Hal Spacejock Omnibus One

by Simon Haynes

  Jerling stared at the screen. "You gave away my cargo?"

  Hal nodded.

  "And the robot?"

  Hal nodded again.

  "Mr Spacejock, I'm a fair man. Get them back off this Farrell and deliver them here within two hours, and I will pay you in full."

  "And if I don't?"

  Jerling examined the glowing end of his cigar. "I'll take your ship to cover my losses."

  Hal opened his mouth to argue, but the screen was blank. "Those lousy pirates stole my cargo," he muttered, balling his fists. "Those goddamn pirates stole my cargo!"

  "And Clunk," said the computer.

  "It's your fault! You let them get away with it!" Hal glared at the console. "Why the hell didn't you check their ID in your database? You should have known it wasn't one of Jerling's ships!"

  "My files are twenty years old. I have no record of recent vessels."

  Hal scooped up the folded playing card and brandished it at the screen. "These people made me look like an idiot. They stole my cargo, they pinched the robot and now they're going to cost me my ship!" Unfolding the card, he tore it into little pieces and threw them into the air.

  "If only they'd left a clue," he said as the pieces fluttered to the deck.

  *

  Clunk dived to his left as the gun flashed, avoiding the lethal burst by millimetres. Energy bolts tore up the decking, splattering his metal skin with molten fragments, and Clunk rolled over and over as more shots whizzed and zipped around him.

  He took cover behind a wall of crates, and the firing stopped. His relief was short-lived - he could already hear the hauler's measured tread as it moved to flank him. Leaping to his feet, Clunk turned and bolted. He ran full-tilt through the darkened hold, careening off wooden crates and metal uprights and then … BAM! He bounced off the rear wall and landed flat on his back.

  Dazed, Clunk shook his head to clear the flashing error warnings. Slowly, he got to his knees, chiding himself for his panic-stricken haste. Stealth, that was the answer!

  With a click, he activated his night vision, flooding his sensors with wavery green light. He turned his head slowly, trying to spot his opponent. Next he tried his audio receptors, but the ship's engines and the background hiss from his degraded circuits drowned any noise from the hauler. He played with his audio filters, trying to remove the background noise of the ship. All he got was more static.

  Slowly, Clunk's head dropped. He couldn't touch, taste or smell the other robot, he was unarmed and he was trapped.

  Then his head came up. What would Hal do in this situation? What sort of plan would he come up with? The answer came to him: Distract the hauler, escape the hold, capture the ship, turn everyone in to the authorities and collect a massive reward. Clunk grinned. Yes, that was a Spacejock plan. Still, even if it was a touch optimistic, he could do his best.

  He dropped to the deck and crawled to a stack of crates, where he ran his fingers over the rough wood, feeling for holes. There were several jagged edges where the hauler's shots had torn into the crate, and Clunk worked the timber until he could insert his hand.

  He felt through the packing material and his fingers brushed a hard, round object the size of an orange. He set it on the floor and delved into the crate again. A minute or two later he had a small pile of the items. He stashed a couple in his chest compartment and took one in each hand, then got to his feet and stared around the hold. No movement. Drawing his arm back, he threw one of the balls into the darkness. Seconds later, there was a crash of broken glass followed by wild flashes of gunfire.

  Clunk slipped away, following the wall. He reached the end and threw another ball, hurling it into the opposite corner of the hold. Gunfire arced out of the darkness, catching the ball in mid-air and blowing it apart in a shower of sparks.

  Stealthily, Clunk made his way along the wall. Halfway to the next corner he froze. The floor had started to vibrate, and the crates nearby were creaking and jiggling. A keen whistling filled the hold, a rushing, hissing sound like a gale force wind through fine netting. Clunk frowned - the ship was dropping through the planet's atmosphere. Time was running out.

  He took one of the balls from his chest cavity and threw it. Nothing happened. Clunk reached for the last ball, then stopped. If the outside noise was drowning out the sound of the balls dropping, it would probably mask the sound of his footsteps.

  He broke into a run, one hand brushing the wall in case he passed an opening without seeing it. Near the far end, his foot slammed into the buckled alcove door, still lying on the floor where it had fallen. The door skidded away and crashed into a crate.

  "I hear you, little robot!" roared the hauler.

  Clunk ran after the door and scooped it up, then bolted for the alcove. Without stopping to think, he backed inside and pulled the buckled door into position behind him. In the darkness of the hold, he thought, it might just be enough.

  He peered through the ventilation slots to look for the hauler just as the overhead lights winked on. Clunk hastily switched off his night vision, then gazed through the door. At first he couldn't see much through the swirling smoke which filled the hold. Then his eyes adjusted and he saw blistered scorch marks on the walls where the robot's wild gunfire had struck, and the blasted remains of a dozen shattered crates. Clunk shook his head slowly. Mr Jerling was not going to be happy.

  He saw something move on the far side of the hold, and adjusted his gaze. Terry was standing near the inner door, looking around the hold apprehensively. One hand was poised over the lighting panel. The other gripped a powerful-looking gun.

  *

  There was a hollow feeling in the pit of Hal's stomach as he stared at the scattered fragments of playing card. He'd been that close to completing the job, paying off Vurdi and saving his ship, until those two bit crooks snatched everything away. He winced as he remembered the message written on the card. How could he have been so stupid? They didn't want him for another job. They were just getting rid of him so they could escape with the cargo!

  Wait a minute. What about the authorities? You couldn't move without seeing a Peace Force announcement about speeding or seat belts. Surely they'd help where theft was involved? "Navcom, get me the Orbiter."

  "Which department?"

  "Peace Force," said Hal grimly. With a bit of luck he could have Farrell arrested - or better still, shot on sight.

  "Complying. Contact established."

  "This is the Forg Orbiter. How can I help you?"

  "I want to report a theft," said Hal.

  "Which ship please?"

  "The Black Gull."

  "And where are you calling from?"

  "The Black Gull, of course," said Hal in surprise. "How many ships do you think I have?"

  There was a pause. "But you said it was stolen, sir."

  "Not my ship. They stole my cargo!"

  He heard a sheet of paper being scrunched up. "Tell me, where did this cargo theft take place, sir?"

  "Aboard my ship."

  "The Black Gull?"

  "That's right. You're getting it."

  "How much cargo are we talking about?"

  "About two hundred crates. I saw the bastards who took it, too. Farrell and Terry. Of course I didn't know they were stealing it. It was false pretences."

  "How's that, sir?"

  "Well, Jerling called and told me to hand his cargo over to these two goons," began Hal. "Only it can't have been Jerling, and these guys don't work for him."

  There was a long silence.

  "Are you getting this?" demanded Hal.

  "I'm writing it all down in full, sir. Please continue."

  "Well, they docked with my ship and unloaded the cargo. I went into the Orbiter for some boots. By the way, I want to complain about the food."

  "That's hardly my department, sir."

  "It will be, if anyone croaks after eating that muck. Anyway, when I came back they'd stolen the cargo. And they took the robot, too."

  "Which
robot?"

  "The robot I lost in space. He fell out the cargo hold."

  "Anything else stolen?"

  "No."

  "Right, sir. I've made out a full report and I'll file it straight away. Rest assured I'll put my best people onto it."

  "Over and out," said Hal.

  Just before the speaker cut out he heard the crumpling of another sheet of paper. Hal sighed. It was all too late, anyway. His cargo was probably stashed away in some hangar, ready for transfer into new containers and a quick trip to another planet. If only they'd left a proper clue to their identity! He frowned as he remembered something about Farrell's playing card, some sort of crest or heading printed on the back.

  "It's a clue!" he shouted, dropping to his knees and gathering the torn pieces. He laid bits and pieces of tattered card on the console with shaking fingers. Gradually he assembled enough pieces to read a name. "Nosica gergforb? Sounds like a real den of thieves."

  The Navcom spoke up. "I believe a rearrangement of the pieces might prove fruitful."

  Hal swapped a few pieces around until the correct name appeared: Forgberg Casino. "Navcom, get landing authority. We're going to get Jerling's cargo back."

  "What about Clunk?"

  "Yeah, and him too I suppose."

  *

  Farrell strode along the Volante's lower passage to the inner door. He raised his hand to the controls, then put his ear to the door instead. He heard nothing over the background rumble of the ship's engines. No screaming, no gunfire, no lunatic robots engaged in one-on-one battle. Nothing.

  Farrell reached for the blaster at his hip. "Damn," he muttered, as his fingers closed on thin air. Terry had gone in with enough weaponry to start a rebellion, and had promptly disappeared. The last thing he wanted to do was enter the hold unarmed.

  Farrell jumped as the overhead speaker buzzed. "Ten minutes to landing," said the computer loudly. "All humans to be secured."

  "Can you circle around?" called Farrell.

  "Negative. Ground control has locked us into a guided flight path. Landing cannot be delayed."

  "Tell them it's an emergency. They'll just have to wait."

  "What is the nature of this emergency?"

  "I don't know. Tell them it's a computer problem."

  "There is nothing wrong with my circuits," said the computer coldly. "Landing will proceed as planned. Take a seat or suffer the consequences."

  "Bloody computers," muttered Farrell. There was no time to fetch a gun, so he touched the control and stepped aside as the door hissed open. Directly ahead, a wall of crates blocked his view into the hold. He poked his head through the opening, looked left and right, and withdrew. There were no cries of discovery and nobody opened fire on him, so he entered the hold cautiously, still looking left and right.

  Smoke hung in the air, shot through with beams from the overhead lights, and a sharp smell of burnt wood blended with the more common spaceship smells of oil, hot metal and electronics. To his right, blasted crates leant drunkenly against the wall, their twisted contents scattered across the decking. There was less damage in the other direction, so he went that way.

  As he moved along the row of crates, he heard a voice on the other side. They weren't pleading or screaming, which sounded positive. In fact, it sounded like an ordinary conversation. "Terry? Is that you?"

  "Over here."

  Farrell's boots scrunched on the charred fragments littering the floor, his face redder and redder as he stepped over the trail of buckled robot parts. Every damaged piece was another chunk of his money gone, and by the time he rounded the corner he was ready to explode.

  Terry was holding his blaster on Clunk, who was lying face down in a puddle of lubricant. The hauler crouched nearby in a ready position, weapons pointing at the floor. Farrell walked up to it and stared into its eyes, which glowed with a murderous red light. "You destroyed thousands of credits worth of cargo, you tin-headed moron!"

  There was a creak as the robot's grip tightened on its weapon.

  "Take it easy, Farrell," muttered Terry.

  "Put your toys away and pick that up," growled Farrell, jabbing his finger at Clunk.

  After a brief hesitation the hauler slung the pulse rifle across its back and bent down to grab Clunk. He picked him up by the ankle, heaving him into the air in one fluid motion.

  "Follow me." Farrell strode to the rear of the hold and grabbed a handset off the wall. Fortunately it hadn't been mangled by gunfire. "Altitude?"

  "Two thousand metres," said the ship's computer. "You must return to your seat. We're landing in five minutes."

  "Shut up and hover." Farrell steadied himself as the ship tilted. "Now open the cargo door."

  "Confirm please."

  "Open the rear door. Immediately."

  "Complying."

  There was a hiss as the door swung open, and Farrell stepped back as the wind swirled around the hold. He turned to face the cargo hauler, which was still holding Clunk upside down by one leg. "Throw it out!" he shouted above the roar of the engines, jerking his thumb towards the door.

  The hauler walked to the edge and stopped with Clunk swinging gently from its raised arm. It looked out of the hold, then swung its arm and tossed Clunk out of the ship.

  Farrell watched the robot glinting in the sunlight as it spiralled towards the clouds. When it disappeared he raised the handset again. "Shut the rear doors." As they began to close, he hung up and walked away.

  Terry called to him. "What's Gordon going to say about the cargo? Some of these crates are falling to pieces."

  "Get that trigger-happy freak to put them back together," said Farrell over his shoulder.

  *

  The flight deck thrummed as the Black Gull slowed to approach speed. Hal was sitting at the console with folded arms, staring into space and pondering the challenges awaiting him on Forg. It was one against two, but while Farrell and Terry had the cargo, Clunk, a huge combat droid, a faster ship, guns, somewhere to land and piles of cash, Hal still had the element of surprise. He figured that evened things up a little.

  The Navcom's voice burst from the speaker. "Landing in sixty seconds. Please assume emergency brace position."

  Hal smothered a yawn and glanced up at the clock.

  "I repeat. Assume emergency brace position."

  "Have you ever heard the story of the boy who cried wolf?"

  "I fail to see the connection."

  "Save the warnings for when they're really needed."

  "The gravity on this planet is twenty per cent over the standard."

  "So?"

  "Do the words 'heavy landing' mean anything to you?"

  Hal's eyes widened. "Heavy landing?" He grabbed the front of the console. "How heavy, exactly?"

  The engine roar doubled in volume and Hal sank into the padded seat under a colossal weight. The flight deck creaked ominously under the strain, and the lights flickered as all available power was diverted to the engines.

  "What sort of noise does a wolf make?" asked the Navcom.

  "What?" said Hal through clenched teeth.

  "I was wondering what a wolf sounds like."

  Hal looked up with an effort. "Now is not the time to further your education. Land the damn ship."

  There was a clanging sound. "Incoming transmission."

  "Any chance you can stick to the same noise each time?"

  "Impossible."

  "All right, play it."

  "This is Forg spaceport," said a female voice. "I take it we have the pleasure of addressing Mr Hal Spacejock?"

  "You sure do."

  "I've got a memo here from Portmaster Linten of Lamira. He tells me you're an arsonist."

  "I had a misunderstanding with one of his robots."

  "Yes, I hear the fire is still burning out of control. Now, can you give me a good reason why I should let you land here?"

  "Land? We're not going to land, we're going to bounce!"

  "What?"

  "We're slowi
ng as fast as we can. According to my computer it's not fast enough."

  There was a muttered conversation at the other end, before the voice came back. "Hold on, sir! Activating right laterals on my mark. Three … Two … One … Fire!"

  Hal grabbed the console as the ship leapt sideways. "What the hell was that?"

  "We've been diverted away from the spaceport," said the Navcom.

  "You mean they've found a way to slow us down?"

  "Either that, or they've found an uninhabited area where the impact won't cause any damage." The Navcom hesitated. "Yes, we're heading for the rubbish dump. Impact in five seconds. Emergency brace please."

  Hal leant on the console, resting his head on his folded arms. The engines cut out and the ship hit, slamming him down in his seat. Dust rained down from the ceiling, along with the few remaining ceiling panels, and a few seconds later the ship tipped sideways, settling on a slight angle.

  There was a slithering, rustling sound outside.

  "Landing successful," said the Navcom. "Local time 6.45 p.m."

  "What's that noise?"

  "We made a hole in the rubbish. The sides are falling in on top of us."

  "Can we fly out?"

  "If we use the engines, debris will be sucked into the vents. We could start a fire."

  Hal snorted. "Who cares? It's a rubbish tip. Get us out of here."

  The engines roared and the ship rose into the air, flame blasting from its landing jets.

  There was a ring from the console.

  "This is Forg spaceport calling the Black Gull. Please reply."

  "This is the Gull," said Hal. "We're fine. The rubbish cushioned our landing."

  "That was the intention," said the operator. "Please don't move. Our retrieval crews are on the way."

  "Retrieval crews?"

  "Yes. If you take off you'll set fire to the tip and it will burn for weeks. Sit tight and we'll dig you out." The speaker clicked as the operator disconnected.

  Chapter 21

  Beep, beep, beep! Beep, beep, beep!

  Clunk groaned and opened his eyes. A distant memory came back - a haggard-looking programmer trying to explain the symptoms of a hangover with the help of a bucket and a glass of alcoholic beverage. Now, with his sight wavering and wobbling like a dodgy display screen, it all made perfect sense.