Hal Spacejock Omnibus One

by Simon Haynes

  "Very well. Brutus will collect the money tomorrow afternoon." Vurdi laid the chess piece on the board. "No need to show me out. Come, Brutus."

  Hal jumped as the robot's foot thudded down next to his face. He felt its hands grabbing at his clothing, pulling him up until he was staring into its blood-red eyes. Breath hissed between its wafer-thin lips as fans worked overtime to keep its circuits cool. "I'll be b—"

  "Brutus, come!" snapped Vurdi from the airlock.

  The robot dropped Hal and left the ship with slow, measured footsteps. As the outer door thudded to, Hal sat up. "Navcom?"

  There was a crackle from the console. "Yes, sir?"

  "Call Jerling Enterprises."

  "The front company for the local crime lord?"

  "Yes. Tell them I'll take their cargo job."

  "The shipment of stolen goods?"

  "That's it."

  "But you turned them down!"

  Hal rubbed his neck. "I just changed my mind."

  *

  Jerling eyed the fast-moving scenery. They were leaving the dreary, run-down part of town, and he could already feel the weight lifting from his shoulders. He'd grown up in the area, and there wasn't a shred of nostalgia for his past. "I should have charged that kid for the balloon."

  "Would you like me to raise an invoice?"

  "Focusing on the small stuff is a beginner's mistake. It pays to keep your eye on the big picture." Jerling gestured impatiently with his cigar. "Anyway, it's probably blown away by now."

  They travelled in silence, and then Jerling remembered something. "Speaking of small stuff, what was that crap on my screen this morning?"

  "I don't understand."

  "That memo about a dental plan. I don't deal with garbage like that. Put someone else onto it."

  "Employee benefits are an important aspect of your business."

  "They should be bloody glad they've got jobs." Jerling sniffed. "Opening shopping centres, dental plans. You'll have me organising a retirement party next."

  "Nonsense, Mr Jerling. You perform a vital function."

  "Don't patronise me." Jerling puffed his cigar. "Find me something interesting. Give me something to think about."

  "You know what your doctor said, Mr Jerling. He advised against direct involvement in the decision-making process."

  "All right, sack the doctor and then find me something interesting."

  "I'm sure that won't be necessary." Carina looked inside her briefcase. "There's a batch of equipment due for recycling. I need final approval on the order."

  "Recycling? That's the best you can do?"

  "It's vital to the health of the company. Turning over equipment is good for staff morale, leads to lower maintenance costs and cuts our exposure to taxation." Carina handed over a bound report. "Here's the information."

  Jerling sighed as he felt the weight. "In the old days I listened to the facts and made up my mind on the spot. When did all this red tape come in?"

  "Standard corporate governance. Everything by the book."

  "And a book for everything," muttered Jerling. He flipped through the pages, glaring at the tiny print. "What is it, anyway?"

  "Depreciation schedule. Every item of equipment in the company, listed by purchase date and accrued tax benefit."

  "Care to explain that in layman's terms?"

  "The further you go in the book, the older the equipment. I recommend we dispose of everything after page seventy."

  "Are you crazy?" Jerling stared at her. "I'm not getting rid of perfectly good equipment."

  "There's a tremendous tax advantage if you do."

  Jerling squinted at the page. "Vehicles, ships, computers … we only just bought some of this stuff!"

  "I'm afraid not. The minimum age is five years, and some items are almost thirty. Take those robots …"

  Jerling groaned. "Not robots. Not openly."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Do you know what happens when you strip a bunch of robots from a company?"

  Carina shook her head.

  "The rest go moody, that's what. They don't say anything but their eyes follow you everywhere. Accusing, sad, angry …" Jerling shook his head. "You have to remove them one by one, send them off on a long-term errand. Then you tell the rest their dear old metal pal was purchased as a companion for someone's grandma, or to help a sick kid recover."

  "Isn't that rather elaborate? They're just machines."

  "No, they're machines with brains. Big difference."

  "However it's done, this equipment must go. It will save the company thousands."

  "Really?"

  Carina nodded. "The tax benefits will almost pay for the replacements. Then there's the human element - new equipment is conducive to a happy work environment, people want to be at work and sick leave falls dramatically."

  Jerling grunted and handed the report back. "Put a summary on my desk and I'll take a look in the morning."

  "You can't leave it too long," warned Carina. "I've negotiated new contracts with our suppliers. They won't hold their prices forever."

  Jerling's eyes narrowed. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

  "No, Mr Jerling."

  The limousine slowed and Jerling glanced out the window. They were travelling along the broad avenue leading to head office, and as they rounded a bend the building came into view. It was an impressive sight - twelve storeys high, fronted with acres of glass and chrome. Across the top a huge sign spelled out 'Jerling Corporation' in glowing red letters.

  After admiring his building for a moment or two, Jerling turned back to Carina. "What's next?"

  Carina hesitated. "One of our senior engineers is retiring tomorrow. They're not sure what to buy him."

  "A wreath," muttered Jerling. "Look, that's not what I meant. I'm talking business deals, something hands on." He frowned. "What was it I heard this morning, something about a shipment they're having trouble with?"

  "Your staff are very efficient, Mr Jerling. I'm sure they'll handle it."

  "Give me the details and I'll tell you whether they're efficient or not."

  Suppressing the tiniest of sighs, Carina took out a thinscreen and paged through several memos. "Did they mention Orthagon?"

  "No, Seraph."

  "That would be the shipment of robot parts."

  "Oh joy," sighed Jerling. "Such a step up from company dental. So what's the problem?"

  "The shipment is sitting on Seraph IV, waiting for collection."

  "And?"

  "The Seraph military are conducting war games - live fire exercises. It's been running for a week now, with another fortnight to go." Carina shifted in her seat. "Last time they held manoeuvres on this scale they blasted three cargo freighters by mistake."

  "I begin to see the problem."

  "None of our people will fly there, because it's too risky. And we're not insured against that kind of loss."

  "What's the hurry with the parts?"

  "We're assembling an order of serving robots for the Emperor's summer palace. He's planning a grand ball and our robots have to be ready on time."

  "Can't we get the parts elsewhere?"

  Carina shook her head. "There's a shortage."

  "Why don't we hire a ship?"

  "Who would fly it?"

  "One of our old robots, of course." Jerling gestured at the recycling report. "You've already decided they're expendable."

  "Robots can only be co-pilots. You need a human in control. Anyway, we're still liable for the replacement cost of the vessel."

  "All right, hire a freelancer."

  Carina grimaced. "We tried, but they're all aware of the war games. Mind you, there was one …"

  "Yes?"

  "He was convinced it was a cargo of stolen goods."

  "You should have put him on to me," growled Jerling. "I'd have set him straight."

  "To be honest, I didn't think he was suitable. His record is terrible."

  "We all have to start somewhere."
/>
  The car slowed, and the interior darkened as it entered the undercover parking. Jerling's cigar glowed in the darkness, and then the interior was bathed in artificial light. Jerling puffed in silence as they drove past rows of gleaming cars, and then he came to a decision. "I'm taking charge of this matter. I want to handle it personally."

  "Mr Jerling, you have talented staff. This job can be handled without your intervention."

  "Do you know what will happen if we disappoint the Emperor? We'll lose our preferred supplier status. The Hinchfigs will pounce, and before you know it they'll be supplying the Emperor and we'll be faking crowds." The car stopped, and Jerling crushed his cigar and shoved his door open. "I want this pilot put through to my office. Immediately, you understand? Otherwise you'll be the one looking for a new job."

  White faced, Carina nodded.

  *

  Hal was pacing the Black Gull's flight deck, ready to put his fist through the nearest wall. "What do you mean you can't call Jerling back? What do you mean you didn't save his details?"

  "I erased the record after you turned the job down."

  "So look it up again!"

  "We can't afford the search fees." The Navcom hesitated. "Incidentally, it's your move."

  "How can you think of a bloody chess game at a time like this?"

  "You're only saying that because you're losing."

  "The hell I am." Hal strode to the console and stared down at the board, where his white king and a single pawn were surrounded by a complete set of black pieces. "Switch sides?"

  "Negative."

  Hal sighed. "Isn't there any way you can get hold of Jerling?"

  "No."

  "At least think about it, all right? I'm going to get something to eat." Hal crossed to the rear of the flight deck, where a battered metal ladder poked through a circular hole in the floor. He'd just put his foot on the first rung when a chime echoed around the flight deck.

  "Inbound call for Mr Spacejock."

  "Take it, will you? I can't handle debt collectors right now."

  "It's not a debt collector. It's Jerling Enterprises."

  "Are you mucking about?"

  "No, it's Walter Jerling himself."

  "Well don't keep him waiting, you overgrown calculator. Put him on!"

  The viewscreen flickered and wavered, and Walter Jerling's head and shoulders appeared. His gaunt face was bathed in green light from the screens set into his desk, and there was a cigar clamped between his teeth. He spotted Hal, removed the cigar and blew out a cloud of smoke. "Hal Spacejock?"

  "That's me," said Hal, dropping into his seat. "Listen, I was just —"

  "Freelance cargo pilot?"

  "Yes. I was —"

  "Something wrong with my company? Pay not good enough?"

  "No. I —"

  "I told my staff you'd come round." Jerling waved his cigar. "The cargo's on Seraph IV, I want it delivered to my premises on Forg within twenty-four hours. Can you handle that?"

  "Sure."

  Jerling picked a shred of tobacco from his lip. "There's a couple of things you should know. First, Seraph traffic control are a bunch of bureaucratic idiots who'll tie you up for days with their ridiculous paperwork. And we don't want that, do we?"

  "I guess not," said Hal.

  "Right, so you're going to bypass customs. Second, you'll be landing in a field at night. The pick-up is near the equator and there's a few dwellings, light industry, that kind of thing."

  Hal wondered if his hearing was playing up. "Did you say a field?"

  "You got a problem with that?"

  "Well, er —"

  "Good." Jerling frowned at the darkened tip of his cigar. "What was the other thing? Oh yes, the landing. I want you to take one of my pilots along. Give him a lift to Seraph."

  "I thought this job was urgent? If I have to wait for your pilot —"

  "No waiting, he's already there at the spaceport. He was supposed to get a lift with one of my ships, but you can take him instead." Jerling waved his cigar. "If things get sticky on Seraph he'll take over the controls."

  "Is he any good?"

  "He works for me, doesn't he?" Jerling snapped his fingers and a squat robot appeared, holding a short rod with a glowing red tip. Jerling pressed his cigar to the tip, puffed once or twice to get it going, then waved the robot away. "Look, he's had years of training. Flown everything from a hover bike to a megafreighter. Believe me, he's a first-class pilot."

  Hal felt a surge of relief. A night landing in a field sounded like a recipe for disaster, but with Jerling's pilot it would be easy.

  "Right, that's everything covered," said Jerling. "I'll get the pilot over to your ship, and you get my cargo here as quick as you can."

  "Hang on, what about payment?"

  But the screen was blank.

  Chapter 3

  "No sign of Jerling's pilot," said Hal, who was peering through a scratched, yellowed porthole in the Black Gull's airlock. He cupped his hands to the plastic and squinted, but it made little difference. "There could be an army out there and I wouldn't know it."

  "Why don't you open the door?" asked the Navcom.

  "What, and let Vurdi's bloody great robot in again? No thanks!" Hal gave up and returned to the flight deck, where he gathered a stained mug and held it under the nozzle of the drinks dispenser. When the machine had finished burping and spluttering he raised his mug to sniff the steaming brown liquid. "Is this tea or coffee?"

  "Neither. It's an infusion of edible fungi."

  "Really?" Hal took a sip and smacked his lips. "It could grow on me."

  "Don't spill it, or it'll grow everywhere."

  Hal returned to the chessboard, but his mind was on the upcoming cargo job. He'd never landed in the dark before, especially in a field. What if Jerling's hot shot pilot didn't turn up? What if he wasn't as good as Jerling said he was? What if …

  "Would you like a hint?" asked the Navcom.

  "How can I play if you keep interrupting?" Hal moved one of his pieces at random. "Queen to C6."

  "King's knight to C6," said the Navcom. "Warning, checkmate in three moves."

  There was a ringing noise. "About time he turned up," muttered Hal. As he left his chair he jogged the chessboard with his elbow, scattering pieces all over the deck. "Oops, silly me."

  "Desperate situations call for desperate measures," intoned the Navcom.

  "Eh?"

  "Cheats never prosper."

  "Oh, shut up."

  "Daily quote mode … disabled."

  Hal strode into the airlock and waited impatiently as the outer door grated open. To his horror there was a robot standing outside, and he was just about to slam the door in its face when he realised it was half the size of Vurdi's enforcer. Bronze all over, this robot had a squashy furrowed face, a dented torso and mismatched legs splattered with grimy patches of lubricating fluid.

  "What do you want?" demanded Hal, once he'd finished looking it over.

  "My name is XG99," said the robot, in an even male voice. "Is this the Black Gull?"

  "Yeah. Why?"

  The robot's arm jerked up. "Mr Jerling sent me. You can call me Clunk."

  Hal stared at the extended hand. "You're the pilot?"

  "Certified pilot."

  "More like certified junk heap," muttered Hal. "Wait here," he said loudly, in case the robot was as deaf as it looked. He strode back to the flight deck and leant over the console. "Navcom, get me Jerling. Quick."

  The viewscreen flickered and Jerling's face swam into focus. "This had better be important."

  "It is. I've got a clapped-out robot on my doorstep claiming he's your pilot."

  "Clapped out?" Jerling frowned. "Clunk may be mature, but he's in top condition. You'll be perfectly safe in his hands."

  "But —"

  "Mr Spacejock, if you don't want Clunk to land your ship you can do it yourself. My cargo must be delivered on time."

  "But —"

  "Good, I'm gla
d that's settled. Now please hurry. I need that cargo and I need it now." Jerling clicked his fingers and the cigar-lighting robot appeared at his side, rod at the ready. "Cigar," said Jerling.

  The robot raised the rod, bathing his face with a dull red glow.

  Jerling shook his head. "Give me a cigar."

  The robot looked at him.

  "Cigar," said Jerling, jabbing his finger at the robot. "Come on, you stupid tin can. Cigar!"

  The robot eyed Jerling's finger, head on one side, then shrugged and applied the super-heated tip to it. The screen went dark, cutting off an anguished yell of pain.

  "Perfectly safe, eh?" growled Hal. He strode through the airlock and found the robot waiting patiently outside. Without warning, he jabbed his finger at it. "Cigar! Cigar!"

  "Cigar Cigar," said Clunk, holding up his own finger to match. "I must say that's a most unusual greeting."

  "It wasn't a greeting. I was just checking you weren't going to light it."

  "I couldn't do that," said the robot. "Impossible."

  "Governed by the Three Laws?"

  "No, I don't have any matches." Clunk craned his neck to peer into the airlock. "Can we get started? Mr Jerling said this was urgent, and I'd like to familiarise myself with the controls."

  Hal followed the robot into the flight deck, where he found it staring at the console.

  "This a Rigel class freighter, isn't it?"

  "That's right," said Hal.

  Clunk grimaced. "I had no idea they were still in service." Then he spotted the chess pieces scattered on the deck. "Who won?"

  "It was a draw," said the Navcom.

  "You have a pleasant voice. Did you refine it yourself?"

  "If you've quite finished chatting up my computer —" began Hal.

  "Why are you drinking roasted mushrooms?" asked Clunk, inspecting the stained mug on the console.

  "Mr Spacejock thought he was buying coffee," said the Navcom. "He's always getting ripped off, but I'm sure a robot of your wisdom and intelligence …"

  "Not you as well!" Hal turned on the robot. "Down to the hold. Now."

  Clunk gazed at him with warm yellow eyes. "As a pilot, my place is on the flight deck."

  "As a passenger, your place is in the hold. You can be a pilot later, and only if I need you."

  "Very well. Which way to the first class section?"

  "Don't be cheeky." Hal gestured at the rickety ladder protruding from a hole at the rear of the flight deck. "Take the access tube and follow the passage aft. And don't touch anything."