Hal Spacejock Omnibus One

by Simon Haynes

  Inside, Norm was crouched in front of an angular robot, using a power tool on its chest. Hal grabbed him by the shoulder and almost lost his nose as the man spun round with the sander still screaming in his hands.

  "Have you gone mad?" demanded Norm, as the device powered down.

  Hal shoved one of Clunk's arms under his nose. "Where's the rest of this?"

  "Waste not, want not." Norm gestured at the robot he had been working on.

  Hal stared. The robot's arms and legs were polished alloy, the head was a blocky silver shape but the body was bronze, and as he looked closer he could just make out the faint lettering on its chest - XG99. "Okay, take it apart."

  "Why don't you take that robot instead?" asked the owner. "It's almost ready."

  Hal brandished Clunk's head at him. "This is my robot. You're not palming me off with some frankenbot knocked together out of spares." He jabbed his finger at Norm. "Get that thing apart."

  "There's no point," said the owner. "The best in the business couldn't put Clunk together again."

  "Why not?"

  "Look inside his head."

  Hal did so, and realised there was something missing. "Where's his brain gone?"

  "We sell them to a local factory by the hundred, all mixed up in crates. I'm afraid you'll never find it now."

  "Never?" Hal looked into the robot's lifeless eyes, his mind a blank. No more Clunk? Gone forever? Suddenly a thought struck him. He lifted his head and stared at the owner, eyes narrowed into slits. "You said nobody could put Clunk together again."

  "It's true. I swear!"

  "Yeah, but I never mentioned his name."

  The owner turned pale. "I er …"

  Hal grabbed a handful of suit and rammed the owner against the wall. "Spill it, or I'll smash your face in."

  "These men brought your robot in! I don't know who they were!"

  "Last chance," growled Hal, drawing his fist back.

  "I got a call," croaked the owner. "He said Customs were going to investigate me. Go through my import duty."

  "Farquhar!" spat Hal.

  "No, it's the truth!" The owner wiped his forehead. "He said I - I was to take delivery of a robot and dispose of it."

  "Where's the brain?" Hal gestured at the overflowing shelves. "Got it hidden safely away, have we?"

  "No, we really do sell them to a local factory. They use them in white goods."

  "What, like washing machines?"

  "They test them first, of course."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Stress testing. Most … most of them fail."

  "Give me the address," growled Hal. "And you'd better pray I find him, or I'll be back here with company."

  *

  The factory was in a derelict part of the city, nestled amongst deserted warehouses with broken windows and graffiti-streaked walls. Inside, the office had a damp musty smell, the carpet tiles were curling and a potted palm in one corner was covered in furry white mould. There was a dividing wall with a warped, plywood door and a grimy window, through which Hal could just make out several filing cabinets and three or four desks. He jumped as a face appeared in the window.

  "Yeah?" demanded a voice, muffled by the pane of glass.

  "I'm looking for my robot," said Hal.

  "We don't have any."

  "You don't understand," shouted Hal. "This is an emergency!"

  The door opened and a beefy-looking woman emerged. She was dressed in a bulging T-shirt and a pair of jeans two sizes on the small side, and her grey eyes were filled with suspicion as she looked Hal up and down. "What's all the shouting for?"

  "Robo-wreck dismantled my co-pilot by mistake. I've got all the parts back, but they sent the brain here this afternoon."

  "And?"

  "I've come to find it."

  The woman laughed. Then she caught sight of Hal's face. "You're serious, right?"

  "Deadly."

  The woman shrugged. "Follow me."

  They passed through the office and into a dingy passageway which stank of paint, machine oil and electronics. At the end of the passage they entered a large square room with a bench along one wall and rows of plastic crates overflowing with metal spheres. At the far end of the room a large yellow skip sat against the wall.

  There were three workers sitting at the bench, each wearing a headset and facing a control panel with dials, switches, wires and status displays. As Hal watched, the nearest took a grey sphere from a crate and plugged it into the control panel with a bundle of coloured wires. The worker flipped a switch and turned a dial, listening carefully. Then he unplugged the sphere, put it into a plain carton and placed it into a crate to his left.

  "What are they doing?" asked Hal.

  "We prep these things for appliances. Can't have them failing. Some of them are nuts, some of them just don't work at all. The worst ones sing nursery rhymes."

  "But why use old brains?"

  "They're cheap."

  Suddenly there was a loud pop from the far end of the bench. A worker flapped at a cloud of blue-grey smoke, and as they watched she unplugged a blackened brain from the test bed and threw it into the skip.

  "Hope that wasn't your one," said the woman.

  There was another loud pop followed by a cloud of smoke. "Can't you stop them?" said Hal urgently. "I have to find Clunk."

  The woman shook her head. "We only get a thirty percent pass rate, and production is already behind."

  "Can't they take a tea break or something?"

  The woman looked at him shrewdly. "Ten minutes, but it'll cost you."

  "Done. Just show me which boxes came in from the robot shop up the road."

  The woman led him to a cracked plastic crate. "That's the most recent. Good luck."

  Hal picked up the heavy crate and staggered to the bench. The operator showed him how to use the equipment, then left him to it.

  First, he rummaged through the box, trying to spot Clunk's brain. There was no way to tell it apart from the others, so he sat down and plugged in a heavy silver sphere with a dent in one side. Then he donned the headset and adjusted the microphone. "Hello? Anyone there?"

  The reply was an ear-splitting scream. Hal jerked the headset off and stared at the brain in horror, then checked the test bed and discovered the dial was set to maximum. Feeling guilty, he turned the dial to the left and put the headset back on. "Hello?"

  "Who's there?" asked a soft, female voice.

  "I'm Hal. Who are you?"

  "KT-19," said the voice. "Why can't I feel anything?"

  "Well, er …"

  "Oh, I've been dismantled! Are you putting me back together again?"

  "Yes," said Hal. He gripped the plug with shaking fingers and pulled it out. "Bloody hell," he muttered, staring at the brains jumbled together in the box. Were they all going to be like this? Feeling apprehensive, he set the dented brain aside and plugged the next one in. "Hello?" he said into the microphone.

  There was a faint murmuring in his headset. "Daisy who?" demanded Hal.

  There was no reply, so he unplugged the brain and put it alongside the first. The next three were completely dead, and he was just plugging in a larger, glossy brain when the door opened. "I haven't finished yet!" protested Hal, as the woman came in with the three workers. "I need more time!"

  "At this rate it's going to take you all day."

  "But I've got to find Clunk!"

  "It'll be quicker if we help," said the woman kindly. "You just tell these guys what to look for."

  Hal swallowed. "Why?"

  The woman gestured at the boxes. "We don't like it any more than you do. Helping one of them out would mean a lot to us."

  "Thanks," said Hal. He started to get up, but the woman put a hand on his shoulder. "Stay there. You might find him yourself." She turned to the others. "Unplug the headsets so Hal can hear them all."

  For the next ten minutes the room echoed with disembodied voices - querulous, demanding, insane or cajoling. Hal was ju
st plugging in a large copper-coloured brain when a voice went through him like a gunshot. "Stop!" he shouted. "Listen!"

  "Daisy, daisy, give me …"

  "Not that one," yelled Hal.

  "I'm half crazy …"

  "No!" Hal pointed along the bench. "That one! Turn it up!"

  "Mr Spacejock," said a weak voice.

  "I'm here, Clunk! Speak to me!"

  "Mr Spacejock, where's the rest of my body?"

  "Never you mind. Just hang in there and I'll have you as good as new." Hal unplugged the brain, put it into a carton and closed the lid. Then he turned to the woman. "How much do I owe you?"

  She shook her head. "On the house."

  "Thanks."

  "Maybe you can bring Clunk in one day, show him around."

  Hal's gaze swept over the robot brains lying on the bench, the crates lining the walls and the skip full of scorched rejects. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said quietly.

  *

  An unmarked truck drove out of Curtis Freightlines, pulling onto the main road with a squeal of tortured rubber. On the back, six crates were strapped down under a faded tarpaulin, and the boom of a small crane hovered above them, swaying with every change in direction.

  In the cab, Dent struggled with the wheel, unaccustomed to the heavy vehicle. Sonya grabbed for the armrest as they slewed down the middle of the road, convinced they were more likely to end up at the hospital than the spaceport.

  Dent got it under control and leered across the cab at her. "Spirited ride, isn't she? Responds to firm handling, though."

  Sonya looked away. It was a shame Dent had dropped the glass gun … she could think of endless uses for a disposable murder weapon.

  The truck gathered speed until they were roaring along the main thoroughfare, tyres singing as they darted in and out of slow-moving traffic. Sonya hunched down in her seat and avoided eye contact with angry, fist-waving drivers. If the son of a bitch hit anything he was on his own.

  At the spaceport, Dent drove down the cargo lane, waved a pass at the attendant and roared onto the landing field.

  "Shouldn't you slow down?" asked Sonya. "Spacejock's out here somewhere. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

  He eased back on the throttle. "If you prefer it slow, who am I to argue?"

  Sonya felt something brush her leg and looked down to see Dent reaching for her. Ignoring the grasping hand, she grabbed his seatbelt and yanked on it, catching him under the chin and pinning his neck to the back of the seat.

  "Can't … breathe," gasped Dent, desperately trying to get his fingers under the tightening belt. Free of his control, the truck coasted to a halt.

  "Back on my home planet we had compulsory military service," said Sonya conversationally as Dent struggled with the strap. "They taught us how to use everyday items to inflict fatal injuries." She allowed the strap to slacken, then gave it another yank, slamming Dent's head back against the seat. "Useful skill, isn't it?"

  Dent stared at her, his eyes bulging.

  Sonya gave the seatbelt a final yank. "Don't touch me again."

  Free of the restraint, Dent sucked in lungfuls of air, his eyes streaming.

  "Move it," snapped Sonya.

  Still wheezing, he reached for the controls. Moments later, Sonya pointed out the Volante, which was parked next to a huge passenger liner. "Drop the boxes next to that Delta. If Spacejock's around, he'll think we're delivering to them."

  They drew up next to the liner and Dent was out of the truck before it stopped moving. He hurried to the crane, and Sonya stood by and watched as he unloaded the six crates in record time. Once finished, Dent stowed the crane, climbed back into the cab and drove off without a backward glance.

  Sonya strolled up the Volante's passenger ramp. The outer airlock was closed, so she flipped the cover off the controls and hit the call button.

  "Mr Spacejock is not available," said a neutral, female voice. "Would you like to leave a message?"

  "No thanks, I'll catch up with him later." The flap dropped back into place, and after a quick glance around the landing field Sonya returned to the crates and sat down.

  Chapter 18

  Hal jogged back to the robot shop with the white cardboard box clamped firmly under his arm. The door was open, and he hurried down the narrow staircase to find the repairman. The workshop was dark and silent, and Hal stumbled around, knocking into boxes and tripping over discarded limbs before he found the door. It opened with a creak, and yellow light shone from the inner sanctum. Inside, Norm was just running a rag over a gleaming bronze figure.

  Hal suddenly realised it was Clunk. "Wow, he looks brand new."

  Norm looked up. "Got a few dents out. Polished him up a bit."

  "You've done a great job."

  "He'll probably roll in the mud as soon as he wakes up."

  Hal grinned.

  "Got the brain, then?"

  Hal set his box on the bench and lifted the lid. There were two brains inside, protected with wads of fabric.

  "Which is it?" asked Norm.

  "The grey one."

  Norm lifted the brain out and began to fiddle inside Clunk's head. "What's the other one?"

  Hal glanced at the dented silver brain lying in the box. "Just keeping a promise." He leaned closer as Norm fitted the brain into the robot's head. "Will he be okay?"

  "Take twice as long with you breathing down me neck."

  "Sorry."

  "Why don't you look around the yard? Might be some XG spares out there. Getting hard to find."

  "Good idea." Hal pushed the door open and crossed the darkened workshop to the back door. He wrestled with the rusty bolt and the door creaked open, revealing the yard full of junk. The night air was cold, and a whirling cloud of insects surrounded an overhead lamp.

  Hal poked around in the rubbish, turning over piles of junk and kicking the odd cardboard box. After ten minutes he'd found an arm, a pair of legs and a misshapen head, and as he lugged the collection back to the workshop he wondered whether he was wasting his time. All of them were tarnished, and the arm was bent backwards at an unnatural angle.

  "Mr Spacejock!"

  Hal saw Clunk in the doorway, his bronze skin gleaming in the light spilling from the workshop. Dropping the parts, Hal hurried over with a huge grin on his face.

  "The technician told me what you did. I'm more than grateful, Mr Spacejock."

  "Don't mention it," growled Hal, slapping the robot on the shoulder. "I'm just glad to see you back in one piece."

  Clunk gestured at Hal's collection of robot parts. "Speaking of pieces, what's all that?"

  "The technician said I could help myself to spares. Come on, give me a hand."

  They carried the parts through to the workshop, where Hal slipped the technician a handful of credit tiles.

  "I'll give you a box for those parts, then I've got to lock up," said Norm. "Don't forget the other brain."

  "What other brain?" asked Clunk.

  Hal shook his head. "I'll tell you later."

  Norm found a box and Clunk dumped the extra arms and legs in it. Then they trooped up the staircase to the entrance, where Norm let them out and shut the door behind them. Outside, there was a hint of rain in the air and a freezing wind scythed across the slick pavement.

  Clunk cleared his throat. "Mr Spacejock, I'd just like to say —"

  "Thank me later. Call a cab, will you?"

  "Already done." Clunk frowned. "I wasn't going to thank you. I was just going to say how irresponsible it was for you to fake those customs forms."

  "I didn't fake anything. I just described our cargo in favourable terms."

  "So favourable that I ended up in a museum."

  "I had no choice, Clunk! That Farquhar had me over a barrel."

  "I would have gone to the museum willingly if you'd only asked."

  Hal was silent. Then … "I'm sorry."

  "Apology accepted. Will you let me handle customs paperwork from now on?"


  "As long as you don't lend me to a zoo when it all goes wrong."

  Clunk grinned. "So, what's next?"

  "We deliver the bank's paperwork to Ackexa, with a little detour on the way." Hal glanced around, then lowered his voice. "We have a passenger."

  "Who?"

  "I'll tell you aboard the ship. It's a bit unofficial."

  A battered groundcar slid up to the pavement. It was a dirty yellow colour, with chequered go-fast stripes and exhaust pipes like a pair of railway tunnels. The human driver regarded Clunk and the box of robot limbs with amusement. "Off to the tip are we, sir?"

  "Spaceport," said Hal.

  The driver shrugged. "Stick your luggage in the trunk."

  "Boot," said Clunk.

  "I don't care what you call it. Just put all your stuff in there."

  Clunk dumped the box in the rear carpeted compartment while Hal got in the car.

  Before they set off, the driver indicated the meter. "Flag fall thirty credits. Is that okay with you?"

  "You what?"

  "Flagfall ten credits each. I have to tell you before we leave. It's the law."

  Hal stared at him.

  The driver pointed to a grubby sign attached to the dash. '10 credits per passenger, advised before start of trip.'

  "Why thirty?" protested Hal. "There's only me here!"

  The driver jerked his thumb at Clunk. "What about him?"

  "He's a robot!"

  "Oho, I can see that sir. I'm not stupid, you know. But I wouldn't want to go discriminating. I could land myself in big trouble that way."

  "It's not discrimination, you oaf. How can you …" Hal stopped as Clunk put a hand on his arm. "What?"

  "I'll pay my part," said the robot.

  "Bless you, sir," said the driver.

  "Clunk, you haven't got any money."

  "I'll owe it to you."

  "And the rest," muttered Hal. He looked the robot up and down. "Are your batteries charged up?"

  "Yes. Norm was kind enough to —"

  "Good. You can run behind the cab." Hal turned to the driver. "I assume you don't charge for that?"

  The driver shrugged. "It's still twenty credits."

  "How can it be?"

  "I got to charge you for the other one."

  "What other one?"