Hal Spacejock Omnibus One

by Simon Haynes

  "And I can have my employment letter."

  "Not now! My whole business is at stake here!"

  "So is my future!" Sonya tapped her finger on the desk. "Immigration called last night. This is my last chance before they deport me."

  Rex spread his hands. "I sympathise, Ms Polarov. But please understand, this is vital to me."

  "I will not be used, Mr Curtis."

  "Used? Are you telling me you wouldn't like a position on the ninth floor? A company car?" Rex smiled. "There are many kinds of jobs, Ms Polarov. If you want to eke out a living on a minimum wage just say so, and I'll sign a letter right now. On the other hand, if you see this Spacejock problem through to the end I'll promote you so fast your head will spin."

  Sonya's head was spinning. Whether it was the knock she'd received aboard the Volante, or the life of comfort suddenly laid out before her, she didn't know. All she knew was that her dreams were finally within her grasp. All she had to do was reach out and … "I'll do it," she said.

  "No doubts? No more demands for employment letters?"

  Sonya shook her head, wincing at the sudden stab of pain. "I'll do what you ask. It's Spacejock or me, winner takes all."

  Rex beamed. "Excellent. And with the resources of Curtis Freightlines behind you, I guarantee it won't be Spacejock. Now, this is what we're going to do …"

  Chapter 12

  The hold was in darkness when Hal arrived, and he stumbled over the slick decking as he made his way to the rear doors. He found the controls and the cargo ramp began to move, hissing and whining as it dropped to the ground. The ship trembled slightly as the buffers on the huge slab of metal met the concrete landing pad, then the whining ceased.

  Hal stepped onto the edge of the ramp and looked down. It was not an inspiring sight.

  Loading bay twelve was a large open area dotted with rotting wooden pallets, crumpled rain-soaked boxes and rusty scraps of metal. Nearby, smoke belched from a bent chimney atop a ramshackle shed. The windows were cracked and grimy, the wooden boards warped and bleached, and it looked as if a faint breeze could knock the structure down.

  At the back of the lot there were several rows of shrink-wrapped pallets, and a battered lifter stood nearby, its oil-streaked bodywork rusting quietly. Hal strode down the ramp and picked his way through the knee-high weeds growing through cracks in the concrete. He arrived at the shed and knocked on the door, a splintered sheet of plywood hanging from rope hinges.

  "Whaddya want?" growled a voice from within.

  "The Volante," called Hal. "I'm here for the Central Bank pallets."

  A chair scraped and the door creaked open. A heavy, red face appeared, all sweat and grime and stubble. "Are you Spacejock?" the man asked, his bloodshot eyes full of suspicion.

  "That's me. And you are … ?"

  "I'm the foreman. Driver's sick. Come back tomorrow."

  Hal stuck his foot out as the door began to close, and there was a creak as the thin plywood bowed. "This is urgent. Can't you drive the lifter yourself?"

  "Stuffed me back," growled the foreman. "No rush. Come back tomorrow."

  "I've got to deliver this cargo tonight. Can't I load it?"

  "Gotta ticket?"

  "Ticket?" Hal imagined dozens of pilots standing in a queue, each clutching a number.

  "License. Or a Guild card. Can't drive the lifter without."

  Hal shook his head.

  "So come back tomorrow." The foreman kicked Hal's foot away and slammed the door, shaking the thin walls.

  Hal looked at the shed, wondering whether he had enough rope to go around it a couple of times. Then again, the foreman only had to smash a window and yell for help. Back in the cargo hold, he activated the intercom. "Navcom, do you know what a cargo lifter's ticket looks like?"

  "Affirmative."

  "Can you print a copy?"

  There was a slight delay. "I can."

  "How about sticking my name on it?"

  "Negative. That's forgery."

  "I need it to play a trick on someone. A bit of a joke."

  "It's still not allowed."

  "Okay, print me a blank one."

  "Complying. I shall output to the nearest device."

  "Where's that?"

  "Recreation room."

  "On my way."

  *

  Once Sonya had left, Rex reached for his commset and dialled a number. Ten minutes later he'd finally beaten the Ullimo Customs Department's automated answering system into submission. "Phillip? Is that you?"

  "Speaking."

  "Rex Curtis. I need a favour."

  "What kind of favour?" asked Phillip warily.

  "A mutual friend lent his robot to the Ullimo Museum this morning. We have to dispose of it."

  "I'm afraid that's impossible. My aunt has the robot in an exhibition."

  "And I want it at the bottom of a lake. Preferably in little pieces."

  "I can't just steal it!"

  "No?" Curtis moved the mouthpiece closer. "Tell me, did anyone find that bank account I set up for you?"

  There was a long silence. "I can't do this, Mr Curtis."

  "Call me when the robot has been disposed of." Curtis replaced the handset, shaking his head sadly. What was the galaxy coming to? In the old days customs officers stayed bought.

  He turned back to his terminal and retrieved the star chart. The first planet he set eyes on was Canessa, and a triumphant smile appeared on his face as he read the summary. It was ideal.

  *

  With his brand new license tucked safely in his pocket, Hal returned to the ramshackle shed and banged his fist on the door.

  "Go away, we're closed!" shouted the foreman.

  "I've got a ticket," shouted Hal through a gap in the wood. He heard the scrape of a chair, and moments later the door creaked open.

  "You again?" growled the foreman. "Whatcher want?"

  Hal unfolded the printout and waved it at him. "One forklift driver's ticket. Where are the keys?"

  The foreman ignored the papers. "There's no fuel in the tank, it needs a service an' the forks are jammed. Come back tomorrow."

  "You see my ship?" said Hal, jerking his thumb at the Volante. "If you don't give me the keys I'm going to accidentally park it on your roof. They'll have to fold you up to get you into the coffin."

  The foreman gazed at the cargo vessel, eyes widening as he took in the solid bulk. "Behind the door, sir."

  "Thank you kindly." Hal whipped the key off a bent nail, slammed the door and picked his way through the junk towards the cargo.

  The lifter was a sorry-looking piece of equipment - the hydraulic pipes were frayed, the pedals were loose and rusty and half the rim was missing from the steering wheel. Hal sat on the hard plastic seat, inserted the key, and told himself it was better than loading thirty-six pallets by hand. After stomping the pedals once or twice, he turned the key and pressed the starter. The engine burst into life with a bang and a splutter, quickly settling down to a stuttering, rattling rhythm. Hal pulled one of the levers and the forks rose into the air with a loud hiss. After several attempts he lined the forks up with the holes in the first pallet, and the lifter dipped as it took up the weight.

  Hal reversed out, selected forward gear and gunned the motor, mowing down weeds as he charged across the lot towards the ship. The lifter roared up the ramp and into the hold, where the clattering engine reverberated like a machine gun in a cave. Hal dropped the pallet and saw it moving sideways on the tracks, rotating slightly as the ship moved it deeper into the hold.

  "One down, thirty-five to go," muttered Hal, as he drove back down the ramp.

  *

  Clunk strode along a plain white corridor, accompanied by four heavily armed guards. They had silver badges on their shoulders - small metal shields with the crossed handcuff motif of the Ullimo Corrective Service. One of the guards motioned Clunk towards a white door, and a panel slid open, revealing a small, dark cell beyond. Bare feet padded on concrete and a pale f
ace loomed in the opening. It was Hal.

  "Some friend you are," he said bitterly. "You abandoned your post at the museum, got yourself caught and dobbed me in! You're nothing but a crappy robot." Hal's face got closer and his voice rose to a shout. "Nothing but a crappy robot!"

  The guards joined in, until there was a chorus of voices chanting "Crappy robot!" at him. Clunk turned from the door and one of the guards prodded him in the chest. "You're nothing but a crappy robot," he said firmly.

  Clunk woke with a jerk, cries of "Crappy robot!" still ringing in his ears. He looked around in a daze and realised he was standing on his pedestal at the museum, surrounded by a dozen children chanting at the top of their voices: "Crappy robot, crappy robot, crappy robot!"

  Clunk felt pressure on his chest, looked down and saw an overweight youngster scrawling on his breastplate with a marker pen. He snatched the pen from the boy's fingers and jammed it in his mouth, chewing it into fragments with loud scrunches. Then he stepped to the edge of the pedestal and roared, spraying chewed plastic and black ink.

  There was a split second of silence, followed by utter chaos. As one, the children ran for cover, screaming in fear. The overweight boy ran faster than any of them, bowling smaller kids over as he raced for the exit.

  Clunk looked down at his chest to survey the damage, and a look of outraged indignation appeared on his face. Shaking his fist at the departing kids, he raised his voice over the frightened squeals. "I'll give you tinpot, you little horrors!"

  Chapter 13

  Hugh Dent was busy at his terminal when Sonya arrived. "I'll be with you in a minute, m'dear. I'm just modifying your briefcase."

  She watched him placing microscopic components on a circuit. "What are you doing?"

  "It's rather technical."

  "Try me."

  "Very well. Bobby has to be able to manage Spacejock's ship, from navigation to engine control to atmospherics, and I've had to increase the amount of storage allocated to these parallel processes so they can run simultaneously."

  "In other words, you added some memory."

  "Er, yes. But that's not all. The processing cluster in this unit is second to none, but it wasn't enough to handle the strenuous demands of the upcoming mission. To that end, I augmented the cooling system, allowing me to extract the maximum possible utilisation from the hardware."

  "You overclocked it and added some fans."

  "I wouldn't express the modifications in that manner, but yes." Dent peered at her. "Tell me, do you have a computing background?"

  "I've dabbled."

  "A little knowledge can be dangerous."

  "So can a big mouth," muttered Sonya under her breath.

  Dent pressed a button and a circuit board popped out of a slot. He took the board and held it up to the light, nodding to himself as he inspected it.

  "What's that?" asked Sonya.

  "It's a copy of the Volante's operating system. With this board, Bobby can take over the ship."

  "Why?"

  "Mr Curtis asked me to set it up. He's determined to delay this Spacejock character at all costs, you know. In extreme circumstances that includes overpowering the pilot and flying the vessel yourself." He looked at her. "You can fly?"

  "Only simulators."

  "Trust me, the real thing is much better."

  "Like you would know," muttered Sonya.

  Dent slotted the board into the briefcase and switched it on. The cooling fans started immediately, blasting papers off the desk and shaking the terminal on its mounting. There was a high-pitched whine, and the suction through the inlet was as loud as a spaceship launch in the confines of the lab.

  "It's a bit noisy," said Sonya, raising her voice.

  "Wait until it really gets going," said Dent, switching it off again. "Now, I've set up a couple of things to help you with this mission." He showed her a black cable. "Plug this into any data socket aboard the ship and it will add multiple system failures to the log. The ship can't take off until each one is checked, which should give you several hours leeway." He held up a warning finger. "They can be added in flight, but mustn't be activated until you're on the ground. Otherwise the vessel could shut down in space."

  Sonya nodded.

  "And this one is rather special," said Dent, holding up a red cable. "Plug this into any computer and it will wipe the operating system."

  "That's a bit drastic, isn't it?"

  "You'll need it if Bobby is to take control of the ship." Dent handed the case over. "Now, the next item. Follow me, please." He led her to a packing crate, where a large robot was standing amongst drifts of loose straw. As they got closer it lurched from the crate and stood before them, towering over Dent by half a metre. It tilted its head from one side to the other with audible cracks, then fixed Sonya with a stare. "Friend or foe?" it demanded in a rumbling bass.

  "Friend."

  The robot buzzed. "Database updated. Friend added."

  "What if I'd said enemy?"

  The robot's hand shot out and grabbed her round the neck. "You wish to reclassify?"

  "N-no thanks."

  "Very well." The robot released her.

  "As you can see," began Dent. "It's —"

  The robot spun round and grabbed his neck. "Friend or foe?" it demanded, lifting the inventor off his feet.

  "F-f-friend," said Dent.

  The robot buzzed. "Database updated. Friend added. Friend limit reached."

  "You can only have two friends?" asked Sonya in surprise.

  "Three. I have already met Mr Curtis."

  "How many enemies can you store?"

  "One."

  "Is that all?"

  The robot shrugged, its shoulders squeaking. "I replace each one as they're eliminated."

  Sonya looked at Dent. "Why are you showing me this?"

  "We fight fire with fire," said Dent eagerly. "Spacejock has a robot, we have a robot."

  "Spacejock had a robot. And if you think he's going to welcome this thing aboard his ship —"

  "No, no. We'll get it aboard in your luggage."

  Sonya's eyebrows rose. "Hell of a suitcase."

  Dent patted the wooden crate. "I have five more of these waiting on a truck outside. They're filled with stores and equipment … exactly the sort of items you'd take on a trip like this. Should the need arise you can release the robot and —"

  "Watch it go mental and spend the rest of my life in jail. Listen, Mr Curtis said killing was out."

  "I'll reprogram it. There's more than one violence setting."

  "Sure. Deadly and lethal." Sonya looked up at the robot's square face. "What's your name?"

  The robot looked at the floor. "Tinker," it said, shuffling its feet.

  Sonya snorted, turning it into a cough as the robot glared at her. "So, Tinker. Will you obey my orders?"

  "To the letter."

  "You see?" said Dent. "This robot is completely under your control. Nobody will get hurt."

  Suddenly his commset buzzed. He picked up the handset and listened, then turned to Sonya, his eyes wide with shock. "It's Spacejock. He's loading the cargo himself!"

  "Surely Mr Curtis can have him delayed? He's got half the spaceport in his pocket."

  "He's done all he can." Dent waved Sonya towards the door. "Take a cab to the dock. You must hold Spacejock up until we're ready."

  "How?" Sonya saw Dent's expression. "Yeah. Never mind."

  *

  The Ullimo Museum presents two faces. Visitors see polished marble and chrome, heavy glass doors and soft downlights, while staff put up with dank, poorly lit corridors and gurgling pipes. They got heavy doors too, but unlike the smooth automatics in the museum proper theirs were thick slabs of metal on stiff hinges.

  Phillip strode along one of the dankest, darkest passageways, checking floor markers against a printed map as he passed one rattling, gurgling pipe after another. He kept a firm grip on the map - as a child he'd got lost in these corridors once, had spent hours running al
ong one identical passage after another, sobbing with fear and self-pity, until he finally burst through a door into his aunt's warm, cosy office. Expecting to be greeted with soothing hugs and a chocolate biscuit or two, he was hurt that she hadn't even noticed he was missing, surprised to discover he'd only been gone fifteen minutes, and stunned when she told him off for making such a fuss.

  Phillip pushed the uncomfortable memory away. Bloody Curtis! All right, so he owed the man a favour, but traipsing around the museum's corridors to steal a robot in the middle of the day was too much. Not that he was going to steal it - persuasion was the key. Convince it to walk out under its own steam. Get it to the robot shop, where they had the tools to subdue it.

  What if the robot refused to cooperate? It had seemed placid enough when he'd checked up on it earlier, but taking it from the exhibition was another matter. The last thing he wanted was a public shouting match followed by a close encounter with his aunt.

  Phillip stopped at a narrow door and checked the symbol against the map. Main hall, rear entrance. This was it. The door creaked open and he peered through the gap. He was right behind one of the exhibits, a chunky robot in a snowy white suit, its sequins like scattered stars under the overhead lights. Looking to his left, Phillip saw Clunk just a few metres away, standing completely still with his back to the wall.

  Phillip bit his lip. Damn Curtis and his unreasonable demands! Why couldn't he send someone else to …

  At that moment, Phillip spotted the tag hanging from Clunk's wrist. Of course! Without ID, the robot would be carted away and dumped as soon as the exhibition closed! His aunt had often bemoaned the unseemly fracas after the last exhibition, when four robots had beaten the scrap out of each other, desperate to claim an owner and stay out of the dumpster. Phillip smiled to himself. Clunk was sure to argue, and the clean-up staff would be forced to disable him. Then he could step in and have them put the robot in his car.