Hal Spacejock Omnibus One

by Simon Haynes

  "You've arranged delivery to the deadliest part of the galaxy, and you want me to be happy?"

  Hal shrugged. "We don't have any choice. If I turn this job down they'll never offer me another."

  "Don't say I didn't warn you."

  Hal pulled at the neck of his flight suit. "Is it just me, or is it getting hot in here?"

  "It's thirty-seven degrees," said Clunk.

  Hal turned to the console. "Navcom, get the temperature down. Now!"

  "Comply cannot," said the computer. "I see icy."

  Hal heard a movement, and turned to see Clunk hurrying towards the lift. "Where are you going?"

  "There's a temperature warning on the main generator. I'd better check."

  "Again?"

  Clunk frowned. "What do you mean, 'again'?"

  "You just checked it."

  "I did?"

  "Yes! You said you had to reseal the manny-thingy on the army-whatsit."

  Clunk looked surprised. "I said that?"

  Hal patted his pockets. "Silly me, I've misplaced my handy-dandy conversation transcriber. Look, I don't know exactly what you said, but that was the gist of it, okay?"

  "How strange, I have no memory of the conversation."

  "You're serious." Hal stared at the robot. "We'd better get you serviced."

  Clunk nodded. "Loss of memory can be very dangerous. I shall retrace my steps while you continue with your reading."

  "With my … ?" Hal looked at the viewscreen. "What's that?"

  "It looks like the flight manual," said Clunk. "Why is the third sentence highlighted?"

  "That's as far as he got before he lost interest," said the Navcom.

  "I did not lose interest. I was conducting a business meeting with an important client." Hal glared at Clunk. "What happened to retracing your steps?"

  "On my way."

  As the doors closed, Hal turned back to the screen. "I'm going to make a real effort this time. It can't be that complicated."

  "Incoming call," said the Navcom suddenly. "Rex Curtis, priority one."

  "Rex who?"

  "Curtis," repeated the computer.

  Hal shrugged. "Put him on."

  A scene appeared: a plush office with wood panelling, pure white carpet and a huge desk. Behind the desk sat a large, dark-haired man in an immaculate suit. "Mr Spacejock?" he demanded in a gravelly voice.

  "That's me," said Hal.

  "We need to talk about freight."

  "What kind of freight?"

  "Paperwork. Thirty-six pallets for Ackexa."

  "Sorry, I'm already booked. We can talk when I've delivered the first lot."

  "You're not delivering anything," snapped Rex. "Curtis Freightlines has a contract with Central Bank. You'll just have to turn them down."

  For a moment Hal was tempted. According to Clunk, Ackexa was a powderkeg and the Volante was a lit match. On the other hand, he didn't like this Curtis character, and they'd won the job fair and square. "Sorry, I've already taken the job."

  "It's a simple choice, Spacejock. Cancel that pickup or suffer the consequences."

  Hal shrugged. "Do your worst."

  "You're going to regret this." Curtis leaned across the desk, his face looming in the camera. "I've had it up to here with two-bit throttle jockeys, rust bucket freighters and slack deliveries. The whole bloody lot of you should be rounded up and thrown in jail."

  "Rust bucket?" Hal waved airily, encompassing the pristine flight deck. "I don't know what kind of clapped out ships you're used to, but the Volante is brand new."

  "You must have stolen it."

  "No, I earned it with hard work. Speaking of which, I'm busy … so get lost." Hal brought his fist down on the disconnect button. "Navcom, if he calls again you can tell him to get —"

  "I don't think that's wise," interrupted the computer. "Mr Curtis is a very powerful man. You can't tell him to … well, you can't say what you were going to say."

  "Put him through again and I'll prove you wrong." Hal turned to the screen, and had barely scanned the next sentence when a klaxon whooped. His feet slipped off the console and the tin of biscuits went flying as he fell to the deck, arms and legs flailing. "What the —"

  "Emergency!" screeched the Navcom, as biscuits rained down all over the console. "Main generator failed. All hands on deck!"

  There was a splutter and the lights winked out.

  "Navcom?" Hal stared into the darkness. "Hey, quit screwing around!"

  There was no reply.

  "Navcom?"

  There was total silence. The console was dead, the air purifiers were still and even the distant roar of the main drives had ceased. Life support gone, shields down, no power … only an experienced pilot could save the ship now.

  Hal squared his shoulders and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Clunk!" he shouted. "Help!"

  *

  "You took your time," growled Hal as the lift doors grated open.

  "I was inspecting the generators." Clunk entered the flight deck, blinking owlishly in the emergency lighting. "What happened?"

  Hal tried to construct a suitable answer from his store of technical language. "There was a buzzy noise and the lights went out."

  "That's not very illuminating," remarked Clunk as he approached the console. He felt under the front edge for the catch, and the entire surface rose with a hiss of compressed air. The robot secured the lid with a metal rod and peered inside.

  Hal looked over the robot's shoulder. "Well?"

  Clunk turned round slowly. "Well what?"

  "What went wrong?"

  The robot straightened. "Mr Spacejock, ten minutes have passed since you called for my help. During that time, your sole contribution was to reactivate the coffee machine."

  "Caffeine helps me think," said Hal defensively.

  "Really?" Clunk gave him a hard stare. "You should drink more of it."

  "Very funny." Hal crossed his arms. "Now get on with the repairs before I become the proud owner of a flute."

  "Flute?"

  "It's a hollow tube full of holes."

  "I know what a flute is," said the robot patiently. "I fail to see the connection."

  "Well you won't find it talking to me." Hal jerked his thumb at the console. "If anything, it'll be in there. You know, a loose wire or something."

  Clunk looked over the controls. "Did you touch anything?"

  "Only that big red button marked 'Initiate self destruct sequence'."

  The robot turned his back, muttering under his breath. His elbows moved vigorously for a few minutes, then … "Ah-ha!" he said. There was a click, and the overhead lights came on.

  "Clunk, you're a marvel," said Hal. "Navcom, can you hear me?"

  "Loud and clear."

  "Start her up. Let's get going."

  "Don't be so hasty, Mr Spacejock." Clunk unhooked the stand, letting the console sink down onto its base. His expression was that of a mechanic with a long list of unpaid bills and a short list of customers.

  "Why not? What's the problem?" demanded Hal.

  Clunk tried to arrange his face into a reassuring look, but it plainly said 'the big end's gone'. "Well, I don't know whether to …"

  "Come on, I can take it. What's up?"

  "I'll see whether I can explain the problem in simple terms. You see, the windings on the armature have delaminated, and —"

  "Simple, Clunk. Simple."

  Clunk spread his hands. "Mr Spacejock, unless you understand these matters you'll never gain entry to the Spacer's Guild."

  Hal snorted. "Why would I want to join that stuck-up bunch of hot air merchants?"

  "Right. That's why you've been studying their application forms, measuring yourself for the ceremonial uniform, making little replicas of the membership badge —"

  "Hey, who said you could go through my stuff?"

  "Go through your stuff? There are scraps of gold-painted plastic all over the ship!"

  "Yes, well maybe we could discuss the great cle
an-up operation later. Right now I want the Volante fixed."

  "There are two problems with that. First, the main generator has failed."

  "I got that bit from the Navcom."

  Clunk held his hand up, displaying a wet palm. "This is the second issue."

  "So grab a towel."

  "This came from the console."

  "Condensation?"

  Clunk shook his head and offered his hand. Reluctantly, Hal sniffed it. "Doesn't ring a bell."

  "It's coffee, Mr Spacejock. The console is awash with it."

  "Burst pipe?"

  Clunk shook his head. "Careless human."

  "You always blame me!"

  "You're right, it could have been any of the numerous coffee drinkers aboard this ship."

  "Never mind the witch hunt. What's the plan?"

  "We must land. Quickly."

  Hal jerked his thumb at the screen. "Ullimo's just a few jumps away."

  "We won't make it. We need something closer."

  "Is there anything else around?"

  "Ask the Navcom," said Clunk, heading for the lift. "I have to check the secondary generator."

  Hal swung his chair to face the console. "Navcom, what's the nearest planet?"

  "Inhabited, habitable or any old rock?"

  "We'll need an atmosphere," called Clunk from the lift, just before the doors grated to.

  "Did you hear that, Navcom?"

  "Affirmative," said the computer. "I have a target. Uninhabited, but otherwise suitable."

  "Okay, hit it," said Hal. "Not literally," he added hastily, as the lights flickered.

  "Jump complete," said the computer. "Oliape directly ahead."

  Hal drummed his fingers on the console. "I should be doing something."

  "Would you like a game of chess?"

  "No, I would not like a game of chess. I meant something useful."

  There was a long silence before the Navcom replied. "Gamma class freighters are self-sufficient, and human interaction is actively discouraged. Since the introduction of this policy, fatalities have fallen thirty-five percent."

  "Spare me the sales pitch and give me a visual on the planet."

  The viewscreen blinked into life, showing a whirling confusion of green and blue.

  "We're getting a bit close," said Hal. "Where are we going to land?"

  A cursor appeared on the screen. "Right here," said the Navcom. A dotted line appeared, ending in a large green cross. "After impact, a large part of the ship will settle in this location." A lot of smaller crosses appeared. "And this is the estimated location of the rest."

  Hal blinked. "I'm not a hundred percent behind you on this one. What do you mean, 'the rest'?"

  "Hull fragments," said the Navcom.

  Hal swallowed. "Get me Clunk."

  "Complying." The speakers crackled, and a horrible wail filled the flight deck.

  "Clunk?" shouted Hal. "Clunk, are you there?"

  "Yes, Mr Spacejock."

  "Are you busy?"

  There was a long silence. That is, there was as much silence as could be expected with the secondary generator screaming itself to destruction. "Just a little," said Clunk finally. "Why?"

  "I may need you to handle the landing," said Hal.

  Chapter 3

  Curtis Freightlines had its headquarters in the Ullimo commercial district, a sprawling area which relied on the spaceport for most of its trade. A stream of employees bustled in and out of the twelve-storey building: humans and robots of all shapes and sizes making their way to and from their place of work.

  Every individual stopped for a scan at the entrance. Robots leaving the building were scanned for company information, so that anything deemed sensitive or private could be wiped. Robots entering the building were scanned for malware: infections picked up during visits to other firms, or trojans planted deliberately by competitors and corporate regulators. Now and then an alarm would sound, and a hapless robot would be dragged away for a wipe and reinstall. Most passed through unhindered.

  Humans were also scanned for infections and viruses, but of the biological kind. Those with symptoms were sent to work in the quarantine wing, away from the healthy employees. At Curtis Freightlines, to qualify for sick leave you had to be on life support.

  A young woman in a grey business suit entered the building. Her fair hair was styled in a bob, with a fringe almost touching the frame of her sunglasses. As she approached the barriers, she removed the glasses, revealing grey eyes and straight, dark eyebrows. Several men glanced at her. Most looked again.

  Sonya Polarov ignored them. There was only one man she was interested in: Rex Curtis himself. Not that she'd ever met him, of course. Mid-level managers weren't allowed beyond the eighth floor, and Curtis had an office on the twelfth.

  She tucked the sunglasses into her pocket and held still for the retinal scanner, forcing her eyes open as the harsh blue light passed over them. Once the scanner had finished she blew into a metal grille, and seconds later the turnstile clicked, ushering her into the foyer.

  Sonya made for the lifts, her shoes clacking on the polished marble. She passed a number of co-workers on the way, none of whom said a word to her.

  When the lift arrived, she was the last to enter.

  "Floors please," said the lift.

  People called out their numbers, none of them higher than six. As they spoke, the corresponding digit on the control panel lit up.

  "Nine," said a deep voice. Everyone glanced at the speaker, a heavy-set man dressed in an expensive suit. There were one or two curious glances, but the man stared them down with easy confidence.

  "Twelve," said Sonya, in a clear voice.

  There was a gasp, and everyone stared at her. Including the man in the suit.

  "I'm sorry," said the lift. "You're not authorised."

  "I have an appointment," said Sonya firmly. Her Outsider accent was faint but noticeable, and if any of the other occupants hadn't been staring intently before, they certainly were now.

  "Please hold."

  There was a lengthy delay and the other workers began to fidget and mutter amongst themselves. Someone laughed, and Sonya's lips thinned as she imagined the nature of the joke. A young woman visiting Curtis on the top floor? Some appointment, ha ha. She felt her fingers straighten, felt her muscles tense. One more laugh …

  "Clearance approved," said the lift, breaking the tension. The doors closed and the car shot upwards, stopping to dispense passengers on each level. Finally, there were just two occupants: Sonya and Mr Level Nine.

  The man cleared his throat. "Care for a drink after work?"

  "Care for a broken wrist?"

  The lift stopped on the ninth floor, and the man hurried out before the doors were fully open. Sonya allowed herself a smile as the car took off again. She was just warming up.

  The doors parted on the twelfth floor, revealing a sumptuous waiting room dominated by the reception desk: a huge construction of dark lacquered wood, with "Curtis Freightlines" inlaid in gold lettering. Behind it sat a middle-aged woman with short grey hair and a welcoming smile. "You must be Ms Polarov," she said warmly. "I'm sorry, but Mr Curtis is running behind schedule."

  Sonya nodded and looked around, absorbing the rarified atmosphere.

  "If you take a seat I'll fetch you a drink. Coffee?"

  "Please." Sonya chose an armchair and almost vanished into its embrace. When the secretary returned with a coffee she found Sonya perched on the front edge, her elbows dug deep into the arms to stop herself falling backwards.

  "These chairs are a nuisance," confided the secretary. "I swear we lost the finance minister down the back of one. And just look at the state of the economy!"

  Sonya smiled, grateful for the woman's good humour. She took her cup and breathed the aroma, then took a sip. Excellent.

  "Mr Curtis shouldn't be much longer. Call me if you need anything."

  Sonya nodded. She was prepared to wait all day.

  *
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  Rex Curtis gazed out of his office windows, lord of his domain. Twelve stories below, freighters and cargo haulers were dotted around the landing field, their angular shapes blurred by the rain. Wind howled, rain lashed the huge expanse of glass, and Rex frowned as he spotted mechanics and riggers huddling under nearby ships. The rest of them were probably lurking in the canteen, he thought. Time wasters.

  For months now, the company had been suffering from dwindling freight business, and a falling economy had led to a squeeze from their largest accounts. Some of them had sued to break off their contracts, and the legal costs had been horrendous. Rex's lips thinned as he thought of Central Bank. Loyal clients for almost ten years, they'd just stiffed him over a few thousand credits. What happened to thrashing out a contract over a business lunch?

  Then there had been a couple of highly publicised incidents where company ships had failed to emerge from hyperspace. The Transit Bureau had been through Curtis Freightlines like a disease, souring relations between ground staff, pilots and management. The last nails were being pounded home by the proliferation of freelancers - desperate losers carting freight in rust buckets. You wouldn't trust them with an important cargo unless you were looking to claim the loss on insurance, but enough got through to make them an acceptable risk for less valuable freight.

  Curtis stared out the window. He couldn't drop his prices any further; they weren't covering costs as it was. And new servicing regulations meant half his ships were undergoing inspections or trivial repairs at any given moment, thanks to which he was no longer able to handle rush jobs - which were often the most lucrative. He looked down at one of the stationary ships and cursed. According to the job sheet, the ship was in dock to replace a cracked toilet seat. As if that wasn't enough, they were paying a competitor to fetch the replacement part.

  Curtis returned to his desk, where his gaze fell on a scale model of a spaceship. It was a detailed effort depicting a Rigel class freighter configured for deep space. His expression softened as he remembered his early years. Those were the days, he thought. He'd criss-crossed the galaxy at his leisure, picking only the best freight jobs. No commitments, no staff and nothing to tie him down. Idly, he wondered where the Aurora had ended up. Then he grimaced. She was probably in the hands of a bloody freelancer.

  His intercom buzzed, breaking into his reverie. "Yes?"