Hal Spacejock Omnibus One

by Simon Haynes

  "Oh, of course."

  "I'll have suitable clothes delivered. Do you live locally?"

  Hal and Clunk exchanged a glance. "We're from out of town."

  "Really? Well there's no need to go far tonight. You're heroes, and should live accordingly." The President rubbed his chin. "The Cathuan government keeps a few suites at the Grand Schwank. Have you stayed there?"

  "Not lately."

  "There you go, then. We'll put you up at the Grand, and in the morning I'll send a car to pick you up." The President beckoned to his driver and spoke in his ear. The man looked surprised, but retreated to do his master's bidding. "That's settled, then."

  "What's the big event?"

  "You'll find out tomorrow." The driver returned. "Now, I believe it's time for a little reward."

  Hal watched the man hand the President a lacquered wooden box.

  "I always keep a few of these handy," said the President. "One never knows when they'll be needed."

  "That's very kind," said Hal. "But I don't smoke."

  The President opened the box and withdrew an enamelled medallion on a broad yellow ribbon. "The Cathuan Order of Bravery, First Class," he said, holding the ribbon aloft and letting the medal turn slowly. "This award marks the bearer as a citizen of the highest calibre, a human being of such redeeming quality that all should bow before them." He smiled at Hal and Clunk. "And now, I'm privileged to present this award to just such a person."

  Hal stepped forward to accept the medal, but the President reached past him and slipped it over Clunk's head.

  *

  The excitement outside the trade fair was beginning to die down, particularly once the media realised there weren't any bodies to film. Some bribed innocent bystanders and recorded them giving breathless eyewitness accounts, even though they hadn't seen anything, while others put bandages on their own sound recordists and shoved them into the crowd to add a bit of colour. That tactic backfired however, when the recordists were hauled off to waiting ambulances by over-enthusiastic paramedics.

  Hal and Clunk were escorted to a limousine, and it sped away from the trade fair at top speed. In the back, Hal brought Clunk up to speed with a few of the minor details he'd discussed with the President.

  "What do you mean, I made a mistake?" demanded Clunk angrily.

  "It's just until they sign their agreement, Clunk. He wants to protect this trade deal."

  "He might have asked me first."

  "He was probably afraid you'd clock him one."

  Clunk grunted.

  "Hey, you're the one with the medal. There's probably a title to go with it. Sir Clunk of Tin, lord of all he surveys."

  "It's an award for humans. He should have given it to you."

  "He was saying you're as good as any human. Better than the best."

  Clunk said nothing, but despite his dour look and sour disposition Hal could tell he was pleased. Deep down. Sort of.

  They turned onto the main road and Hal glanced back to see the President glowing under the spotlights. He was addressing a heaving mass of reporters, each of whom was trying to thrust their microphone further up his nose than the next. "Do you think he'll handle them as well as I did?"

  "No comment," said Clunk.

  Chapter 27

  Half an hour later the limo turned through the gates of the Jordian spaceport and drew up outside the Grand Schwank hotel, which occupied a huge lot just inside the perimeter fence. Liveried valets hurried to get the doors, and Hal and Clunk emerged from the car in a blaze of light. They were ushered inside to a private lift which bore them to the penthouse, where a porter threw open the doors to reveal an acre of deep pile carpet and an entire wall of soundproofed windows. There was a balcony with panoramic views of the landing field, and on the balcony stood a table with a magnum of champagne in an ice bucket.

  Hal tore his gaze from the view and glanced around the apartment. Further inspection revealed an entertainment room, a walk-in drinks fridge, three different spa baths and an ensuite bathroom with a KleenAir Corporation auto-massage table.

  Hal was so impressed he broke the habit of a lifetime and tipped the porter. The man left, closing the door firmly, and while Clunk took advantage of a recharge station Hal went out on the balcony. He wrestled with the champagne, eventually firing the cork into the swimming pool below, and was just about to pour when a spaceship came in to land. Hal watched the craft settle gracefully on the landing field, thrusters roaring to keep it level, then pushed the bottle of champagne aside. There would be plenty of time for celebration when he got the Volante back.

  He scanned the busy field, and his mood darkened even further as he saw a familiar shape in the distance. It was a Gamma class freighter like the Volante, even painted the same white, and the sight of it was a grim reminder of the enormous task facing them. They had no chance of finding Ortiz, no chance of getting paid for delivering the crate, and even worse, they could still end up wearing the attempted assassination of the Cathuan President. In fact, after the function the following morning they'd be lucky if broke and homeless was the extent of their problems.

  Hal went back inside and examined the room service menu, skipping the more fanciful creations to choose a steak dinner and a treble helping of ice cream. He picked up the phone and dialled to place an order. "Hello?"

  "Welcome to AutoChef Multi, your friendly interface to our award winning kitchens. To place an order, please speak the item numbers clearly."

  "I'll have a seventeen and a twenty-five," said Hal.

  "You said seven and five. Is this correct?"

  "No, sevenTEEN," said Hal.

  "You said ten. Is this correct?"

  Hal looked at the menu. Ten was a spinach sandwich, and seven was a dish of plain yoghurt drizzled with bee jus. "I don't want those. I said seventeen and twenty-five!"

  "You said seventeen and twenty-five. Is this correct?"

  Hal breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes, you've got it!"

  "I'm sorry, your account is cash only. Please visit reception to order and pay for your meals."

  Hal slammed the phone down. The President's generosity obviously didn't extend to dinner, and a quick glance at the eye-watering prices on the menu confirmed that his funds would barely cover a slice of bread. Had he not tipped the porter he could even have ordered some butter to go with it.

  Hungry and annoyed, Hal's mood deteriorated further when he saw Clunk standing in the recharge unit with a blissful expression on his face. He was about to wake the robot to ask whether he had any money when he saw the massage table in the ensuite bathroom. It was a simple looking device, with a thick padded surface and six hefty legs, but for the life of him Hal couldn't see how it was supposed to perform a massage. Curious, he went for a closer look. On the far side of the table he found a small control panel with a mode selector, which was currently set to medium. He turned it down to low and up to high, but nothing happened. He tried pushing the knob in, but it resisted, and when he tried pulling it the thing came off in his hand. He was trying to put it back when the machine sprang into action.

  First, the sides dropped down, revealing a pair of jointed arms. These darted out and grabbed Hal by the wrists, pulling him onto the table and holding him down while padded wrist and ankle loops pinned him firmly in place.

  Next, the arms took up cudgels the size of bowling pins and brought them down on Hal's back in a high speed rhythm, shaking the table with the force of each blow. Just as he was getting used to the pain, the cudgels were stowed away and the arms took up a rolling pin the size of a railway sleeper, which was applied to Hal's back with an effect not unlike being fed through a mangle. Yelling for Clunk was useless - the robot was out like a light - so Hal cursed Jasmin, the Cathuan President and KleenAir in turn.

  Once the machine judged him steamrollered enough it switched to a new implement of torture: a handful of rough wooden marbles which it applied in circular sweeps. This felt exactly like gravel rash in slow motion, and it was sever
al painful minutes before the table ground to a halt.

  Wrists and ankles freed, Hal leapt up and beat a hasty retreat to the lounge room, just as someone knocked on the door.

  "Who is it?"

  "Delivery for Mr Spacejock."

  Hal limped to the door and saw the porter outside, carrying a suit bag and a couple of boxes. "Thanks, put it on the table."

  The porter did so, and then lingered professionally. Hal ignored him as best he could, but eventually handed over a tip to get rid of him. After the door closed he inspected the suit, which was a grey pinstripe exactly his size, and found a buff envelope in the pocket. Inside was a note from the President with a folded slip of paper and an embossed invitation to a breakfast function at Government House. The note was another reminder to dress appropriately, and it also mentioned a token payment to cover Hal's rescuing expenses.

  "What does the note say?" asked Clunk, almost startling Hal out of his flight suit.

  "I thought you were in robot dreamland," snapped Hal. "Where were you when that massage table was beating me up?"

  "When the which did what?"

  "Nothing." Hal stuffed the papers back in the envelope and handed it over. "See for yourself."

  "What about the boxes?"

  "Posh togs for breakfast."

  Clunk unzipped the suit bag and looked inside. "Oh, very nice. You'll look great in this." He opened the first box, taking out a top hat and a telescopic cane with a gold knob on one end and a silver point on the other.

  "Oh great, a fancy dress do," said Hal. "What did you get?"

  Clunk opened the second box and frowned. "Very amusing."

  "What is it?"

  "Take a look," said Clunk, tilting the box.

  Hal stifled a laugh, and ended up snorting like a pig. Nestled inside was a tin of metal polish.

  Clunk shook the envelope. "When I see that man again I've a good mind to stick this —" He broke off as the contents fluttered to the ground.

  "Here, mind out!" said Hal, scooping them up. "We can't go if you get the invite all mucky."

  While Hal brushed the invite on his flight suit, making it worse, Clunk picked up the note and scanned it. "What's this about a token payment? How much did he give you?"

  "I don't know yet," Hal waved the menu. "At these prices a token probably won't pay for a cheese sandwich."

  Clunk unfolded the draft and inspected it. "I think it will," he said, holding it up.

  "Ten thousand credits! Is that for real?"

  Clunk nodded.

  Hal grabbed the hotel phone. "Put me through to the spaceport. Bookings desk." He drummed his fingers impatiently, then heard a voice at the other end. "Bookings? I want two tickets to Plessa, leaving immediately. Fastest ship you've got."

  While Hal was busy with the phone, Clunk took another look at the bank draft. Suddenly he plucked the handset from Hal's fingers and replaced it on the cradle.

  "Hey, what are you doing? They were just putting me through!"

  "I'm afraid we can't use this payment. The President hasn't endorsed it."

  Hal swore. "What's he playing at?"

  "At a guess, he's making sure we attend tomorrow's function. If you want his signature you'll have to ask him for it."

  "What a snake."

  "I don't suppose you get to be President by trusting ordinary people."

  "He could have trusted me," muttered Hal. "Now we can't skip town until tomorrow."

  Clunk held up the invitation. "If we attend this event there'll be enough free food to last you a week."

  Hal brightened. "And coffee?"

  "The entire menu, if you want." Clunk picked up the tin of polish and scanned the label.

  "You're not going to use that?"

  "Mr Spacejock, for ten thousand credits I'd swallow the tin."

  *

  After hours trapped in his dark musty cell, Barry had given up hope of rescue or escape. He'd attacked the door with a wide range of robot parts, none of which made the slightest impression on the hardened steel. He'd fashioned a makeshift shovel out of a tin forearm and attempted to dig his way out, only to discover that stone floors were harder than tin. He'd turned out his pockets but found nothing of use. He'd even shouted for help through the fist-sized hole someone had blasted in the wall, but there was no reply. Where Ace was he had no idea - captured, on the run or dead, killed in cold blood by a vengeful Spacejock and his emotionless robot.

  Barry sat in the dark with his back to the cold concrete wall, and his headache-riddled thoughts turned from escape to survival. Food - nil. Drink - nil. "Let's face it, old son," he muttered to himself. "You're toast."

  "Barry, is that you?"

  "Ace?" Barry stared towards the door. "Where the bloody hell were you?"

  "I was hiding, wasn't I? They shot at me!"

  "You get this door open an' I'll shoot at them."

  "I can't. I ain't got a key." Ace hesitated. "I got a grenade, though."

  Barry closed his eyes. Ace and weapons went together like rocket fuel and matches, and he was probably better off dying of thirst. At least that way his body would leave the room in one piece.

  "There's a hole in the wall," said Ace, speaking through it. "I bet it'd come down easy."

  "It's not the wall I'm worried about," said Barry.

  "Okay, it's ready. Stand back."

  Beep-beep-beep …

  Barry threw himself on the floor and wrapped his arms around his head.

  Beep-beep-BOOM!

  His next conscious thought was that heaven was very dusty, and that angels had very odd dress sense. In fact, with their baggy pants and loose-fitting T-shirts they looked just like teenage fashion victims.

  "Barry, are you all right?" demanded Ace, shaking him.

  Barry sat up, coughing and sneezing. Through the swirling clouds of dust he saw a ragged hole where the door used to be.

  "Told you it'd come down," said Ace, dragging him to his feet. "Come on, let's get out of here."

  "Could murder a drink," muttered Barry.

  They made their way up the corridor to the outside, where flames were still licking at the twisted wreck of a truck.

  "The money! It was in the cab!"

  Ace saw Barry's stricken look, and shook his head. "That's not our truck."

  "It isn't?"

  "Nah, they pinched that."

  Barry swore viciously, adding several new words to Ace's vocabulary. When he'd finished, he realised something just as troubling. "Here, you mean we gotta walk?"

  "Take it easy, I'll fink of something." Ace sat him down and a few moments later he came back with a rusty tumbler full of brackish, metallic water.

  Barry sipped the brew, and gradually felt his senses returning. "Thought I was a goner back there. Thanks."

  Ace shrugged. "We're a team, right?"

  "Where d'you get the name Ace, anyhow? You never said."

  "All me mates call me Ace."

  "Yeah, but what's your real name?"

  Ace hesitated. "You won't tell?"

  "Nah."

  "It's Cyril."

  Barry coughed. "Okay, er, Ace … what we need here is a plan."

  "Plan?"

  "We can't just go back to the ship now, can we?"

  "Why not?"

  "You think that loony bitch is going to pat us on the head and pay up? We lost her stuff!"

  "Yeah but —"

  "Think about the henchmen in every film you ever saw. Think about them what messed up."

  Ace screwed up his forehead. "What about 'em?"

  "They get dropped into pools with sharks, poisoned, chucked into boiling mud, drowned, shot, knifed …"

  "I get the picture," said Ace.

  "You and me —" Barry gestured. "You and me, we're henchmen. The curtain falls once we've done our part - followed by lighting rigs, gantries and large pieces of machinery."

  "But this ain't a film!"

  "All good fiction is grounded in reality, my son. Where there's s
moke, yet another bleeding henchman is going up in flames."

  "But —"

  Barry crossed his arms. "You were just going to go back, tell her we lost the —" he crooked his fingers "- merchandise and put your hand out for the dosh?"

  "What's wrong with that?"

  Barry shook his head sadly. "You really was born yesterday."

  "So what we going to do?"

  "One, we get back to the ship. Two, we hide until it takes off. Three, we get her pilot to take us home."

  "But we never met 'im! What if he's hard, like? And what if he don't want to?"

  Barry pointed at the grenades dangling from Ace's belt. "He won't have no choice."

  Chapter 28

  Hal woke early the next morning, fresh from a vivid dream where he was piloting the Volante effortlessly around the galaxy and collecting large fees for delivering nice, simple cargo jobs. He knew it was a dream because Clunk had let him fly the ship.

  There was a loud rumble as a spaceship took off outside, and a quieter one as Hal's stomach protested its ill-treatment. The previous night's dinner had been a forgettable event, consisting of a dozen sachets of sugar mixed with several tiny containers of no-life milk. Just before bed he remembered the food he'd scavenged from the trade fair, only to discover Clunk had disposed of the lot for being 'slightly dirty.' At that point Hal would happily have eaten dirt.

  "I see you're awake," said Clunk, sweeping into the room with the suit bag over one arm. "Did you sleep well?"

  "Oh yes, wonderful." Hal opened one eye and watched the robot laying out his suit. "Is it just me, or are you all shiny?"

  "It's not bad, is it?" said Clunk, inspecting his gleaming skin. "That polish is quite something."

  Hal squinted. "I preferred you dull."

  "You'd better get ready. The driver will be here soon."

  "What time is it?"

  "Time to get ready." Clunk left, and the room darkened appreciably.

  Hal threw the covers off and stumbled into the ensuite, giving the massage table a wide berth. He moved to the washbasin and splashed water in his face, then glanced in the mirror and winced at his haggard appearance. By his reckoning they'd been on the move for three days, and niceties like a square meal were a distant memory.