kind of you, Mr Spacejock. I'll cherish your memory f-for as long as I'm able."
Hal took the robot's hand and shook it firmly. "Take care, buddy."
Clunk opened his mouth to reply, then turned and hurried away. Hal watched the robot limp towards the gates, saw him vanish through the access door, and saw the door close firmly behind him.
Smiling to himself, he closed the panel and wiped his hands on his flightsuit. "Time to get this show on the road," he said, heading up the boarding ramp. At the top, he stopped for a final look at the Incubots yard. It was mostly in shadow, although here and there light glinted from discarded robot parts and pools of oily water. There was no sign of Clunk.
Hal watched the yard in silence for a minute or two, then turned and entered the flight deck. "Close the airlock, retract the ramp and start the engines. Let's get out of here." He sat in the pilot's chair and watched the console flicker into life, lighting up row by row as the ship's systems came online. There was a whirr as the main drives turned over, and a low rumble as they burst into life. A hiss of compressed air followed by the whine of hydraulic pumps as the passenger ramp retracted. There was a solid thump as the airlock doors closed.
"Are you quite finished?" demanded Hal.
"Instructions parsed and complied with."
"Okay, increase thrust."
The rumble built to a roar and the console started to rattle. "Ready for take-off."
"Let's go," said Hal. The console shuddered beneath his feet, and his teeth rattled as the engines howled. The ship rose at the back, tipping him towards the console, and the deck flexed visibly as the landing legs dragged along the muddy field. There was a two-tone warble from the console and a red light started to flash. "What's happening?" shouted Hal, gripping the arms of the pilot's chair.
"Insufficient power. Unable to lift off."
"Maximum thrust!"
"Complying." The engines shrieked, filling the air with dust.
"Are we off?" shouted Hal, as the bumping ceased.
"Altitude one metre. We're heading for the Incubots yard."
Hal grabbed the silver knob on the console and twisted it left and right. "Overthingy a hundred and fifty per cent! Two hundred per cent! Full emergency thrust!"
"Maximum thrust already enabled," said the Navcom calmly. "Please assume the emergency position and brace for impact."
Chapter 12
Clunk hooked his fingers through the chain-link fence and pressed his face to the rusty wire. The Black Gull was a patch of dark grey against the dawn sky, the airlock a shadowy hole in the surrounding gloom. He tried his night vision, but it only resulted in a patch of solid green against a dark green sky - not much of an improvement.
There was a rumble, and Clunk shielded his eyes as the ship's landing lights came on. Smoke billowed from the jets as the engines spooled up, turning to steam as the fiery exhaust tore into the soft, damp earth. "Ready for lift-off," he murmured, as twisting pillars of flame shot from the ship's landing jets. He smiled to himself. Mr Spacejock had found the right button.
Clunk felt for the gate. The ship was now hidden by a pulsing cloud of steam, lit from within by flashing red and green lights. The noise increased to a deep, throbbing roar, and then a thunderclap rolled across the field as the main jets fired. Clunk squinted through the glare, intent on capturing every second. "Go on, up with you," he muttered as the ship rocked on its landing legs, struggling to break the planet's grip. A frown creased his forehead. "Go on," he muttered. "Use the auxiliary thrusters!"
He smiled as the Black Gull rose a metre or two into the air, but his mouth turned down when the ship drifted sideways, jets fighting to keep it clear of the ground. "Use the secondaries," he shouted, rattling the fence in frustration. The ship tilted towards him, and began to drift towards the scrap yard.
Clunk watched the Gull bearing down on him, white-hot fire from her jets leaving smoking furrows in their wake. The landing legs were down, and the broad feet brushed the ground in turn, slowly rotating the huge ship until it was travelling backwards. One of the feet snagged, and the sudden bump caused the cargo doors to burst open. A wall of crates toppled out, bursting open and spilling their gleaming contents in the mud. The ship rumbled over the top, her thrusters melting the muddy pieces into slag.
Clunk suddenly realised those weren't the only parts in danger. The ship was still moving towards the yard, picking up speed, and it wasn't going to stop. The hull loomed overhead, and Clunk threw himself flat. The fence bowed inwards and collapsed on top of him, jets thundered into the ground on either side, and then the ship was past, wobbling across the yard and leaving a trail of blackened, twisted junk in its wake. Still gathering speed, it flattened the fence on the far side and crashed through the trees beyond, tearing them down and leaving a trail of splintered, smoking wood before vanishing over the hill.
Clunk leapt up, ready to chase after it, then remembered his promise to Regan: No running.
* * *
Hal sat up in the darkness, coughing and rubbing his head. The flight deck was tilted at a crazy angle, the air was filled with dust and the console was dead.
"Navcom?"
There was no answer.
Hal stood, using the pilot's chair for support. He reached for the console and ran his hands over the buttons and indicator lamps until he felt a small toggle switch. An emergency light came on above the main viewscreen, painting the flight deck ghostly blue, and the airlock doors rumbled open. There was a sound of crackling flames, and a damp smoky smell.
Hal slipped and stumbled down the flight deck to the airlock, which was illuminated with a flickering red glow from outside. Peering over the edge, he saw half a dozen fires burning in the undergrowth.
POW!
Hal almost fell out of the airlock as a bright yellow package exploded from the side of the ship, bounced off a tree and crashed into the bushes below. There was a loud hiss, and when he looked down he saw a yellow life raft taking shape amongst the shredded bushes. Once it had finished inflating a wobbly stalk popped up and waved gently in the light breeze, the little red light on top flashing madly.
"What the hell is that for?" shouted Hal, his heart still racing. Several birds twittered in the trees. "You expect me to row the bloody cargo to Forg?"
The light flashed merrily, mocking him with its cheerful blinking.
Hal sat on the edge of the platform and put his head in his hands.
/> * * *
"Tango Three, report!"
Startled by the loud voice, Clunk ducked behind a bush. Stealthily, he parted the branches, and almost snapped them off as he saw the slab-like armour of a heavy tank barely ten metres away. There was a soldier in the tank, his face hidden beneath an enormous headset. As Clunk watched, the soldier activated his microphone.
"Tango One calling Tango Three. Come in, Tango Three!" The soldier listened for a response, then ducked his head. "Nothing out there, sir."
"Anything on that ship?"
"Negative."
"Bloody computers," shouted an angry voice. "Just wait till I get my hands on the charlie who laid this mess on."
"What are you orders sir?"
"We're blind, sergeant. I'm not moving until the comms are back up."
"Are we just going to sit here?"
"No, I'm going to sit here. You're putting the kettle on."
Clunk tuned his commset and picked up several bursts of static, but no transmissions. Jerling's program had done more damage than he expected, taking out not only the battleship's communications but also those on the ground. As it happened, it was just as well.
Backing out of the bush, he got to his feet and strode through the undergrowth, giving the tank a wide berth. Soon he was back on his original course, heading in the same direction as the Black Gull.
It was ten minutes before he found the ship. After locating a row of blasted, splintered trees and a steaming trail of scorched vegetation he found the Black Gull tilted over with her tailplane sticking into the highest branches.
Clunk approached the ship, pausing to check an inflated yellow dinghy. He reached out and pushed the flashing red light, setting it off like a metronome. As he watched it swing to and fro, a voice floated down from above.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Clunk looked up and saw Hal sitting on the lip of the airlock, his legs dangling over the side. "Mr Spacejock! Are you all right?"
"Of course I'm all right," shouted Hal. "Bit of a rough landing, that's all."
There was a drawn-out creak and a large tree fell over, landing across the hull with a loud clang.
"I thought you were taking off, not landing."
Hal frowned. "And I thought you were supposed to stay in the yard."
"I promised Regan I wouldn't run. I didn't say anything about walking very quickly."
