by Simon Haynes
"I'm here to see the Portmaster."
"Take a seat please." The man turned to his terminal and continued with his work.
There was a pair of armchairs in the corner of the room, arranged around a glass coffee table. Hal sat down, pulled a magazine from a nearby rack and flipped through the wrinkled plastic pages, gazing at lurid adverts for rocket fuel additives, expensive watches and sets of matching luggage. He was about to put the magazine back when an article about exploding robots caught his eye.
Are robots bad for your health?
Government sources say the recent spate of exploding metal men could be linked to the illegal practice of re-marking electronic brains.
The brain unit is the most expensive component of a robot, accounting for nearly two-thirds the total cost of our tin pals. Unscrupulous manufacturers have been salvaging brains from scrapped robots and fitting them to brand new models, forcing these delicate components to run at far greater speeds than they were designed for. In laboratory tests, brain units have burnt out or blown up when subjected to this kind of treatment.
Hal lowered the magazine. It would be just his luck if Jerling's robot had a wonky brain. He resolved to confine it to the hold, whatever creative excuses it came up with. If it did blow up, the shrapnel was less likely to damage vital equipment. Stuffing the magazine back in the rack, Hal pulled out another. It fell open at an article about the latest sitting of the Union Council.
Stay that trigger finger!
The Galactic Council has decreed that robots are to be treated as equals in the eyes of the law. From the beginning of this month, the wilful destruction of a robot is to be treated as murder. In a welcome move, obsolete robots retain their status as third-class citizens, and are therefore exempt from this controversial new law.
Hal tried to remember the maintenance robot. Had it been obsolete, or just old? He jumped as the office door opened and a short, balding man looked out.
"Who the hell are you?" demanded the man, glaring at Hal with hard grey eyes.
"Hal Spacejock, Black Gull."
"I'm Portmaster Linten. We need to talk." Linten glanced at the young man behind the desk. "Hold my calls."
"Yes sir."
Linten held the door open. "In here, Spacejock."
Hal followed Linten into a cramped office. A large wooden desk almost filled the room, and the walls were lined with bookcases crammed with journals and magazines. Linten closed the door and waved Hal into a chair, then walked behind the desk and sat down.
"Mr Spacejock," he began, "Lamira is a small planet, far from major trade routes. Our most welcome visitors are those that inject substantial sums of money into our lowly economy."
Hal noticed an interesting mural on the wall behind Linten, depicting a spaceship landing on a rocky plain under the light of two moons.
"We also value those visitors whose contributions are more artistic in nature," said Linten. "They don't contribute material wealth per se, but they enrich the mental well-being of our citizens with artworks or theatre."
Hal studied the mural. The rocket was an Alpha class, although the artist had left off an engine to give prominence to the 'W' logo of a fast food chain.
"Finally, we come to those visitors who have absolutely no value to us." Linten hunched forward, eyeing Hal's pollen-streaked clothes. "I took the liberty of checking your credit rating, something I should have done before I allowed my staff to refuel that ship of yours. You can't even pay your landing fees, Mr Spacejock, let alone the rest of your bill. You are a free loader on a planet where the word free does not apply."
"But I—"
"Given your circumstances, I'm sure you understand my course of action."
"Oh. What's that?"
"I'm impounding your ship."
Now Linten had Hal's full attention. "Here, you can't do that!"
"I just have. And if you don't settle your bill in seven days I'll auction your ship and deduct your debts from the proceeds."
"But it's not my ship! I'm paying it off!"
"I don't care who it belongs to. It's here, and it owes me money."
"Look, I just got a cargo job. Let me do it and I'll come back and pay you afterwards."
Linten snorted. "I stopped believing in the tooth fairy years ago, Mr Spacejock."
"It's true! I'm shifting a cargo of parts for this guy called Jerling. His robot's aboard my ship now." Hal had a thought. "Can I call him?"
"Be my guest," said Linten, sliding his commset across the desk.
Hal tapped out the Black Gull's registration code. There was a crackle of static and a sultry female voice came out of the speaker. "Hi, folks. The captain and I are busy right now, but if you leave a message he'll get back to you as soon as we're done."
Linten raised one eyebrow.
Hal reddened. "Previous owner. Must change it."
*
"Simulation suspended. Incoming message."
The woolly clouds of Aklam faded from Clunk's vision. "I'm sorry?"
"Incoming message."
"Are we meant to answer it?"
"It's Mr Spacejock," said the Navcom.
Clunk sat up straight. "Please open the connection."
"Hey, robot!" called Hal.
"Yes, sir?"
"Call Jerling and get me a loan. I need three hundred credits for landing fees and fuel."
"I don't think he'll lend you any money," said Clunk doubtfully.
"I don't care what you think. If he doesn't come through I'll lose my ship and his precious cargo will be stranded forever."
"Message understood," said Clunk. There was a burst of static and the speaker went dead. "Navcom, please put me through to Mr Jerling."
"Connection activated." The viewscreen flickered and fizzed, and Jerling appeared. He took a cigar from his mouth and waved at the smoke with a bandaged hand.
"Mr Jerling! Whatever happened to your hand?"
"It's nothing," said Jerling, moving it out of sight below the desk. "You're not calling to inquire about my health, so let's have it."
"Mr Spacejock was summoned to the Portmaster's office about an unpaid fuel bill."
"I see."
"He asked me to call you," said Clunk.
"And?"
"He wants three hundred credits or he'll lose his ship."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. And if you don't come through with the cash, he'll strand your precious cargo forever."
Jerling yanked the cigar from his mouth. "He said that?"
Clunk paused to replay the call from Hal. "That's the gist of it."
A plume of brown smoke drifted across the screen. "You tell Spacejock something from me. If he doesn't deliver my cargo on time I'll have him arrested, tortured and shot. Twice."
"Understood."
"Goddamn freelancers," said Jerling, sticking the cigar into the corner of his mouth. "Nothing but trouble."
Clunk remembered something. "Oh, Mr Jerling. I found out about Incubots!"
Jerling breathed in sharply, almost swallowing his cigar.
"Are you all right?" asked Clunk in alarm, as his boss coughed and spluttered.
Jerling held up his bandaged hand. "Important meeting, Clunk. Gotta go."
The screen fizzed and went blank, and then more smoke drifted past. Clunk raised a hand and waved it gently, then glanced over his shoulder. The flight deck was filling with haze, and there was a faint noise which seemed to be coming from the airlock. When he turned up the gain in his audio circuit the gentle murmur became a crackling roar.
Fire!
Clunk ran into the airlock. As the outer door slid open, thick brown smoke poured into the ship. He walked onto the landing platform, flapping his hands in a vain attempt to clear the air, and through a break in the swirling smoke he saw the source - flames were tearing through the dry grass near the Black Gull's stern!
Clunk ran back into the flight deck, his feet thudding on the metal deck. "Navcom, call Mr Spacejock. We have an em
ergency!"
Chapter 5
Portmaster Linten studied Hal across the desk, his eyes narrowed. "Are you telling me this Jerling character will pay your bill?"
"He has to. I can't deliver his cargo if the Gull is stuck here, can I?"
The commset buzzed and Linten leaned forward. "Yes?"
There was a crackling sound. "Help! Fire!" said a voice over the noise.
"Who is this? What are you talking about?"
"The grass is burning," cried the voice. "There's a fire on the landing field!"
"Which pad?"
"Fifty-two," said Hal, smothering a grin. "That's Jerling's robot." He leaned towards the commset. "Clunk, is the ship in danger from this, er, fire?"
"Not yet, Mr Spacejock, but it soon will be. Would you like me to move it out of the way?"
"You keep your hands off the controls. I'll be there in a tick."
"You'll have to hurry. The fire's right up to the refuelling cluster, and if that explodes —"
"I'm leaving right away," said Hal, pushing his chair back.
Linten cut Clunk off and looked up. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Didn't you hear? My ship's in danger!"
Linten sighed. "Son, I'm not falling for that one."
Hal blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Do you know how many cash-strapped pilots have tried the old 'ship in danger' trick on me?"
"Trick? My ship's in the middle of a raging inferno! If I don't save her you'll be auctioning a pile of warm scrap!"
"Mr Spacejock, there's a maintenance droid working on the pipes right next to your ship. Don't you think it would have raised the alarm if there was a fire?"
Hal averted his eyes. "I guess."
Linten's eyes narrowed. "How did you get here so fast, anyway? They told me you couldn't afford a cab."
Hal's mouth went dry. "Well, I er —"
The commset buzzed.
Linten looked at Hal closely for a second or two before stabbing at the button. "Yes?"
An excited voice burst from the speaker. "Sir, there's a fire near the derelicts! The fuel pipes are going up!"
*
"Deploy fire hose!" shouted Clunk.
"Deploying." There was a whine outside the hull, which stopped with a sharp crack.
"What was that?"
"The reel just fell off," said the Navcom.
"What else have we got in the way of fire-fighting equipment?"
There was a silence as the Navcom searched its database. "There's a shovel in the cargo hold."
"Metal?"
"Plastic."
"Fire blanket?"
"The only blanket in my inventory is the one on Mr Spacejock's bed."
"I'll start with that," said Clunk. "Where is it?"
"Stand back."
A section of wall opposite the airlock dropped down, revealing an unmade bed. Clunk grabbed the blanket, then threw it aside in disgust. "That won't last five seconds. Isn't there anything else?"
"We do have a portable extinguisher, but it's only rated for electrical fires."
"Better than nothing. Where is it?"
"In a storage compartment in the airlock."
Clunk dashed into the airlock, where he found a ring protruding from the wall. He tugged on it and almost fell over backwards as a whole panel came away. Underneath, there was nothing but bare metal.
"That was the mounting point for the safety line," said the Navcom. "The locker is in the opposite wall."
Clunk threw the shattered panel aside and turned round. He pushed his finger into a slight depression and a small door popped open, revealing a panelled recess and a tangle of safety equipment. He reached past a coil of black cord and a control panel to get his hands on the fire extinguisher, wrapped both hands around it and pulled with all his strength. There was a crack as the mounting bracket came away from the rear wall, and a crunch as Clunk's elbow smashed into the control panel. Something began to whirr outside and a metal hook dropped past the airlock, attached to a thick steel rope.
Clunk took the extinguisher out onto the platform and looked up. Through the swirling smoke he saw a boom extended from the ship's hull, with wire rope feeding through a pulley on the end.
"Winch fully extended," said the Navcom, as the last of the cable paid out.
"Did I do that?"
"Yes. The controls are in the locker."
Clunk returned to the airlock and examined the control panel. One of the buttons was jammed, and when he tried to free it, it fell out and landed amongst the debris on the floor. Clunk picked it up and pressed it back into place, closing the door quickly to stop it falling out again.
Outside on the platform the smoke twisted around, blinding him. He hefted the extinguisher and felt his way down the ramp, the smoke getting thicker as he made his way to the edge of the landing pad. He switched off his air sampler, cutting off the smell of burning grass, and jumped down into the smoke.
His feet scrunched into the blackened stubble and a gust of wind blew a wave of flames towards him, shutting down his external sensors. When he came back online the rubber hose joining the nozzle to the fire extinguisher was burning fiercely. Clunk patted it out, then jogged to the part of the fire nearest the Black Gull. As he approached the roaring flames his foot struck something hard, almost launching him headlong into the burning grass. He looked down and saw blue and yellow flames flickering over the half-buried body of a robot, its fire-whitened eyes staring at the sky.
Clunk aimed the fire extinguisher at the blackened robot and pulled the trigger. There was a muted hiss and the rubber hose bulged, but nothing came out. He banged the nozzle on his leg and pulled the trigger again. Nothing. Peering down the nozzle he saw a lump of chalky material stuck inside. He poked at it with his finger and PHUT! - the lump shot out and bounced off his forehead. With the blockage cleared there was nothing to stop the thick spray of white powder, and by the time Clunk got his finger off the trigger he looked like a startled snowman.
Shaking his head to clear the worst off, he pointed the nozzle at the maintenance robot and squeezed the trigger until the clouds of choking powder blasted the coloured flames into oblivion. Then he set the extinguisher down and grabbed the robot by the arms, dragging it away from the fire. He hauled it onto the landing pad and left it behind the blast barrier, safe from the flames.
Collecting the fire extinguisher, Clunk ran to the fuel cluster and hosed the flames with burst after burst. Despite his efforts the fire continued to advance, until the painted pipes were smoking from the intense heat. Internally, his alarms urged him to retreat from danger. Clunk ignored them and kept attacking the fire with the extinguisher. The bursts of powder were weaker though, and before long they ceased altogether. He threw the cylinder aside and looked around for inspiration, while the flames rose higher and higher around him. There was a loud creak as the fuel pipes distorted in the severe heat, and he realised it was only a matter of seconds before they exploded.
Clunk looked up at the Black Gull. Mr Spacejock had told him not to touch the controls, but if he could get aboard and talk the Navcom into moving the ship … Well, he could argue about permission later. He put his hands on the landing pad and was just about to pull himself up when a tremendous punch of hot air blew him off his feet, hurling him through the air in a cloud of whirling particles. He came to rest in the grass, his vision splitting and doubling like a poorly tuned video terminal. After a final warning chirp his overheated systems shut down, pitching him face-first into the blackened stubble.
Chapter 6
Vurdi Makalukar watched the city of Forgberg sliding beneath the jet-black wings of his flyer, his mind busy with the day's activities. The fright he'd given Spacejock would get his monthly payments back on target, but the small reward from the finance company wouldn't amount to much.
The ship flew across an upmarket suburb, with opulent houses surrounded by lush grounds. Vurdi's lips tightened at the sight. That was where the real mo
ney was, tied up with the wealthy elite who ran the planet. Chasing itinerant freighter pilots for scraps was all very well for small operators, but for someone with ambition it was a waste of time.
The ship banked hard, and Vurdi grabbed a hanging strap. Brutus was at the controls, handling the vessel with his usual lack of finesse. The engines were either switched off or screaming at full power, the ship either flying level or roaring in wild turns. Turning to the robot, Vurdi raised his voice over the thrumming engines. "Could you possibly employ a defter touch on the controls?"
Brutus stared at him, his face blank.
"Imagine the ship is a bird. Soar and swoop through the air, feel the wind beneath your wings, land gracefully."
Brutus's face was even blanker. "Huh?"
"Be subtle with the controls. Caress them." A shadow fell across the screen and Vurdi's head snapped round, eyes widening as a rust-streaked bridge loomed in front of them. "Bloody hell! Look out!"
Brutus jerked the stick back and the ship rocketed into the sky, belching fire from every orifice as it skimmed the rust-streaked pylons. "Do not talk while I am flying," said the robot gravely, after they levelled off. "It is distracting."
"Just fly the ship."
Brutus altered course towards a squat brown building, flared to a halt above the rooftop dishes, and set down on the landing pad with a bone-shaking thud. While Brutus dealt with the engines and flight systems, Vurdi undid his safety harness and stepped down onto the roof. With barely a glance at the buildings spread out below, he crossed to the elevator and waited impatiently while the control panel scanned his retina, read his thumbprint and measured his body mass.
"Good evening, Mr Makalukar," said the panel in a synthesised voice. "Did you know there's a special on gym memberships this month?"
"Just fetch the lift, please."
"Complying." There was a ping, and a light came on beneath the speaker grille. "While you're waiting, may I comment that you're looking in good health?"
