Hal Spacejock Omnibus One

by Simon Haynes

  Moments later the ship levelled off, and the spaceport slid towards them on the main screen. Clunk guided them towards their landing pad, and the Volante set down with a gentle bump. Then the robot’s hands darted over the console as he switched off the engines, centred the thruster nozzles and configured the ship for refuelling. Finally, everything was still.

  ‘You know,’ said Hal in the sudden silence, ‘personally I find it easier to press the autoland button.’

  ‘I like to keep my eye in.’ Clunk glanced at him. ‘What if we had to complete a midnight landing in a field, with no spaceport beacon to guide us?’

  ‘Never again.’ Hal got up to stretch his legs. ‘So when’s this customer of yours coming by?’

  ‘Our customer will be here shortly, and then you can present her with your bill.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Yes, her name is Miss Walsh.’

  ‘Sounds like a maths teacher.’ Hal patted his pocket. ‘I hope you got your sums right when you added this thing up.’

  They took the lift to the lower deck, and Hal stood back as Clunk prepared to lower the cargo ramp. It hardly seemed necessary for one lousy box, but Hal felt the customer deserved a bit of ceremony. After all, she was about to pay for it. ‘Remember, Clunk. We stand firm on the new invoice, even if she kicks up a fuss.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Spacejock.’

  The doors swung back with a hiss of hydraulics, and the cargo ramp lowered towards the ground. A strip of blue sky appeared, and a shaft of late afternoon sunshine penetrated the hold. Through the glare Hal made out the row of empty landing pads, a perfect line of them surrounded by trimmed grass and tended garden beds. Beyond the pads was the smartest terminal building he’d ever seen, seemingly modelled on a dolls house. Every leadlight window had a pair of wooden shutters painted the same shade of lilac, held open with polished brass fixtures. There were even lace curtains, and it didn’t take much to imagine hand-made tiebacks and rows of crocheted toilet roll covers inside.

  ‘Just as well we didn’t land too close,’ muttered Hal. ‘We’d have scorched those curtains right off the windows.’

  The ramp came to rest on the ground, and Hal scanned the landing field for the first sign of Clunk’s customer. As he gazed towards the terminal buildings he thought back to his own school days, and it dawned on him that all his teachers had been absolutely terrifying. Sharp-tongued, impatient, quick to tweak his ear … and that was just the librarians. Would Miss Walsh be like that? It was too late to draw up a new invoice, but Hal did have one trick up his sleeve: if she turned out to be a fearsome old dragon he’d slip Clunk the bill and leg it.

  ‘Anybody home?’ said a female voice.

  Hal jumped, then looked around for the source. There was a safety bunker behind the ship, used for shelter by ground crew when a vessel came in to land, and a young woman was holding the hefty metal door open with one hand and shielding her eyes with the other. She was looking directly at Hal, and he noticed her startling blue eyes. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ The woman left the bunker, brushing dust from her figure-hugging jumper and skin-tight jeans. She had a mane of golden hair that cascaded over her shoulders, and as she moved it shimmered like a waterfall. ‘Tell me, is this the Volante?’

  ‘Sure is.’

  ‘I’m Harriet Walsh. I’ve come to collect my cargo.’

  Without taking his eyes off her, Hal pulled out the crumpled invoice, tore it in two and tossed the pieces over his shoulder.

  ‘Mind if I come aboard?’ Without waiting for an answer, she came up the ramp to the cargo hold, moving with the balance and confidence of a martial arts expert. She was in her twenties, with an easy smile and a sparkle in her blue eyes. Assured and confident, thought Hal, but not arrogant.

  ‘I hope I didn’t keep you waiting,’ said Walsh. ‘Someone parked in my spot. Always happens when I’m in a rush.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Hal. ‘We’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘I like your ship. Gamma class, isn’t she?’

  ‘Absolutely right,’ said Clunk, who’d been watching the exchange with interest. ‘Do you get many here?’

  ‘Not so many of the L variant. They’re mostly the XS.’ Walsh smiled at Clunk’s surprise. ‘I’m a bit of a ship freak. I can sit in the terminal for hours watching them come and go. When I was a kid …’ She stopped, and a shadow crossed her face.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Hal.

  ‘Nothing.’ Walsh nodded towards the box in Clunk’s arms. ‘Is that my order?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Walsh.’

  Hal realised she was going to take the box and leave. ‘Er, where’s your car?’

  ‘About as far away as possible, unfortunately. Other side of the terminal.’

  ‘Let me carry it for you.’

  ‘It might be a bit heavy. You know, what with the engine and all.’ Walsh laughed at his expression. ‘I’m sorry, it was kind of you to offer.’

  ‘All part of the service,’ said Hal. ‘Anyway, I need a coffee.’

  ‘Okay. Go ahead.’

  Hal took the box off Clunk, ignoring the robot’s broad wink, then followed Walsh down the ramp. They set off across the landing field together, and before long he was recounting one of his more interesting exploits.

  ‘Of course, he got what he deserved after abandoning us,’ said Hal, reaching the end of the convoluted tale. ‘Blew himself up, didn’t he?’

  ‘No!’

  Hal nodded. ‘Bam! Clunk was still picking teeth out of the air filters two weeks later. And you know what I said?’

  Walsh shook her head.

  ‘He bit off more than he could chew!’

  They both laughed, and with a shock Hal realised they’d reached the terminal. He tucked the box under one arm to get the door, and they found themselves in the concourse proper. It was a bright and cheerful place, and Hal smiled as he saw a sweet shop. ‘You know, that reminds me of the time I wangled a refund on some ratty old chocolate …’

  Next thing he knew they were out the other side, walking past rows of cars in the sunshine. Still talking, they approached a loading bay where a battered old sedan was parked halfway across the kerb. Behind it sat a sleek Peace Force cruiser, with a roof full of spinning lights and a chequered stripe down the side.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Walsh.

  ‘Parking in a loading bay?’ Hal gestured at the battered old car. ‘Is that wise?’

  Walsh shrugged. ‘It’s only a fifty credit fine. Hardly worth writing a ticket.’ Then she opened the door of the Peace Force cruiser.

  ‘Hey, don’t mess about!’ Hal looked around in alarm. ‘If the cops see you there’ll be hell to pay!’

  ‘Oh, didn’t your robot tell you?’ Walsh held out a slender hand. ‘Officer Harriet Walsh of the Dismolle Peace Force.’

  Hal was so surprised he almost dropped the box, and it was all he could do to shake Walsh’s hand.

  ‘Actually, I’m not really an officer,’ she said.

  Hal breathed out.

  ‘I’m still a trainee. There’s another six months before I graduate.’ Walsh looked at him in concern. ‘Here, you’d better put that in the car. Your arms will fall off.’

  In a daze, Hal did as he was told. To be fair, his contact with the Peace Force had been minimal, but that’s because they had a reputation for brutality and summary justice. On some planets they were the law, judge and jury all rolled into one, and their public face was invariably unpleasant.

  Walsh closed the door with a thunk. ‘Mr Spacejock …’

  ‘Hal.’

  ‘Thanks for bringing my cargo all this way. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘It was nothing. We do it all the time.’

  ‘I meant to the car.’ Walsh leaned on the cruiser. ‘You mentioned coffee earlier. Do you fancy a cup?’

  Hal stared at her.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t use handcuffs.’ She grinned at his expression. ‘And Hal, I know this is g
oing to sound corny, but I have a proposition for you.’

  *

  Hal Spacejock 4: No Free Lunch available worldwide

  in Ebook and Paperback editions

  Visit: Cover page

  (A Short Story)

  Copyright 2011 by Simon Haynes

  Hal Spacejock: Visit

  Hal Spacejock staggered up the Volante's passenger ramp with a large parcel under each arm. Clunk had conned him into the errand by asking him to perform a 'vital recovery mission', convincing him nobody else was capable of carrying out such an important task. Or, it seemed, capable of carrying a couple of parcels.

  The robot had been evasive about the contents - never a good sign - but Hal was pretty sure they weren't snacks or chocolate bars. No, they had to be related to Clunk's mystery project.

  Hal wished HE had a project. They'd been stuck on Sendarin for three days now, waiting to trans-ship their latest cargo. Once it arrived they'd load up and go, but in the meantime they were at a loose end. This was a novel experience for Hal, and he wasn't all that keen on having a day off if it meant lugging mysterious packages all over the spaceport.

  He finally staggered into the flight deck, dumped the packages and wiped his sleeve across his brow.

  "Is it warm out?" enquired the bronze robot in the pilot's chair.

  "Yes, Clunk. It is warm out. It's hot, and sticky, and humid, and —"

  "You'd better have a shower then."

  "Why?"

  The robot sniffed delicately. "Pheromones are an attractant, but you can overdo it."

  "If you think I stink, just say the word."

  "No no! Hardly that. It's just that you need to make a good impression."

  "I do? Why?"

  "We're going out to lunch."

  "Really?" Hal frowned. "Can we afford it?"

  "Yes, it's free."

  "A free lunch. Seriously?"

  "Absolutely, Mr Spacejock. A local establishment is keen to meet you."

  "What kind of establishment?"

  "It's … an educational kind of establishment."

  Hal's eyes narrowed. Clunk was being evasive, and that could only mean one thing. The robot had something unpleasant lined up. Again. "All right, spill it. What have you done this time?"

  "I haven't! I didn't! I wouldn't!" Clunk hesitated. "I may have."

  Hal closed his eyes. The life of a cargo pilot was supposed to be simple: Pick up the cargo. Deliver the cargo. Bank the payment. How could something so easy go wrong so often? "This educational place. It's not a prison, is it?"

  "No."

  "Remand centre?"

  "No."

  "Detention facility?"

  "No."

  Hal thought for a bit. "Brothel?"

  "No! It's a local school."

  "Oh hell."

  "They were very polite, Mr Spacejock. They wanted a celebrity to speak to the children."

  Hal tried to look modest. "Celebrity, eh? Recognition at last."

  "Actually, they invited someone from a reality show but she was busy with product endorsements."

  "So I'm second choice. Typical."

  "Not exactly. They invited a weatherman from the news, but he crashed his groundcar in a sudden storm. Then they asked parents from the school, but they all had prior engagements."

  "Great. Fourth choice. Still, at least they got to me in the end."

  "No, they put an ad in the paper offering a free meal and a cash payment. It ran for two weeks and they only got one response."

  "What idiot fell for that one?" Hal raised his hand. "No, don't tell me. I can guess."

  "You said you were bored, Mr Spacejock! I was just trying to keep you busy."

  Hal shrugged. "I suppose it won't be all that bad. And what's this about a cash payment?"

  Clunk patted one of the parcels. "I used it to purchase a few items."

  "Go on, surprise me."

  "Later. When we get there."

  "So what am I supposed to do at this big event?"

  "Think of it as a community service. You're helping to spread the fun and excitement of space travel amongst a group of bored children."

  "What fun and excitement? I spend eight hours a day watching the viewscreen and three minutes holding on for dear life while you land the ship."

  "I think you're exaggerating a little. Anyway, remember the free lunch."

  "Oh yeah." Hal brightened. "When do we leave?"

  "Soon. It's quite a drive so they're sending a car."

  There was a blast from an air horn.

  "Goodness, they do know how to pick the right moment." Clunk nodded towards the parcels. "Can you bring those? My joints are a little stiff today."

  Muttering under his breath, Hal scooped up the heavy parcels and traipsed out of the ship.

  *

  "Wow, they've gone to a lot of trouble." Hal peered through the tinted windows, staring at the hastily-erected banner welcoming 'Hal Spacejoke' to the Armada Boys' School. Coloured ribbons fluttered in the breeze, and neat rows of uniformed students stood behind a line of teachers. To one side, a skinny youth in military gear stood with a cornet at the ready. "They've really gone to town, haven't they?"

  "No, they're here at the school."

  "That's not what I …" Hal patted his pockets. "Hang on. Where's my speech?"

  "Under your right foot." Clunk frowned. "I still don't see the need for a speech. I thought your plan was to eat the food and run?"

  "No chance. I'm going to make this a day these kids will remember."

  "Oh dear." Clunk eyed the sheet of paper. "Do you want me to check that over?"

  "What for?"

  "Appropriate content."

  "Relax. I was young once."

  "That's what I'm worried about."

  Reluctantly, Hal passed him the hastily-scrawled notes. Clunk took out a marker and edited with gusto while Hal stepped out to greet a bewildering succession of teachers, parents and boys. By the time Hal reached the podium Clunk was ready with the speech. Hal cleared his throat and was just about to introduce himself when a blast from the cornet almost knocked him over.

  The noise continued for several minutes, ranging from tuneless wails to nerve-wracking blares. After a final drawn-out squawk, Hal opened his mouth to begin. He was drowned out by rapturous applause.

  "Yes, very nice," he said, once the clapping stopped. He looked around the sea of faces and was immediately struck dumb. Most of the 'boys' were strapping teenagers, bronzed and hearty and very fit-looking. Half his speech covered the benefits of healthy living, particularly the importance of five minutes exercise every day. The rest enthused about reading and the importance of spelling and grammar. Oh well, it was too late now.

  Somewhat tentatively, he began. "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and—" Hal looked closer and realised 'girls' had been crossed out. "More boys," he said, scanning the speech for a sentence which hadn't been corrected, altered or completely obliterated by Clunk's blue pen. "I come here today as the captain and owner of the …" He hesitated. Volante was crossed out and 'legally obtained spacecraft' had been written above it. And then crossed out. The words 'freighter obtained in the course of my work' had been inserted, removed, rewritten and then crossed through. Twice . "… a big white ship," finished Hal, once again ad-libbing with aplomb. "In this spaceship we carry a wide range of …" he squinted at the scribbled changes "… goods where not prohibited by law, all with the correct paperwork and, er …" Holding the page up to the light, he tried in vain to make out his original words. "And, of course, we always pay our port duties, fees, charges and taxes on time."

  Hal looked at his audience. The audience looked right back. Somehow his speech lacked the original zip and verve, most of it buried under Clunk's blue pen. Quickly, he scanned the page, looking for something witty and amusing to win back his audience, but every sentence had been mangled.

  He remembered a casual joke he'd thrown in, something cribbed from the Navcom's less salacious archives. "Finall
y, I'd like to finish with something you'll all like," he said, frantically hunting through Clunk's scribble for the witty quip. Alas, it was gone. Sighing, he turned to Clunk's officially sanctioned joke and began. "Knock knock."

  "Who's there?" called Clunk, winking at the audience.

  "Bam!"

  "Bam who?" shouted Clunk.

  With a growing sense of unreality, Hal read the final words of his carefully prepared speech. "Bam who grows rapidly in hot climates."

  There was dead silence for ten long seconds, before someone finally started to clap. Others joined in until there was a smattering of polite applause. Nodding and smiling, Hal crumpled his speech and fled.

  "You slayed them," whispered Clunk, as Hal approached.

  "You can say that again."

  A firm hand took his elbow, and he was marched across the playing fields by a stern-looking man with a toothbrush moustache. "Good speech," said the man in a clipped voice. "Excellent. Short."

  "Thanks," said Hal. "It wasn't quite what I intended. My editor thinks a light touch is when you use the smaller chainsaw."

  "Good man." The man stuck his hand out abruptly. "Smyles. Headmaster."

  "Hal Spacejock."

  Smyles nodded.

  "But you know that already," said Hal. "Ha ha."

  "Quite." Smyles was silent for a moment. "Short speech. Excellent."

  Hal was relieved. Perhaps it hadn't been so bad after all. He felt a tug at his elbow, and he turned to see Clunk holding the parcels. "Would you like to hand out the gifts, Mr Spacejock?"

  "Is that what they are?" Hal eyed the wrapped bundles. "What did you get them?"