Hal Spacejock

by Simon Haynes

  "Won't you get in trouble?"

  "Probably." Clunk looked down at the yellow life raft. "Why did you deploy this?"

  "I didn't." Hal gestured upwards with his thumb. "It shot out of the hull after I, er, landed."

  Clunk gestured at the swaying light. "You realise this antenna is transmitting a distress signal?"

  "So?"

  "I just passed a tank in the woods. They're searching for you and this beacon will lead them straight to the ship." Clunk snapped the antenna off the dinghy and crushed the flashing light in his fist. "We should leave immediately."

  "We?"

  Clunk looked up. "You don't really believe you can get out of this mess on your own?"

  * * *

  The access panel near the inner door was open, revealing a row of plastic mouldings and a tangle of wire. There were hand-written labels above each moulding, with an empty socket beneath the one labelled 'Navcom'.

  Clunk held the missing module up to the light, squinting at the transparent square as he tried to follow the microscopic traces.

  "I thought you'd have tools for that," said Hal.

  "I do." Clunk widened his eyes. "These."

  "Are they good enough?"

  "Not really, but they're all I have." Clunk lowered his hand. "I'm afraid this module is no longer operational. Tell me, where do you keep the spares?"

  "You've got to be kidding. I don't even have spare food."

  "But --"

  "I'm sorry, you'll just have to make do."

  "Make do?" said Clunk faintly. "These modules are assembled by highly trained technicians and precision-matched to specific circuits. I can't make do."

  "Why don't you swap it with one of the others then?"

  "That's --" Clunk looked at the labels. "Actually, that's not a bad idea." He ran his finger along the modules, stopping at one marked Coolant Tank Containment Field. "This one."

  "Don't we need it?"

  "It's just a backup." Clunk pulled the module and slotted it into the empty gap. "That should do it."

  There was a beep from the overhead speaker. "Boot sequence initiated. Now loading Antares Operating System version nought-point-six three alpha."

  Hal looked up. "Navcom, can you hear me?"

  "Keyboard error," said the Navcom. "Press any key to continue."

  "Override delta six," said Clunk.

  "Error bypassed. Do you want to suppress further errors?"

  "Please."

  After several seconds, the Navcom spoke again. "Loading complete. Ready for input."

  "I know the next bit," said Hal. "Start the engines and let's go."

  Clunk shook his head. "We have to run a full diagnostic suite first."

  "Navcom, do what he said."

  "Complying. Commencing diagnostics."

  Clunk closed the access panel. "That could take ten or fifteen minutes. In the meantime, I suggest we lighten the ship. All non-essential items must be left behind. Fixtures, fittings ... everything."

  "Hang on, this is the Black Gull we're talking about."

  "Mr Spacejock, if you don't deliver this cargo you won't have a ship."

  "Good point."

  "Do you have an atomic cutter on board?"

  "No, but I have something almost as good." Hal opened a locker and pulled out a pair of cylinders and a coiled rubber hose.

  "What's that?" asked Clunk.

  "It's an oxy torch."

  "Say again?"

  "It's for cutting metal." Hal pointed to a silver knob. "You open the valves, adjust this bit and stand back."

  "How far back?"

  "Well, I'll be in the flight deck."

  Clunk took the battered cylinders and eyed the perished hose dubiously. "It's not dangerous, is it?"

  "Oh no, safe as houses. And try not to leave any holes in the hull. I'm addicted to oxygen."

  "Right," said Clunk, swinging the heavy cylinders onto his shoulder. "You retreat to safety while I risk my life."

  * * *

  Hal was sitting in the pilot's chair with his feet up on the console, sipping a lukewarm cup of murky brown liquid. Cryptic messages had been scrolling up the main screen for several minutes now, and the bar at the bottom was showing 99 percent.

  "Diagnostics complete," said the Navcom, as the bar ticked over to 100.

  "Everything okay?" asked Hal.

  "I've routed a few non-essential functions through undamaged circuits, patched several processes to avoid suspect memory banks, redesigned the --"

  "Are you ready or not?"

  "Yes."

  "Excellent. Get the engines started." Hal raised the cup and was just about to sample the drink when a muffled explosion rocked the ship. He jumped, slopping the liquid down the front of his flight suit. "What the hell --"

  A red light flashed on the console. "Explosion in the cargo bay," said the Navcom calmly.

  "Clunk!" Hal delayed his rescue dash for a few moments in case anything else blew up, then made his way to the cargo bay. He found Clunk beating out the last of the flames with his bare hands. His face and upper body were coated with a fine layer of carbonised grit, and he was surrounded by splintered timber and blackened robot parts.

  "What happened?" demanded Hal.

  "Where shall I begin?" Clunk flicked a lump of carbonised wood off his shoulder. "First, there was the defective valve on one of the tanks. Then there was the perished hose; that didn't help. Next there was a chain reaction from the crates themselves." He stirred the mess on the floor with his foot. "Very flammable material, this. On the bright side, if we throw it all overboard we'll save a few kilos."

  "Oh no you don't," said Hal. "They're paying me to deliver these crates. We can't leave them behind."

  The robot gestured at the floor. "But these parts are ruined!"

  "Nonsense. They just need a bit of polish, that's all. Stick the crates back together and scoop all this stuff back in."

  "That's immoral! Mr Jerling is paying you to deliver his cargo intact!"

  "And who blew it up?"

  "It's not my fault there was an explosion," said Clunk.

  "A poor workman blames his tools."

  "Poor workman? If you'd been operating that equipment you'd be dead right now."

  "No I wouldn't," said Hal. "I don't know how to use the thing."

  "But if you had, it would have killed you."

  "No it wouldn't. I'd have used it properly."

  "It wouldn't have made any difference if a metalworker with twenty years experience had been using it, he'd still be dead," said Clunk.

  "No he wouldn't," said Hal. "He'd have known enough about oxy torches to stop using one just before it blew up."

  "Ah, but it wasn't the torch that exploded." Clunk pointed to a twisted metal beam. "It was the gas pipe in there. And I hope you enjoy sandwiches because that pipe supplied the cooker."

  "Never mind my diet, fix the crates and get the shovel the stuff back in."

  Clunk set to work, muttering about the inherent superiority of silicon-based humanoids.

  "And we'll have less of your lip," added Hal. As he turned to leave the Navcom's voice crackled over the intercom.

  "Mr Spacejock, there are several vehicles approaching the ship."

  "What sort of vehicles?"

  "I'm not sure, but they're heavily armed."

  Hal cursed. "I'll be right up."

  Chapter 13

  Hal stepped off the ladder and stared at the flickering viewscreen, where several green blobs were weaving around on a dark green background. "Not that night vision rubbish again. Show me a real picture."

  The viewscreen changed to a pin-sharp colour image, showing a line of vehicles charging across the field towards the ship. One of them, an armoured hover-car, swerved to one side and skidded to a halt in mid-air. The turret swivelled round until the gun barrel was pointing straight between Hal's eyes.

  "I think I preferred the infra-red," muttered Hal. "How far away are they?"

 
"Four kilometres."

  Hal jumped as a crash echoed through the ship. "We've been hit!"

  "Negative, they've not opened fire."

  Hal flinched as another loud bang reverberated up the access tube. "What's all the noise, then?"

  "Clunk is removing items from the ship to reduce the weight." There was a beep. "I detect an incoming audio message."

  "Play it."

  A metallic voice crackled over the speaker. "You have eight minutes to vacate your ship. Any attempt to take off will be prevented by force. Any attempt to attack this unit of the Seraph IV military will be met with force. This message will repeat in ninety seconds."

  "Great," said Hal. "Just great. Now what do we do?"

  Clunk's dirt-smeared face appeared over the lip of the access tube. "That should do it. Let's go."

  "Go?" Hal gestured at the viewscreen. "Think again."

  Clunk's eyes widened as he saw the vehicles. "Range?"

  "Four kilometres," said the Navcom.

  "We did that bit already," said Hal.

  "Firing range?"

  "Three thousand maximum, twenty-eight hundred optimum."

  "BG vertical shift nineteen hundred, time?"

  "Twenty-five seconds."

  "Would somebody mind --" began Hal.

  Clunk ignored him. "Vehicle horizontal shift one thousand metres, time?"

  "Twenty-two seconds."

  "Sit down, Mr Spacejock," ordered Clunk. "Navcom, take off."

  "Here, what --" began Hal. The roar of the ship's main engines drowned his voice out, and he fell into the pilot's chair as the ship shuddered violently. "What happened to the safety checks?"

  Clunk looked at him. "Take your choice, capture or flight."

  "I didn't get a choice!"

  Clunk shook his head and pointed to his ears. "Can't hear you."

  Hal looked up at the viewscreen, which showed the vehicles racing towards them with all guns blazing. "They're going to blast us!"

  "No they're not."

  "They're shooting!"

  "It doesn't matter. They're out of range." Clunk pointed at the altitude indicator, which was turning over rapidly. "We're rising steadily, so they can't get any closer."

  "Right on!" said Hal, grinning widely. "How did you know we could escape?"

  "They could only close to firing distance by flying across the hypotenuse of the triangle formed by --"

  "Very well done," said Hal, clapping the robot on the shoulder. "Smart work."

  "I haven't finished explaining yet."

  "I got the gist of it. By the way, how did you get the weight down?"

  "Well, you were right when you said the oxy torch was almost as good as an atomic cutter. I had no trouble removing the cargo ramp."

  Hal stared at him. "You did what?"

  "Don't worry, we can come back for it later."

  "That was part of my ship!"

  "Not any more," said Clunk. "Incidentally, I hope the outer door doesn't leak."

  Without warning, a tremendous blast threw the ship sideways, knocking Hal to the deck.

  "Uh-oh," said Clunk.

  "What the hell was that?" demanded Hal, as he struggled to his feet.

  "They have a long range anti-aircraft battery. I didn't consider that."

  Hal opened his mouth to respond, but another explosion shook the Gull, knocking him flat on his back again. Flashes of red and green light drew his eyes to the main screen, where he saw massed energy bolts spitting from the turret of one of the vehicles. They curved upwards, moving slowly at first but accelerating as they got closer.

  "Shields, Navcom! Activate the shields!"

  "Cannot comply," said the Navcom over the roar of the engines.

  "Why not?"

  Clunk made a throat-clearing noise. "You don't have any shields."

  Hal stared at him wildly. "What?"

  "Rigel class ships don't carry them."

  "Then dodge the bloody things!"

  Explosions rocked the ship, which shuddered like an unbalanced washing machine. For a split second, a fine red beam joined the floor and ceiling. "What was that?" shouted Hal, raising his voice over the new hissing sound which seemed even louder than the engines.

  "Laser," said Clunk.

  "And the noise?"

  "Your air supply is escaping through numerous holes in the Black Gull's hull."

  "Well don't just stand there! Plug them!"

  Clunk opened a door in the side of his chest, took out a small metal tin and set it on the console. There was another crash and the ship jumped, knocking the tin onto the floor. The lid came off, and a small tube of glue and several rubber patches fell out.

  Hal gaped at them. "You're going to use a bicycle repair kit to plug the holes?"

  "Do you have anything better? An exploding aerosol perhaps?"

  Hal put his hands to his throat. "Hurry up, I'm having trouble breathing."

  "You've got hours left," said Clunk. He picked up the tube of glue and began to unscrew the lid.

  Suddenly there was a bang down below and a freezing gust of wind tore through the flight deck. "What the hell was that?" shouted Hal, his voice thin in the cold air.

  "A much bigger hole." Clunk looked at him. "How long can you hold your breath?"

  * * *

  The Volante was a newly commissioned ship, fresh from the Zargan dockyards. A Gamma class freighter, L-variant, she had twice the cargo capacity and three times the fuel economy of the Black Gull. She was a ship to turn heads, a graceful vessel that could accelerate effortlessly into orbit, cross the deepest tracts of known space and return the crew safely in time for tea. In a word, she was perfection.

  Farrell Hinchfig strode into the flight deck and flopped into the comfortable pilot's chair. His eyes reflected the glow from the status lights spread out before him, and the tang of warm electronics hung in the air, mixed with the scent of burnt fuel. "Everything ready?"

  "At your command," said the computer politely.

  "Where's Terry?"

  "According to my external camera, he just entered the airlock."

  The inner door swept open and a short man in blue overalls entered the flight deck. Terrance Bull was a fit-looking forty-year-old with cropped black hair and pale, bloodshot eyes. The sleeves of his overalls were rolled up, revealing muscled forearms, and there was a complicated tattoo of a dragon emblazoned on his right arm. He was dragging a pair of large suitcases, the heavy-duty kind with brushed metal panels and riveted bands. "Sorry I'm late, boss. Customs narks gave me the once-over, didn't they?"

  "Don't we pay them enough?"

  "Still tried to shake me down." Terry grinned, revealing broken teeth. "I explained nicely, like."

  "Just remember what I said about publicity." Farrell turned back to the console. "Take off, please."

  "Complying," said the computer.

  Once the ship was under way, Farrell glanced at the case. "What's that? Spare underwear?"

  "It's me stuff, innit?"

  "Stuff?"

  "It's an important mission, right?" Terry hefted the smaller case. "Small arms, ammo, three kinds of grenades." He patted the other case. "Portable laser cannon, two spare batteries."

  "What did you bring that lot for?"

  "You said you wanted back-up," said Terry defensively.

  "Back-up, yes. Not a one-man invasion force."

  "You can never have too many guns." Terry cracked his knuckles. "So, what's the job, then?"

  Farrell tilted his chair back and linked his hands behind his head. "We're meeting one of Jerling's pilots at the Forg Orbiter. He's going to give us a cargo of robot parts."

  "What does Jerling think about that?"

  "He doesn't know."

  "And the pilot?"

  "He doesn't know either. He thinks he's landing at Jerling's factory."

  Terry looked blank. "How's that supposed to work, then?"

  "We're going to trick him and take the cargo."

  "A nice bi
t of thieving, eh?" Terry grinned. "So you will be needing me stuff."

  Farrell sighed. "Force will not be necessary. I'm going to use my brains instead."

  Terry looked at him doubtfully. "If you say so."

  "Watch the main screen," said Farrell, taking the console microphone. "Computer, enable the simuloid."

  There was a burst of static and Walter Jerling appeared on the viewscreen. There was a frown on his face, and when he spotted Terry it deepened to a scowl. "You won't need your weapons with me around," boomed Jerling's voice.

  Stunned, Terry turned to stare at Farrell, who was doing his best not to laugh out loud. "That's Jerling, innit?"

  "I am indeed," said Farrell. A second later the booming voice repeated his words.

  "I AM INDEED!"

  "Here, give us a go," said Terry, reaching for the microphone.

  Farrell snatched it away. "Don't be silly."

  "DON'T BE SILLY!" boomed the simuloid.

  "Give anyone the creeps that would," muttered Terry. "So how's this going to help with the snatch then?"

  Farrell replaced the microphone. "When Jerling's pilot arrives, I'll use the simuloid and tell him to meet us at the Orbiter. He'll follow the new orders, thinking Jerling has changed his mind. We'll meet him, take the cargo and the pilot will be left holding the bag."

  "And when he finds out you've done him over?"

  Farrell shrugged. "Who cares?"

  "He could come after you."

  "And do what? He's just a nobody. He can't touch me."

  Terry jabbed a thumb in his chest. "And me? I been to jail once and I ain't going back. This character fingers me, I'll be inside before the ink's dry on me warrant."

  "You work for me. He can't touch you either."

  Terry shook his head. "Too risky. Much better to fix this pilot properly."

  "I won't hear of it," said Farrell. "Everything will go to plan, and he won't realise what we've done until it's far too late."

  "And if it doesn't go to plan?"

  "Are you doubting me?"

  "N-no, but --"

  Farrell gestured at the cases. "Store those in the hold and come back up. I need to coach you before we meet Spacejock."

  * * *

  Half an hour later, Clunk was repairing the last of the holes.

  "Hurry it up, will you?" said Hal, rubbing his hands together. "It's freezing."

  The robot inspected a rubber patch under the overhead light. Satisfied, he dabbed some glue on it and stuck it over a tiny hole in the deck. "You're lucky to be alive," he said. "There was a lot of damage below. That fire had really taken hold of the crates."