by Simon Haynes
Now, judging by her thudding heart, the dryness in her mouth, the warm flush all over her face, she realised she'd been kidding herself. Either she still had feelings for Hal, or she'd picked up a nasty virus on her travels.
Harriet pressed her lips together. She was a Peace Force trainee, sworn to uphold the law and perform official duties without emotion. Feelings or not, this was her first assignment and she wasn't going to mess it up.
As she got dressed, her mind returned to the previous day's briefing with Inspector Boson …
* * *
Walsh hesitated outside Inspector Boson's door, eyeing the nameplate nervously. She'd never met the Station Commander personally, but she'd heard he was a bitter man. Apparently he was staring down retirement without a single famous case to his name, thanks to his obsession with Backsight Industries and the family behind the huge conglomerate. An explosion had decimated the board of directors many years earlier, and Boson had been trying to pin the crime on one of the Backsights ever since. The fact the case had been closed for years - even the verdict of 'tragic accident' - hadn't deterred him one jot.
Now, unless a case involved the Backsights in some way, Boson simply wasn't interested.
Walsh knocked, and heard a gruff voice telling her to enter. She opened the door and saw Boson sitting at his desk, up to his elbows in stacks of printed reports and paperwork. He was talking on the commset, and he motioned Walsh towards a chair. She moved a pile of reports to the floor and sat down.
"I don't care if he's claiming credit for assassinating the Emperor," snapped Boson. "The man's innocent. He just wants a bed for the night and a free meal on the taxpayer. Get rid of him." He slammed the handset down and glared at Walsh. "Yes?"
"Trainee Harriet Walsh, sir."
"Whatever it is, I don't have time for it. Go and speak to the desk sergeant."
Harriet swallowed nervously. "You asked to see me, sir."
"Walsh?" Boson frowned at her, then started shifting reports around his desk. They were piled high, some of them covering the expensive - and clearly unused - terminal screen. "Ah, yes. Walsh. The new trainee." Boson eyed a sheet of paper, then looked at her over the top. "I have a lead on a smuggling racket. You're going to escort a cargo of artworks for me, and I want you to get a close look at them during the trip."
"Isn't that up to customs?"
Boson made a rude noise. "Can't trust them. They've all been paid off."
"Really?"
"Absolutely." Boson leaned across the desk. "Tell me, have you heard of Backsight Industries?" One of his eyelids flickered as he mentioned the name, and with a sinking feeling Walsh realised she was about to get dragged into his obsession.
"It sounds familiar," she said evenly.
"It bloody well should. That gang of nasties has their fingers in every pie from here to the Core, but they're smart with it. They've greased politicians, corrupted judges, paid off anyone and everyone … as a result, they're untouchable."
"So this smuggling racket …"
"It's a chance to gather hard evidence." Boson thumped a fist into his palm. "Nail them once and for all."
"How?"
"I want you to inspect the artworks while you're aboard the freighter. Give them a thorough going-over."
"What am I looking for?"
"Uncut diamonds. Large quantities."
"That's pretty specific information," said Harriet. "How do you know about this? Was it an informant?"
"I don't need informants where Backsight is concerned. I know they're crooked."
"Why don't you seize the artworks? Get a warrant and you could take them apart properly, under expert supervision."
"Are you telling me how to do my job?" asked Boson quietly.
"N-no, sir. It's just …"
The inspector relented. "Backsight has everyone in their pocket, Trainee Walsh. Customs, judges … the whole establishment. If I ask for a search warrant, those artworks will be squeaky clean long before I get near them. That's why stealth is the only way. Nobody will suspect you, a raw recruit, still new to the job. Do you understand?"
Harriet hesitated. "But what if I damage the artworks? I'm not really qualified to —"
"As far as I'm concerned you can break them apart like so many piñatas," said Boson gruffly. "The pilot's an accident-prone loser, so they'll just blame any damage on him. In fact, if you do find any diamonds you should pocket a few. They might duff the pilot up, accuse him of nicking their gear, and then I'll get them for assault as well as smuggling."
Harriet's eyebrows rose. Not only was she supposed to conduct unauthorised searches, now she was supposed to steal as well? "Will I be getting these orders in writing, sir?"
"Of course not. Officially, you're escorting valuable artworks. Everything else is off the record."
Walsh's heart sank. Off the record meant deniability. Should anything go wrong, Boson would drop her in it.
"Do you understand your orders, Trainee Walsh?" Boson asked her.
Walsh nodded. "Yes sir. I understand perfectly."
"Excellent. Success in this mission will do great things for your career. You have my word on that."
Walsh also realised what failure would mean: her fledgling career would be over before it had even begun.
"I want you to pack an overnight bag and meet me on the landing field," said Boson. "We're flying out in two hours."
* * *
Harriet finished dressing and faced the door. Boson had accompanied her to the Forzen spaceport, and it was only then that she'd realised which ship … and which pilot … she'd be travelling with. Of all the ships in the galaxy, it had to be the Volante … and Hal Spacejock.
With a sigh, she left her cabin and strode along the corridor to the lift.
* * *
Once Hal secured the Volante, he met Harriet at the head of the passenger ramp, where she was stamping her feet and blowing huge vapour clouds through her fingers. "Are you all right?" he asked in concern.
"Typical Forzen weather. You get used to it."
"Have you been stationed here long?"
"I'm not. I'm based on Dulsuil."
Hal knew this perfectly well, and he was about to say so when he remembered the Peace Force bug in Harriet's uniform. "Dulsuil, eh? What's that like?" he asked, playing along.
"Warmer than this," said Harriet shortly. "Are we going to stand here until we freeze, or shall we get moving?"
After a quick glance at the snow-covered surroundings, Hal led the way down the passenger ramp. Halfway down he put a hand out to steady himself, and he almost lost the skin off his palm on the icy railing. "First thing I need is a decent pair of gloves."
At the foot of the ramp they found a post with a large orange button. Hal let Harriet press it, having already learned a valuable lesson where cold and skin were concerned.
Several moments later a self-propelled carriage arrived, stopping near the post with a hiss of air brakes. There was a loud crack as the doors parted, and shards of ice tinkled onto the frozen ground. Hal felt a gust of warm air, and was inside before Harriet had stirred. Shivering, he sat on the hard leather seat and held his hands to a hot air vent, while slush dripped from his boots to join the puddles on the grooved wooden floor.
The vehicle began to move, and Harriet grabbed one of the hanging straps, swaying as she regained her balance.
"This is a bloody joke," growled Hal, trying to look out the nearest window. Condensation and layers of ice distorted the view into white streaks, but it made little difference given everything outside was blanketed with snow. "Why would anyone settle a planet like this?"
"It's the mines," said Harriet.
"Are they still going? I thought —"
"Not the ore. They found diamonds recently."
"What, and they're digging them out of the ground? I thought it was cheaper to make the things."
"Not this size."
"Diamond mines, eh?" Hal stared at the frozen landscape moving past the
windows. "It's a strange place to store a bunch of art. A pick and shovel museum would be more like it."
A shadow fell across the windows, throwing the carriage into darkness. Interior lighting winked on, casting a yellow glow which turned the puddles on the floor into sickly pools of light. Moments later, the carriage slowed to a halt and the doors swept open.
They stepped down onto the platform, which was in the centre of a spacious building. There were more platforms either side of theirs: dozens of them stretching away into the distance, each with a similar carriage awaiting passengers. Melting snow dripped from the curved roofs and ran down the red and yellow bodywork, mingling with the oily gravel between the tracks.
There was nobody else in sight.
"Lovely place, isn't it?" Hal stamped his feet to shake off the last of the melted slush, cursing as each jolt shattered another of his frozen toes.
"It's not that cold, Mr Spacejock."
"Tell that to my feet." Hal looked towards the terminal, and spotted the entrance. "Come on, let's find Clunk."
Chapter 5
Clunk tapped his foot impatiently. He'd been waiting the best part of twenty minutes, and during the entire time the ground crew had been teasing him with endless robot jokes.
"How many robots does it take to replace a lightbulb? One, but you have to crank the voltage right up."
There was a round of laughter, and then someone else piped up. "Why did the robot cross the road? He thought the traffic lights were coming on to him!"
"Hey, here's a good one. What do you call a robot with a flat battery? A statue!"
More laughs.
"How far can a robot fly? Depends how hard you throw it!"
"What did the robot say when they gave him a medal? That's a nice biscuit!"
Clunk switched off his hearing, which cut the inane jokes but did nothing for the mocking faces. He often thought the galaxy would be a much nicer place without humans to clutter it up, and this gang of idiots weren't doing much to change his mind. "What do you call a biped with a pleasant nature and well-organised thought processes?" he muttered under his breath. "I don't know, but it certainly isn't human."
A few minutes later the doors opened, and he saw Mr Spacejock beckoning. Clunk hurried over, reactivating his hearing on the way.
"… said the robot to the vicar!"
There was more laughter, but Clunk didn't notice. Mr Spacejock was here, and if things got out of hand there would be flying fists and roundhouse kicks. Despite his peaceful nature, Clunk wouldn't have minded one bit.
"Clunk, stop there. I have to explain something."
"The Volante, is she …"
"She's fine. No fires, no explosions."
Clunk sighed with relief. Leaving Mr Spacejock with the ship was almost as risky as letting him out of it.
"Do you remember Harriet Walsh?" Hal asked him.
"Of course." Clunk smiled. Miss Walsh was a lovely human being, and he missed her almost as much as Mr Spacejock did.
"Well, she's back."
"Really?"
"Yes, but … things are different. She's in the Peace Force, and they've assigned her to the Volante. She has an important mission."
"I thought we were delivering cargo? We can't afford to go traipsing all over the galaxy on some —"
"No, listen. This Inspector Boson character told me a bunch of crooks might try and steal some of the artworks heading to the exhibition. They're putting trainees onto every ship to keep an eye on things. We got Harriet."
"That's a happy coincidence."
"Yes, but they've bugged her uniform. We have to pretend we don't know her."
"What if she removes her uniform?"
Hal lost focus for a moment, gazing into space with a rapt expression on his face. Then he gathered himself with a start. "Sorry, where was I?"
"I believe you were removing Miss Walsh's uniform."
"Ye-es."
"Mr Spacejock?"
"Uh-huh?"
"Can we concentrate on the matter in hand?"
"Oh yes, that." With an effort, Hal regained focus. "Look, Harriet can't just ditch the bug, or we'd have a dozen officers interrogating us to find out what happened."
"I see."
"Meanwhile, the Peace Force are snooping on every conversation, so pretend you've never met her. Got it?"
"I will do my best."
"Right. Stay here."
Clunk glanced over his shoulder at the ground crew. They were having another tea break, and one or two were casting suspicious looks at him. "Keep drinking," muttered Clunk. "You'll get yours any minute." He heard footsteps, and he turned to see Harriet Walsh striding towards him. "Upon my soul, it's …"
"A trainee," said Hal quickly. "This is Harriet Walsh from the Peace Force."
"It's a pleasure to meet you," said Clunk.
There was a commotion behind him, and he turned to see the ground staff hurriedly pushing back chairs and straightening their overalls. There were lots of nervous glances at the sight of the Peace Force uniform, and Clunk grinned to himself. Miss Walsh was already making her presence felt, and she hadn't even drawn her gun!
* * *
Hal eyed the ground crew. They were a motley lot, and it seemed like they'd given Clunk a hard time. Now it was time to turn the tables. "Officer Walsh, do you want to interrogate them here, or shall I drag them back to the ship first?"
Harriet frowned. "I'd rather you left this to me."
One of the cargo handlers gulped. "A-anything we can do to help?"
"We're tracing a shipment of artworks." Walsh gestured with the note Clunk had been given at the spaceport. "The truck was supposed to arrive here this afternoon, but according to this your delivery driver was taken ill."
"Th-that's right, miss. It was a stomach complaint. Very nasty."
"What's the pickup address?"
"Ah, see you want Pickups for that. This is Handling."
Puffs of superheated air jetted from Clunk's ears, and Hal didn't think he'd seen the robot this angry since a careless loader put a dent in the Volante's cargo door.
But Walsh had authority on her side, and she used it. "Do you see this badge?" she said, tapping her chest. "This badge gives me access to all areas of the spaceport, and I don't care if you're working for Pickups, Handling or the Department of Annoying Customers."
"We don't have one of those," said the handler.
"Really? I thought I was talking to their star employee." Walsh gestured at Clunk. "This robot asked a perfectly reasonable question. Answer it or face the consequences."
"It's like I said …"
Walsh unclipped her holster.
"Oh, that cargo of valuable artworks." The handler glanced at his colleagues, who were studying the floor, the ceiling and the bottom of their tea mugs. "I think the driver parked it in a warehouse."
"Where?"
"I think … it's sort of here." The handler passed her a scrap of paper.
"If you're sending me on a wild goose chase …"
"No, that's the address."
Walsh glanced at it. "How did the artworks end up here?"
"The driver parked up and went to find a doctor."
"When you see him again, he's to turn himself in to the nearest Peace Force station. And as for you lot, I'll be following this up, so don't even think about leaving the planet."
"N-no miss. Wouldn't dream of it." Beanie turned away, then stopped. "Wait! You'll need this."
Hal grinned to himself as the man held out a swipe card for the truck. Harriet Walsh was a machine! Imagine how smooth life would be if she brushed away the red tape with threats of interrogation and solitary confinement. Come to think of it, all he needed was a Peace Force uniform and a badge, and he could vapourise red tape on his own. He was still dwelling on this pleasant mental image when Clunk took his elbow.
"Back to the terminal, Mr Spacejock. We have to rent a vehicle."
"Why? Harriet has the key."
"That's f
or the truck, which is sitting at the warehouse. We have to drive to the warehouse to pick it up."
Hal frowned. "We're racking up more charges than a cavalry brigade. This customer of yours had better come through with the expenses."
"I'm keeping an itemised bill. And he's not my customer, he's our customer."
"If he doesn't pay he's all yours."
"That's not fair. I don't make you pay when your customers default on a bill."
"That's different. When my customers don't pay it's my money."
"Can we leave your accounting woes until later?" said Harriet mildly. "I have an investigation in progress."
"Er, yeah," mumbled Hal. "Hire car. Let's go."
* * *
"That piece of paper … how come he had the address already?" demanded Hal, as they strolled through the concourse.
"It's a common scam," said Walsh. "The driver's in on it, of course."
"What scam?"
"This stomach bug nonsense. The driver leaves the truck in a pre-arranged spot, and heads off to the doctor with some mythical illness. That gives them an alibi, and in the meantime a crony comes along and drives the truck away. They unload the cargo and torch the vehicle to destroy the evidence."
"The truck makes sense, but wouldn't artworks be hard to sell?"
"Yes, which tells me they stole the wrong truck. These jobs usually involve white goods or spares or … well, anything they can sell easily. They won't have any use for artworks."
Hal snapped his fingers. "Boson said someone might try and nick the art. Looks like they got to it before it even reached the Volante." He looked at Harriet for confirmation, but she didn't seem convinced. "You have to admit it fits. It's much easier to pinch a truck than to stop a ship in space."
"We'll see," said Harriet.
Hal turned to Clunk. "So, the art. Is the stuff really valuable?"
A pained expression crossed Clunk's face. "In the fine art world, one does not refer to pieces as 'stuff'."
"We're not in fine art, we're in the cargo business. It's either stuff we get paid for, or …" Hal's voice tailed off as he spotted a display in the main concourse. "Oh no. Not him again!"
