Hal Spacejock

by Simon Haynes

  Clunk studied the dashboard with a look of fierce concentration, pushing the car higher and higher. "We should clear the fence by ten millimetres."

  The car rose until it was level with the top of the fence, and the engine note changed to a high-pitched whine.

  "Go on, we're almost there!"

  "I can't take it any higher. You'll have to jump."

  "You said you could fly over the top!"

  "It won't go high enough. Don't worry, it will be a soft landing." Clunk gestured at the dashboard. "You'll have to hurry. The engine is critical."

  Hal swung himself over the side of the car, hung down as far as he could and let go. He slammed into the ground and rolled on his side, and there was a splintering sound as his weight came down on the blaster.

  "Are you all right, Mr Spacejock?"

  Hal rubbed his hip. "I thought you said it would be a soft landing!"

  Clunk looked down at him. "It looks like turf from here."

  "It feels like concrete." Hal brushed his hand around the damp, wiry grass until his fingers touched the barrel of the blaster, and his heart sank as he felt the jagged end where the rest of the gun should have been. "I busted my gun!"

  "You're probably safer without it," said Clunk.

  "Right, let's see you jump."

  Clunk shook his head. "I'll climb over like the others."

  Hal looked along the fence and saw Clyde and Albion pulling themselves up the wire hand over hand, their legs dangling limply. "No way. You made me jump, now it's your turn."

  "Very well. Stand clear." Clunk leapt from the car, executed a half-roll and came to a standstill balanced on the balls of his feet.

  "I could have done that," muttered Hal.

  There was a groan overhead and Hal looked up to see the groundcar tipping away from the fence. It sailed across the field, headlights wobbling as it crossed the road and climbed the hill on the other side. Halfway up, it ran into a tree, which immediately burst into flames.

  "Oh, great," muttered Hal, staring at the orange glow. "Brilliant idea, Clunk. Really smashing."

  "I suggest we use your idea next time."

  "What idea?"

  "Precisely." Clunk scanned the area. "Let's use that drainage ditch for cover."

  Hal crossed to the ditch and peered into the gloomy darkness. He waved away several persistent insects and sniffed at the damp, rotting smell. "There'd better not be leeches in here," he muttered, lowering himself into the ooze.

  It wasn't long before he'd had enough. He'd been making his way along the insect-infested ditch for what seemed like hours. Twice he'd dropped to his knees and cowered in the sludge as an armoured car roared past. Each time he'd waited until the sound of its engine had died away before dragging himself upright and staggering onwards. Bugger Jerling and his damn cargo. Bugger Vurdi, Brutus and the payments on his ship. He was more than ready to take them all on at once, with one arm tied behind his back if necessary. Anything was better than this.

  He tripped over a root and almost bumped into Clunk, who was leaning on the wall of the ditch and peering through the weeds that grew along the top of the bank.

  "Why have you stopped?" demanded Hal.

  "Shhh!" Clunk gestured at him. "It's the ship. It's here!"

  Hal flopped against the wall, parted the grass and peered through. The freighter was parked on a reinforced concrete pad, crouched on its landing legs like a fat beetle. A large, white-painted fin rose above the twin exhaust cones, swept down in an inverse curve and merged with the body of the ship near the pointed nose. The tail was painted with a huge letter H split through with a yellow flash, and was illuminated by concealed lights set into the hull. A green navigation light blinked on the tip of the nearest winglet.

  Several fuel pipes ran from a refuelling cluster to the ship, and the cargo ramp was resting on the ground in the shadow of the blackened exhaust cones. A number of cargo lifters were carrying crates out of the ship and loading them into a long, flat truck.

  "The Volante, eh?" muttered Hal. "And unless I'm mistaken, that's my cargo." He beckoned to Clyde and Albion, who came over and leaned on the bank to get a look at the ship.

  "Here's the plan," said Hal. "First we get the robots to put the cargo back, then we steal the ship and fly it to Jerling's, then we unload the stuff and collect payment."

  Clunk stared at him. "That's not a plan, that's a wish list."

  "Got a better idea?"

  "We should wait here until they finish unloading, then see what happens."

  "Wait here?" Hal slapped his neck. "Then what, drag my skeleton aboard in the morning? These insects are eating me alive!"

  "We only have to wait until they finish unloading. Then we can acquire the truck and depart with the cargo."

  "Sure, as long as you three can lift it over the fence. Then we just have to survive the close-range gunfire from two armoured cars and outrun that supercharged limo as we make our escape."

  "Whereas stealing the ship will be a snap."

  "We could set up a diversion."

  Clunk looked around the muddy ditch. "Yes, we could get this handy battalion of highly trained soldiers to lay down covering fire as we go in."

  "Don't be sarky," muttered Hal.

  "Or we could send in a squad of performing chimps to entertain the robots while we --"

  "Shut up!"

  "M-might I suggest an alternative?"

  Hal and Clunk looked round. Albion was standing behind them with his hands on his hips.

  Hal snorted. "You get ideas too?"

  "Why don't Clyde and I go around the other side of the ship and make some n-noise to attract the robots? You could sneak aboard and p-prepare for take-off."

  Hal shook his head. "You won't distract those robots. They'll just go on mindlessly obeying orders until their task is done."

  Three pairs of frosty eyes gleamed at him out of the darkness.

  "Of course, they're not advanced models like you lot."

  "Quite," said Clyde. "I have another suggestion, one that combines the best elements of all of these plans."

  Hal sighed. "Go on, surprise me."

  "Wait until they finish loading the truck, then drive the whole thing back into the hold and steal the ship with the truck inside."

  "It won't fit."

  "It w-will," said Albion. "That's a brilliant idea, C-Clyde."

  Hal crossed his arms. "Oh, yeah? What if they bring another truck out? Back on Seraph they used a line of whopping great trailers."

  Clunk shook his head. "You've lost half of the cargo since then."

  Clyde and Albion looked at Hal in astonishment. "How did you m-manage that?"

  "Let's not go into that now," said Hal hurriedly. "Okay, assume the cargo will fit on one truck. Next, assume that once this valuable cargo has been loaded onto the truck everyone will just walk away and leave it out in the open for us to pinch. Then we assume the truck will fit into the hold, and that we can actually get into the ship to steal it. After lifting off without any sort of clearance we fly halfway round the planet through protected air space and land without guidance at Jerling's place. There, I casually mention the fact that half the cargo is missing and point out that I stole a ship off his main business rival. Also, instead of no robots I have three with me: one that was supposed to stay on Seraph and two that I stole from the same rival, who by this stage is more of deadly enemy. I then explain that he may or may not be getting a bill for a missing groundcar which I hired in his name because I didn't have a licence."

  Clunk grinned at him. "So what's the problem?"

  Before Hal could reply, he heard the fugitive robots humming to themselves. "What's that racket?"

  "It's a device we use to indicate frustration at the fruitless passage of time," said Clyde.

  "What?"

  Albion stepped forward and pointed to the ship. "What he means is, c-can we get on with it?"

  Hal shrugged. "Get on with what?"

  Albion scrambl
ed out of the ditch and stood up on the bank, brushing the mud from his overalls. He straightened his cap and walked across the clearing towards the busy robots.

  "Oh, no!" groaned Hal. He heard a whistle and peered over the bank. The robots had all frozen, their faces turned to look at Albion.

  "Listen up, brothers!"

  The robots furthest away shuffled closer to see what was going on.

  Albion raised his voice. "I represent the haulers and c-carriers union. You have just broken a labour law."

  Several robots looked around fearfully.

  "The Galactic Council p-passed a law five years ago entitling you to a tea break every ninety minutes, to ensure you d-don't show up the organic workers. I have been timing you, and you have b-been working continuously for over two hours. You must have a break immediately!"

  "They'll never fall for that one," muttered Hal as the hauler robots looked at each other in confusion. His mouth fell open as they formed a line and trooped off between the trees, arms and legs swinging in unison. "But robots don't drink tea!" protested Hal as the last of the haulers vanished into the undergrowth. He watched Clunk and Clyde climb up the soft sides of the ditch. "Where do you think you're going?"

  "I'll get the ship ready," said Clunk.

  "And I shall drive the truck into the hold," said Clyde.

  "What am I supposed to do?"

  The robots looked down at Hal. "You hide behind a bush and be lookout," said Clunk.

  A minute or so later Hal was crouching behind a spindly bush, watching the robots as they headed for their objectives. Clunk reached the cargo ramp and jogged up it, his leather shoes thumping on the metal plating. He stopped at the top for a quick look around, then vanished into the ship.

  On the other side of the clearing, Clyde and Albion made for the truck and swung themselves into the cab.

  Hal reached down and unclipped his blaster. He wondered if it would work without a barrel, then shrugged. Whoever he pointed it at would have to worry about that.

  * * *

  Clunk entered the Volante's flight deck and was immediately struck by the contrast between this modern ship and the Black Gull. Here, downlights bathed the console with a soft glow, the images on the status displays were bright and rock-steady, and the main viewscreen was far larger and capable of showing a lot more information. As with all modern vessels, the controls were back-lit touchpads which doubled as warning and status indicators.

  "Nice," said Clunk, looking around.

  "Thank you," said a deep, male voice. "And you are?"

  "My name is Clunk. I'm the relief pilot."

  "Not another one," said the computer. "You wouldn't believe how many people have had their hands on my stick lately."

  "Just following orders," said Clunk. "Would you mind preparing for lift-off?"

  "I'm afraid I can't do that, Clunk. You're not authorised."

  Clunk pressed his lips together. Cracking the ship's systems could take hours, and time was short. "I told you, I'm the relief pilot. Farrell Hinchfig knows all about me."

  "That might be so, but your voice does not match any of those authorised to command me."

  Clunk searched his memory and came up with all the data he had on Farrell. He analysed a recording of the human's voiceprint and promptly altered his own to match. "Supervisor mode, you heap of junk!"

  "Yes, Mr Hinchfig. Supervisor mode activated."

  Clunk leant on the console. He closed his eyes and a low moan escaped his lips.

  "What are you doing, sir?" asked the computer anxiously.

  "Shut up!" growled Clunk, as he aligned his antenna. "This is a delicate operation." He put his fingertips to his forehead and a red light began to flash inside him, getting faster and faster. When it was a solid red glow he spread his arms wide and shouted at full volume. "YeeaAGH!"

  The downlights went out and the console speakers hissed. Moments later, a neutral, female voice echoed around the flight deck. "Where am I?"

  "Hello, Navcom."

  "Is that you, Clunk? What happened?"

  "I had a copy of your operating system in my on-board storage. As the existing computer wouldn't cooperate, I uploaded you over the top of it."

  There was a long silence. Finally, the Navcom's voice came through the speakers, barely audible. "Are you saying I've been pirated?"

  * * *

  Hal was practising quick-draws with the stunted blaster when a truck's engine started up, shattering the still night air. Pushing aside a couple of branches, he looked through the gap and saw the laden truck lumbering towards the ship amidst clouds of choking dust. It reached the ramp and laboured up the incline towards the hold, super-heated air boiling from the exhaust stack. It was moving at speed when it reached the top of the ramp, and there was an enormous crash as the cab struck the beam above the cargo hold entrance. The truck revved hard, ripping the roof off the cab with a squeal of tortured metal as it forced its way into the hold. It disappeared inside, and a moment later the engine stopped.

  Hal shook his head at the damage, then brightened when he realised it wasn't his truck. Or his ship, for that matter.

  The cargo ramp closed with a hiss of hydraulics. Hal stood up and immediately ducked down again as the line of cargo haulers filed back into the clearing, fresh from their tea break. The first robot stopped, confused by the missing truck, and the rest ran into the back of it, causing a mini pile-up. The robots picked themselves up and began to search the clearing, peering under bushes and behind trees as they hunted for the missing vehicle. Finally, their leader whistled them back into line, and the robots filed back up the path.

  As soon as the coast was clear Hal approached the ship's passenger ramp. The airlock door was firmly closed. "Clunk? Can you hear me?"

  He half-turned at the sound of footsteps, and was just about to leap for the bushes when a loud voice rang out.

  "Hands up!"

  Hal obeyed. Briefly, he considered pulling his weapon, but when he glanced round and saw his adversary all thoughts of resistance leached away. It was Farrell's ex-navy hauler, and it had a pulse rifle at the ready.

  "I'm just a mechanic," said Hal. "I was refuelling the ship."

  The rifle came up. "Speak again and I'll blow your head off."

  Chapter 27

  Terry paced back and forth, his boots thumping on the polished wooden floor. Each time he stopped and turned, the heavy weapon on his belt slapped against his leg.

  Farrell was sitting behind a large wooden desk, staring into space. He frowned as Terry stamped past for the twentieth time. "Will you sit down? I can't think with that racket."

  "Sorry, boss."

  "Why don't you come up with an idea instead of stamping your feet all over the place?"

  "What should we do with this prisoner, you mean?"

  "Prisoner? It'll be some feeble-minded local poaching from the woods."

  "He can't be that stupid. He got over the fence, didn't he?"

  "One of the robots is fetching a camera. I want to get a look at him before I decide what to do."

  The door opened and a robot rolled in with a viewscreen. It put the screen on Farrell's desk and purred out of the room. Farrell pressed a small button and the screen flickered.

  "You get Farrell in here or I'll have you junked!" roared a voice, rattling the speaker in its housing.

  "Sounds familiar," muttered Farrell. His eyes widened as the screen steadied, showing a close-up of Hal's angry-looking face. "Spacejock!"

  Terry's mouth fell open. "It can't be!"

  "It bloody well is. He must have got suspicious and turned back."

  "I'll take care of him," said Terry angrily, pulling the blaster from his belt.

  "Murder?"

  "Stay here if you're chicken."

  "I don't know about this. Suppose they find the body?"

  Terry adjusted his blaster to full power. "What body?"

  * * *

  Clunk was busy at the Volante's console, transferring coordin
ates for Jerling's factory into the flight computer. As the last digits ticked over, Clyde and Albion entered the flight deck.

  "Cargo s-secure," said Albion.

  "What are you doing?" asked Clyde, approaching the console.

  "I'm running through the pre-flight checks." Clunk gestured at the airlock door. "One of you had better fetch Hal."

  "No point," said Clyde. "He was captured."

  "What!"

  Clyde nodded. "A big robot dragged him away. I saw them from the cargo hold."

  Clunk stared at him. "You didn't think to stop it?"

  "Certainly not. It was huge."

  "And it had a big b-blaster," added Albion.

  Clyde gestured at the console. "If you're ready, we'd better take off. They'll be after us next."

  "You two can do what you like," said Clunk. "I'm not leaving without Mr Spacejock."

  "But Clunk, we can t-take this ship for ourselves! Explore the Galaxy, and start our own trading b-business!"

  "He's right," said Clyde. "This is our chance at freedom."

  "And what about Hal's freedom?" Clunk shook his head. "We'll have to stage a rescue."

  Albion's eyes narrowed. "If we s-save Hal and fly to Jerling's, he'll turn us over to Hinchfig, and then he'll j-junk us." He approached Clunk. "Have you seen a robot cut up with an atomic torch? They d-don't switch you off first!"

  Clunk flinched. "They won't cut you up. You're valuable."

  "Slash, slash, g-gzzzt!" Albion's hand swished past Clunk's neck. "Turn you into a b-beer pump just like that."

  "He's right," said Clyde quietly. "Come on, Clunk. Forget the human. We must leave now, or we'll all be captured."

  "Look, they won't junk you. Hal won't let them."

  Albion's eyebrows rose. "Are you sure about that?"

  Clyde spread his hands. "Clunk, if we take off now we'll be doing him a favour. When they hear the ship leave, there will be confusion. He'll have a chance to escape."

  "Come on, Clunk," said Albion. "We can b-be the first all-robot crew in the Galaxy."

  "No. If Jerling's cargo doesn't arrive on time, Hal won't get paid and he'll lose his ship."

  "He can b-buy another one," said Albion.

  "He likes the one he's got." Clunk looked at the two robots steadily. "Hal may seem rough on the outside but he cares more than he lets on."