Hal Spacejock Omnibus One

by Simon Haynes

"It's fresh food, right?"

  "Correct."

  "I told you that stasis controller was a good idea. It'll make us a fortune."

  Clunk pressed his lips together. "Freezing time is a complex process, Mr Spacejock. If anything goes wrong …"

  "Jimmy Bent gave me a three month guarantee. Everything's covered."

  "That's Bent Jimmy, and the only guarantee where he's concerned is that the goods are stolen."

  "Get away. Next you'll be saying he gave me change in forged credits."

  "You took change from Bent Jimmy?"

  "He said he couldn't break a thousand."

  Clunk sighed.

  "Hey, no sweat. I'll pass the dodgy credits onto someone else."

  "What about the dodgy stasis controller?"

  "If it fails we lose someone's lunch order. Big deal."

  "It is a big deal. This cargo is worth half a million credits."

  Hal almost dropped his mug. "How come?"

  "Beef from hand-reared cattle, organic vegetables from genetically purified seed … it's very, very expensive. Worse, they're paying us a pittance to carry it."

  "Six thousand credits isn't bad."

  "After fuel and costs we'll make about five hundred."

  "Don't fret. Once word gets around we'll be fighting off customers."

  "Given our record, I think you mean with."

  "All right, Mr Negative. You fly the ship and I'll book the jobs."

  "I'd be only too happy with that." Clunk turned to the screen, where the landing pad was growing rapidly. "Speaking of flying, we're about to set down. You'd better drink up."

  Hal made a few slurping noises, pretending to drink his coffee. Then he dumped the mug and plonked himself down in the pilot's chair. "All right, hit it."

  The engine note changed and Hal's weight increased sharply. Moments later there was a gentle bump and the engines throttled back.

  "Landing fees deducted," said the Navcom.

  "Welcome to Cathua," said Hal drily.

  "Arrival tax paid. Ground clearance fee debited. Bank charges levied. Oxygen excise —"

  "All right, that's enough of that." Hal frowned. "Every time we land it's like ten thousand ants are nibbling me to death."

  "Should I book the pest controllers?"

  "Don't talk to me about fumigations," muttered Hal darkly. He eyed the airlock. "How's the atmosphere, Clunk? I could use a breather."

  Clunk sniffed. "Traces of burnt insulation, caffeine and a lot of dust."

  "Outside," said Hal patiently. "I meant outside."

  "Ah." Clunk checked the console. "Petrochemicals, carcinogens and temperature of four hundred and seventy-five degrees Celsius."

  "Is that safe?"

  Clunk's eyebrows rose. "Safe? It's like a crematorium without the bricks."

  "People do live here?"

  "Certainly."

  "So where did the reading come from?"

  "This particular sensor is near the starboard thruster."

  "How near?"

  Clunk turned to the console and checked. "Very close, as a matter of fact."

  "And the engines are off?"

  The robot threw a switch. "Now they are."

  "And the atmosphere?"

  "Twenty-five degrees, oxygen normal. It's safe to go out."

  Hal entered the airlock. The outer door opened and he dragged in a couple of lungfuls, then gagged on the stale, oily taste.

  "That's the petrochemicals and carcinogens," said Clunk, who'd followed him into the airlock. "They haven't cottoned on to clean energy sources here."

  Hal rubbed his watering eyes and took in the landing field, which was ringed by derelict warehouses, run-down factories and boarded-up shops. The spaceport terminal was a two-storey building with a tall, arched roof and walls of tinted glass. It looked impressive, but a closer inspection revealed broken panes and a mad scramble of overlapping graffiti. "We should never have come here, Clunk. It's a dump."

  "There wasn't another food job within twelve parsecs."

  "That far?"

  "Long," corrected the robot.

  Hal frowned. "I thought a parsec was a measure of distance?"

  "It was, once. The meaning was altered some time ago."

  "Bloody revisionists."

  "There's the cargo," said Clunk, indicating a column of delivery trucks approaching the ship. Their flanks were plastered with brand names and colourful logos: H. Turo Hydroponics, Dave Gornov Pies and R. Soles & N. D. Bits Smallgoods.

  "Makes me hungry just looking at them," remarked Hal.

  "We have food."

  "Sure, if you like frozen crap."

  "The AutoChef doesn't serve frozen —"

  "You're right. It warms it up first." Hal pointed at the terminal. "I'm going to find something to eat. Can you supervise the loading?"

  "I thought you were handling customers from now on?"

  "You can't expect me to work on an empty stomach." Ignoring the robot's protests, Hal strode down to the landing field and made for the spaceport terminal.

  *

  Clunk watched Hal go with mixed feelings. He was annoyed at being left to do the work on his own, but also pleased to be free of interference. The human meant well, but loading would take half the time without him. He made his way to the cargo hold and operated the controls, lowering the ramp until it was level with the floor. Just outside, almost within arms reach, there was a rugged little freighter with a rust-streaked hull. Clunk pressed his lips together at the sight. A huge empty landing field, and ground control had to set them down right next to a dented old bomb like that. If they so much as scuffed the Volante's paint …

  The first truck reversed up and a platform slid out to meet the Volante's ramp. Once they connected the entire cargo emerged in a block: silver crates stacked five high, three rows across and half a dozen deep. They moved across the platform and rode onto the ramp, rumbling past Clunk and vanishing smoothly into the hold. Now empty, the truck drove away and another took its place.

  Clunk leaned against the doorway and watched the intelligent floor dividing the cargo and moving it around the hold, filling the available space quickly and efficiently. Despite his misgivings he decided the job would probably work out, even if the profit was small. He'd been critical of Mr Spacejock's stasis controller, but deep down he knew his objections stemmed from a fear of newfangled machinery. The stasis controller wasn't a direct threat to his role aboard the ship, but surely it was only a matter of time before some other piece of equipment came along to replace him.

  *

  The spaceport concourse had been grand once, but that was long, long ago. The marble flooring was stained and dusty, and the ticket counters were staffed by nothing more than fading hopes. There were boarded-up kiosks reminiscent of ornate crypts, and Hal passed one empty vending machine after another, their fascias faded and peeling, their contents long since excreted.

  He'd almost given up hope when he spotted a tatty wooden sign protruding from the worn brickwork. It was a confectionary shop, and Hal decided a couple of choccy bars would go down a treat.

  The door opened reluctantly, admitting him to an unlit room the size of a large cupboard. There was a counter just ahead of him, with a customer service bell fixed to a cracked wooden base. Behind the counter, a wall of uneven shelves overflowed with faded boxes, their once-garish logos reduced to sepia by whatever sunlight managed to sneak through the grimy windows.

  Hal stepped up to the counter and reached for the bell, but before he could use it a door creaked open, admitting a faceless serving droid. "Good evening, sir," it said, in a poorly synthesised male voice. "What can I do you for?"

  "Do you carry Tastee chocolate bars?"

  The droid gestured towards the shelves. "All our products are tasty, sir."

  "Yeah, twenty years ago," muttered Hal, eyeing the dusty cartons. He raised his voice. "I meant the Tastee brand. You know, “Munch after lunch”?"

  The droid put a finger to wher
e its lips would have been. Lacking a mouth, the gesture failed to evoke the genteel air its programmers had strived for. "I believe we may have some out the back. Wait a while, I shall return momentarily."

  Hal glanced through the dirty window and saw a wasteland dotted with rusty junk and weeds. It was almost dark, and for all he knew a gang of thugs was sizing him up at that very moment, working out where to dump his body.

  The droid came back, brushing dust and rat droppings from a battered cardboard box. "Here you are, sir! The last one."

  "It looks like the first one. Ever."

  "This is a fine product, sir. Tastee bars age well."

  Hal sighed. "How much?"

  "Thirty-seven credits."

  "What, for one Tastee bar?"

  "No, for the whole box."

  "I don't want a box, I just want a couple."

  "But we only sell bulk, sir. We're a wholesale company."

  "Wholesale?" Hal stared. "What are you doing in a passenger terminal?"

  "The rent's cheap."

  "Whatever you're paying, it's too much." Hal leaned across the counter. "Listen, sell me a couple of bars and I'll pay double for them. Okay?"

  "I can't break the pack, sir. Doing so would render it unsaleable."

  "It's unsaleable now."

  "Retail outlets won't buy open packs."

  Hal waved at the shelves. "They won't buy this mouldy old crap, whether it's open or not!"

  The droid hung its head. "I know it's not much, but it's all we have. My owner isn't well, and —"

  "I'm sorry," muttered Hal. "I'm sure it's not all mouldy." Suddenly a thought zipped into his head like a double-speed Tastee bar jingle. "Listen, did I mention I was thinking of opening a sweet shop?"

  The droid perked up. "Really?"

  "Oh yes. I'm, er, doing market research. Trying to decide which products to stock."

  "Now that I can help you with." The droid set the Tastees on the counter, turned to the shelf and began pulling down boxes. "These are my favourites," confided the sales droid, ripping the lid off the carton. "Maya Swell aniseed balls. Would you like one?"

  Hal eyed the gaudy packet. "Maya Swell, eh?"

  "You see? Marketing genius. And take these …" the droid tore into a yellow carton and held up a handful of glossy brown sweets. "Spaceman's Little Helper."

  "What sort of name is that?"

  "They were going to call them Spaceman's Friend, but it was already trademarked."

  "They look like hard-boiled turds in dandruff."

  "Well yes, but they have a strong market presence."

  "Strong doesn't begin to cover it," said Hal, after catching a whiff of the contents. He glanced through the windows at the darkness outside. "Look, I need to get back to my ship. Can I grab a few samples and settle up?"

  "You can't leave now. I still have lots to show you!"

  "Sorry, I really must. Could you hand me a couple of those Tastee bars?"

  The droid turned its blank face towards him. "You're not really opening a sweet shop, are you?"

  "Er …"

  "I see." The droid tipped the Spaceman's Little Helpers back into the torn carton and tried to piece the faded lid back together. "I didn't really believe you. I suppose it was more hope than anything." It raised its head again. "Hope is bad for robots. Did you know that?"

  "I guess so," muttered Hal, looking at the floor.

  "I'll lose my job over this," said the droid. It gathered a stray Spaceman's Helper and held it up between finger and thumb. "Junked," it said, crushing the sweet with a snap.

  "Is there anything I can do to help?"

  The droid hung its head. "I doubt it."

  "How much are these?" asked Hal, tapping the Maya Swell box.

  "Twenty-two fifty," said the droid in a dull voice.

  "And the Spaceman's thingies?"

  "Nineteen eighty." The droid looked up. "You mean …"

  "Bag 'em up," said Hal gruffly. "I'll take the lot."

  Chapter 2

  Loading was complete by the time Hal returned to the Volante, and he found Clunk moving amongst the stacks of silver crates with dozens of blue data cables looped over his arm, plugging them into sockets one by one. "How's it going?" asked Hal, holding the decrepit cardboard box behind his back.

  "Not bad," said Clunk. "I'm just connecting the crates, and then I'll calibrate the controller."

  "Excellent. Fantastic." Hal hesitated. "Do you want a hand?"

  "No thanks," said Clunk quickly. He spotted the box. "What did you get?"

  "Oh, this and that."

  Clunk came over and lifted the flap. "Spaceman's Little Helpers?"

  "Spaceman's Friend was trademarked."

  "They look like dried leavings in dandruff. Are you sure they're edible?"

  "I'm not going to find out." Hal frowned at his purchases. "All I wanted was a couple of lousy chocolate bars."

  Clunk sniffed. "Looks like you got a whole box of them. I don't know why you eat the things. They'll rot your teeth and make you fat."

  "Now you're a health nurse?"

  "I'm merely concerned about your well-being."

  "You are?"

  "Yes. If you die, who else am I going to look after?" Clunk reached for the bill. "How much did you spend?"

  "None of your business," said Hal, snatching it away.

  "That much? Really?"

  "The place was very run down," said Hal defensively. "The owner was sick and they had this pitiful little serving droid minding the shop."

  "Faceless. About so high?"

  "How'd you know?"

  "A very successful model, I'm led to believe. Their software has no effect on me, which is why we don't leave every spaceport with a shipload of musty old stores."

  "Wait a minute. What do you mean successful?"

  "You went in for two chocolate bars and came out with half the shop."

  Hal's jaw dropped. "You mean I was set up?"

  "Evidently. These products are inedible and worthless, and yet you paid for them." Clunk frowned. "I should have gone with you."

  "I don't need a minder."

  Clunk eyed the stack of confectionary. "I guess you don't, with that many Helpers."

  "I got something else too." Hal reached into his pocket and took out a small black button. "It's a commset. Neat, eh? The charger and stuff's in the bag."

  "What's the contract like?"

  "Contract?"

  "Monthly payments. Billing."

  "Oh, not too bad," said Hal vaguely. "Pretty standard."

  "What was a sweet shop doing selling electronics?"

  "It was a special offer. They give you the thing for free and charge you …"

  "… Hundreds of credits a month for the contract," finished Clunk. "A very special offer indeed."

  "It'll be useful. You'll see." Hal glanced around the hold. "How long till we leave?"

  Clunk held up a bunch of cables. "An hour or so."

  "That long? What am I supposed to do?"

  "You could always grab a coffee," said Clunk innocently.

  *

  Hal entered the flight deck, dumped his cardboard box on the pilot's chair and plugged the new commset in for a charge. Then he took a screwdriver from the Volante's toolkit and approached the coffee maker with a determined gleam in his eye. The cover came off after a brief tussle, two gouged fingers and a smattering of paint flakes, and Hal brushed a few spots of blood away as he contemplated the insides. The machine resembled a nuclear bomb crossed with a perpetual motion device - not that Hal was familiar with either, but they sounded complicated and complicated was what he was staring at.

  "What the hell are all these thingumabobs for?" he asked nobody in particular.

  "Have you checked the manual?" replied the Navcom.

  Hal glanced at a thick volume sitting nearby. The cover was plastered with bright friendly pictures that gave the impression an untrained chimp could obtain warm drinks from the machine using nothing but blind lu
ck and brute force. Neither had worked for Hal. "You must be joking. That thing's as useful as a lifebelt on a space station." He tapped a couple of brass pipes with his screwdriver and tugged at a loop of wire. It came free, and he hurriedly reconnected it. "All it has to do is make coffee and spray it through the nozzle things. Why's it so complicated?"

  "You did purchase the super deluxe model."

  "Of course I did. It came with the froth attachment and a free bumper sticker." Hal found a hidden button and pressed it. As he did so, the overhead lights dimmed.

  "Don't do that again," said the Navcom.

  Hal did it again.

  "I said —"

  Hal pressed the button repeatedly, getting nothing out of the coffee maker but a gargling sound. The lights flickered again and again, until the machine expired with a loud fizzing noise.

  "I told you not to do that again," said the Navcom. "Now you've destroyed the overload protection module."

  Hal flapped at the smoke. "Well, we'll just have to get another one."

  "You can't, not with that model. It's a non-serviceable part."

  "What if we —" Hal broke off as the lift pinged. "Oh hell, that's all I need." He slammed the cover back on the coffee maker and rammed home a couple of fasteners. "Don't mention this or Clunk will be lecturing me for weeks."

  "But —"

  "One word and I'll run your cooling pipes through the sewage tank." The doors opened and Hal whipped the screwdriver behind his back. "Hey, old buddy! What's happening?"

  "Old buddy?" Clunk raised one eyebrow. "Have you been drinking coffee again?"

  "No, he hasn't," said the Navcom. "Not a drop."

  "That'll do, Navcom," said Hal sharply. He glanced at Clunk. "Are we ready to leave?"

  Clunk sighed and shook his head. "I'm afraid not. We have a problem."

  "I'm sure Mr Spacejock can fix it," said the Navcom. "He's very good with a screwdriver."

  "What kind of problem?" asked Hal hurriedly.

  "The stasis controller is only rated for forty crates, but we've got two more than that. We'll have to cancel the job."

  "I'm not giving up six grand," said Hal flatly.

  "But there are too many crates. It won't run them all at once."

  "You'd better show me."

  "What for?"

  "In case I can help, of course!"

  Clunk looked doubtful, and was about to elaborate when he paused to sniff the air. "Can you smell burning?"