by Simon Haynes
This was news to Hal, whose strongest games involved moving pieces at random. "Why don't you take my place then? The Navcom won't mind."
"Mr Spacejock is correct," said the Navcom. "All humans are equipped with brains of limited processing power. Minor statistical variations in their output make no difference to me."
Boson sat down, and after a few seconds he pointed at the screen. "Knight to G6."
"Queen to G6," said the Navcom instantly. "Check."
"Queen to D7," said Boson. "Checkmate."
There was a long silence, and then …
"Get in there!" shouted Hal, pumping his fist before doing a little victory dance around the flight deck. "He shoots, he scores! The crowd goes wild! Spin, spin, spin!"
Boson frowned. "Mr Spacejock, one does not mock a downed opponent."
"One may not, but I certainly do. Come on Navcom, update the scores."
"But —"
"No buts!" Eagerly, Hal studied the scoreline in the corner of the screen, which was still displaying the previous values in a large white typeface:
Navcom: 384, Hal: 0, Draws: 1.
For the first time ever he'd have a real number next to his name! The screen flickered, and the anticipation was still building when a new line appeared. It was dark gray, almost invisible against the background, and the typeface was tiny:
Navcom: 384, Hal: 0, Draws: 1, Interfering Humans: 1.
"Hey! Do it properly!"
"The status update is correct," said the Navcom. "Had you been playing, it would have been checkmate in four moves. Victory was mine for the taking."
"But —"
"No buts. You did not win the game."
Hal crossed his arms. "All right, set the pieces up again. This time —"
Boson cleared his throat. "Mr Spacejock, your cargo hold?"
"Eh?" Hal glanced round. In all the excitement he'd forgotten why the Peace Force officer was there. "Oh yeah, that. Come on." Hal motioned his visitor into the lift at the back of the flight deck. The doors closed, and he pressed the button for the second deck.
"I see you have three decks," said Boson, inspecting the neat row of engraved brass buttons. "Doesn't the L-class have two by default?"
"The Volante was upgraded." Hal didn't add that Clunk had upgraded the ship with an oxy torch and a lot of clever programming. Gamma-class ships were all supplied with three decks, but the lowest was masked off on the cheaper models. Aboard the Volante, the new third deck was Hal's luxury retreat.
"Do you pay the increased license fee?"
"That's Clunk's department," said Hal quickly.
The lift stopped and the doors opened on a carpeted corridor. There were two doors ahead of them, and as they strolled past them Hal glanced at the nameplate on the right-hand one. He suppressed a wistful sigh. The plate read 'Harriet', and the cabin had been vacant ever since Hal's treasured shipmate had left the Volante - and him - for a new life. He was lost in thought as he strolled along the corridor, his mind dwelling on Harriet Walsh's long, golden hair, her pleasant, attractive face … and her tight denim jeans.
They reached the end of the corridor and stopped at a big, white-painted door. The words 'Cargo Hold' were stencilled across the doors in neat black lettering, and underneath someone had added 'No unauthorised access' and 'no entry during flight'. There were two new signs as well: 'Go-faster stripes prohibited' and 'You paint it, you clean it'.
Hal reached for a big yellow handle, turned it to the left, and pulled.
The doors parted with a hiss, opening on the cavernous hold. It was grey and chilly inside, and Hal's footsteps echoed on the metal deck plates. "There you are," he said, gesturing around the huge empty space. "Inspect away."
"Obviously that won't be necessary." Bosun gestured towards the rear doors. "Would you open those please?"
Hal approached the controls, then hesitated. "Are you sure this trainee of yours won't open fire?"
"Only if you make any sudden moves."
Bracing himself for a volley of gunshots, Hal palmed the button. There was a whine of hydraulics as the cargo ramp deployed from the back of the ship, and then the doors swung open. Snow swirled, and Hal shivered at the biting cold wind. It was dark outside, and he was still trying to pick out the surroundings when a fantastically bright torch shone full in his face.
"Stay where you are!" shouted a female voice. "I've got you covered."
Hal froze, dazed by the light. There was something familiar about the voice, but his first priority wasn't recognising Peace Force trainees. No, all his attention was on not getting shot.
Alongside him, Bosun didn't bat an eyelid. "Stand down, trainee. The situation is under control."
"Yes sir."
"You may come aboard."
The torch winked out and Hal saw a shadow coming up the ramp. As the trainee got closer, he noticed she had long, golden hair tied back in a business-like ponytail. There was a duffle-bag over one shoulder, regulation Peace Force blue, and her shiny boots thudded on the ramp. Then she entered the hold, and when the light fell on her face Hal's heart skipped several beats. This wasn't some random Peace Force trainee … it was his ex-crewmate, Harriet Walsh!
Chapter 3
Olivia Backsight scowled across the desk at her visitors. In turn, they shuffled their feet and cleared their throats, nervously avoiding her angry stare. "You're a pair of incompetent idiots," she snapped.
"Yes ma'am."
Olivia clenched her fists, making the blue veins stand out like ropes. She'd taken over Backsight Industries three decades earlier, after the unexpected death of her uncle. Despite the long years since his tragic 'accident', she still wondered whether his body would surface inconveniently. Then she allowed herself a grim smile. No, there wasn't much chance of that. She'd used some of Backsight Industries' most powerful explosives.
The two men standing in front of her exchanged a glance as they saw Olivia's nasty little smile. One gulped audibly.
Snapped out of her reverie, Olivia turned her full attention to them. "You two oversee data entry, right?"
"Correct," said one.
"That's right," said the other.
"And I hear you let through several invoices with zero cost of goods. Yes?"
"That's what it said on the paperwork."
"I don't care what it said on the paperwork. Standing orders are quite clear - never, ever put through an invoice with zero cost of goods."
"But —"
Olivia raised her hand. "Never ever. Do you know why?"
Both men shook their heads.
"Because we'd have to explain why we're getting raw materials for nothing. And do you know why we get raw materials for nothing?"
The men shook their heads again.
"Good, because if you did know I'd have you killed." Olivia gave them a smile, and from their expressions she could tell they weren't sure whether she was joking or not. She wasn't. "So, in future we'll follow orders to the letter, won't we?"
Both men nodded in unison.
"Oh, go away," snapped Olivia, finally losing patience with them. The men just stared at her, and she gestured impatiently. "Go on. Get lost."
"Y-yes ma'am."
They fled, jackets and ties flapping. After the door closed, Olivia gazed out of the huge window to her right, admiring the rich starfield and the faint glow from the dark side of planet Niaritz. The fantastic view was just one of the benefits of owning an orbital Space Station. Another was security: when your Space Station bristled with guns and missiles, every visiting ship was at your mercy. Not only that, the automatic gun turrets positioned in the docking bays would take out any stubborn survivors.
Olivia turned from the window, pressing her fingertips to her temples as she considered her next move. The invoicing mixup was trivial, easily fixed, but making an example of these two would keep the rest on their toes. A month without pay should do it. Leaks were a bigger concern, though. Backsight's competitive pricing was based on a simple economi
c fact: if you could steal half your raw materials, components and equipment, there was no way anyone else could undercut you. To that end, Olivia had set up a criminal network which spanned a dozen planets, involving customs, law enforcement, justice departments and more. By targeting the right shipments, she could feed her factories for next to nothing. By paying the right people, she avoided investigations, exposure and jail.
After a few moments thought, Olivia picked up her commset. "I hear the hijacking job on Forzen didn't go as planned."
"I'm sorry. The lads thought it was the usual deal. They —"
"They left valuable artworks sitting in a warehouse in the middle of the countryside."
"I know, I know. Look, give me a day or so, and —"
"No, this cargo must be delivered to the spaceport in one hour. Understood?"
"We'll do our best."
"You'll do what you're told." Olivia slammed the handset down. "Morons," she growled under her breath. "Absolute morons, the lot of them." Idly, she wondered whether to invite them all up to the Space Station, where she could arrange a little airlock accident to teach them a lesson.
Chapter 4
Hal opened his mouth, greetings and questions about to pour forth, but before he could say anything, Harriet frowned at him and gave a quick shake of her head.
"What is it, Trainee?" demanded Boson. "Did you notice something?"
"Just a bug," said Harriet, brushing a hand across her face.
Hal stared at her, scarcely believing she was standing right there in front of him. When she'd left the Volante several months earlier, she'd mentioned the Peace Force academy in her note, but he'd figured that was just an excuse. So she really had signed with the Force after all! Then it hit him … Harriet was the trainee assigned to his ship! They'd be travelling together, working together, and if she still had feelings for him they'd be —
"Trainee Walsh," said Boson. "This is Half Spacepoke of the cargo ship Folanti. I've briefed him on the threat to his cargo, and he's agreed to take you on board."
"Very well, sir," said Walsh.
Boson looked Hal up and down. "My trainee is in your hands. If anything happens to her I will hunt you down and tear you limb from limb. Is that clear?"
"Like crystal."
"Good." Boson glanced around the hold. "Trainee Walsh has full authority to search this ship and any cargo you might handle. She's authorised to travel with you, ask questions, investigate and report freely on her findings. If you hinder her in any way you will be charged with obstruction and incarcerated."
"Makes sense." Hal glanced at Harriet, but she wouldn't meet his eyes.
"Very well. Have a safe trip and enjoy your stay in this system." Boson glanced at Walsh, who gave him a smart salute, and then he marched down the ramp.
As soon as he was gone, Hal turned to Harriet with a beaming smile on his face. "I can't believe it! You're —"
"You will address me as Trainee Walsh," said Harriet coldly. "That is, if you must address me at all."
"But —"
"Please direct me to my cabin. I have a lot of work to do."
Hal stared at her. If it hadn't been for Harriet's warning glance when she came aboard, he would have sworn she hadn't recognised him. "But —"
"You heard me!" snapped Walsh. "Show me to my quarters without delay, or I'll have this ship impounded so fast your head will spin."
Hal's heart sank. It seemed the Peace Force had leached the humanity and kindness out of his beautiful Harriet, turning her into a soulless robot. "All right," he said stiffly. "If it's quarters you want, follow me."
* * *
Deep in the bowels of the Forzen spaceport, Clunk was rapidly reaching the end of his patience. As a robot this usually wasn't a problem, because he could add more patience on demand. Unfortunately, even robots had limits, and his was definitely in sight. "What do you mean the cargo isn't here? What do you mean we have to fetch it ourselves? What do you mean we should have made other arrangements?"
Clunk had been asking these questions, and others much like them, for close to an hour. To say he'd been given the runaround was like saying Hal Spacejock was a lousy chess player. Now, at long last, Clunk had cornered an unwilling cargo handler. The woman's colleagues were on a tea break, and she clearly wanted to join them. The only things stopping her were a strong sense of duty and Clunk's metal fingers, which were fastened around her upper arm.
"Like I told you," said the cargo handler. "The driver's off sick. Either wait until tomorrow or find another driver."
"I'd drive there myself, but you won't tell me where the cargo is."
"How should I know? This is Holding, not Pickup."
"But Pickup is closed for the day!"
"Like I said, wait until tomorrow."
Clunk's balled his free hand into a fist. "We have to leave this planet tonight to make the deadline."
"So find another driver."
"But they won't know where to pick up the cargo!" shouted Clunk. The insoluble circular problem was throwing his circuits off balance, and his head was starting to spin.
"There is something we could try."
Clunk felt a surge of hope. "There is?"
"Sure. See that guy over there? The one with the beanie?"
"Yes, I see him."
"He sometimes works in Pickup. If you ask nicely, he might be able to help."
Clunk hurried over. "Excuse me?"
Beanie eyed the robot over his mug. "Yes?"
"I'm here to collect a shipment of artworks, but they haven't arrived. Do you know where I can find them?"
"This is Holding. You want Pickup."
Clunk tried not to scream. "I know, but they told me you sometimes worked for Pickup."
"Not today."
The cargo handlers grinned at each other, looking like a group of naughty kids sharing a joke at teacher's expense. Clunk was on the point of exploding: punching holes in the walls, throwing desks around and smashing windows, but he took a couple of deep breaths and settled on a truly radical solution. It was desperate, it was unwise and the results would be unpredictable and dangerous. However, the cargo handlers had left him no other choice.
It was time to ask Mr Spacejock for assistance.
* * *
Hal was sitting in the flight deck, watching a slow-motion replay of Inspector Boson's winning chess move. Every time the black queen slid into position, ending the game with a resounding checkmate, Hal laughed and slapped his knee. "Fantastic. Awe inspiring. Inspirational. Go on, play it again!"
The Navcom complied grudgingly. "This is getting tedious. Isn't there anything else you'd rather watch?"
"I guess it could become stale after a while." Hal hesitated. "Do you have a reverse angle?"
"No, but I have an incoming call."
"Put it on."
"Am I speaking to Mr Spacejock?" said Clunk, his voice sounding distant through the console speakers.
"I'm here. What's up?"
"I need your help."
Hal twisted a finger in his ear. "I'm sorry, can you say that again?"
"I need your assistance with a small matter."
"That's what I thought you said. Are you feeling okay?"
"I'm perfectly all right, but there's an issue with the cargo."
Hal shrugged this off. First the Navcom had been crushed in a historic chess win, and now Clunk was begging for his help. After those two momentous events, nothing could dampen his spirits. "What's wrong with it? Too big, too small … what?"
"It never arrived at the spaceport."
"Can we fetch it ourselves?"
There was a strangled groan. "We could, but the ground crew won't tell me where it is."
"Shall I come down there and knock some sense into them?"
"I would prefer a non-violent solution."
Hal thought for a moment. "I have an idea. Wait there, we'll meet you in a minute."
"We?"
"Be there in a minute. Bye!"
&
nbsp; A couple of minutes later Hal was standing outside Walsh's cabin. He could hear the sound of running water, and he realised Harriet was having a shower. If he knocked now, she'd have to answer the door half-dressed.
Hal knocked firmly on the door.
"What is it?" shouted Walsh.
"Dire emergency. Clunk's in big trouble."
The water stopped, and a second later the door was pulled open. Walsh was dripping wet, and the small towel she was clutching around herself was as useful as a handkerchief. Unable to help himself, Hal copped a good look before averting his gaze.
"What's the problem?" demanded Walsh.
"The cargo hasn't arrived, and the loading staff won't tell Clunk where it is. I thought an approach from an officer of the law… "
"Are you out of your mind? I can't abuse my powers like that. Now go away!" Walsh glanced over her shoulder, then stepped into the corridor and pulled the door closed behind her. She slipped one hand behind Hal's neck and put her mouth to his ear. "I've only got a second or two," she breathed. "They've bugged my uniform. You understand?"
Hal felt a thrill, and it wasn't just the soft hand and the throaty whisper. Harriet didn't hate him after all. She was being watched! Blood pounded in his ears, and it was all he could do not to take her in his arms and hold her tight.
"You have to play along," whispered Harriet. "Tell Clunk too. He mustn't recognise me."
"Consider it done," Hal whispered back. "How's the Peace Force treating you. Are you okay?"
"Tell you later. Wait until I close the door then knock again. Okay?"
"What do I say?"
"Just play along."
Hal nodded, and he waited for Harriet to slip back into her cabin. Then, as instructed, he knocked again. There was a muttered oath and a split second later the door was yanked open. "Er … hi again," said Hal lamely.
"Let me see that report." Walsh waited a couple of seconds, then continued. "Okay, this needs investigating. We'll quiz the ground crew right away. Meet me in the airlock in five minutes."
* * *
Harriet's emotions were in turmoil as she closed the door. For several months, Peace Force training had kept her so busy she'd barely had time to think about Hal, and she'd almost convinced herself she was over him.
