Hal Spacejock 4: No Free Lunch

by Simon Haynes

  ‘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 going to sound corny, but I have a proposition for you.’

  Chapter 2

  Walsh led Hal inside the terminal, where they took a lift to a cafe on the second floor. It was a cosy little place with immaculate linen tablecloths and solid wooden furniture, and the counter groaned under the weight of cream buns, jam doughnuts and cakes, all laid out on crocheted doilies.

  Walsh ordered a coffee, a slab of cake and two doughnuts. ‘And what are you having?’ she asked Hal.

  Hal could almost taste the sticky jam and crisp caramel toppings, but he’d just added up his pocket change and at these prices the total wasn’t enough for a coffee. ‘I’ll have a glass of water, thanks.’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ murmured Walsh.

  ‘That’s all I want.’

  ‘Trust me, you really don’t.’ Walsh nodded at the serving droid. ‘Same again, Rita.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘My treat. Come on.’

  They took a corner table, and although Hal was bursting with curiosity he decided he needed to draw things out as long as possible. After all, if he kept Walsh talking he might just extend their date until dinner. At that moment the droid arrived with a laden tray, and Hal racked his brains while it distributed the contents. Delaying tactics. Check. ‘So,’ he said, once the droid had left. ‘What’s this proposition of yours?’

  ‘Straight to the point, eh?’ Walsh sipped her coffee. ‘Well, I’ve been invited to a big do tonight. Food, wine, dancing … the whole deal.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ said Hal, who was busy kicking himself. So much for delaying tactics.

  ‘You’d think so, but I usually hang around the buffet until it’s polite to leave. I’m practically invisible at these things. Just a tame copper they can show off to their guests.’

  ‘I can’t believe that.’

  Walsh flashed him a grateful smile. ‘Anyway, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Just this once I want to arrive on the arm of a dashing gentleman. You know, a handsome, mysterious stranger.’

  ‘And what do you need me for?’

  Walsh raised one eyebrow. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You’re asking me along?’

  ‘No, I was talking to that jar of biscuits over there.’

  Hal turned to look, then jumped as Walsh kicked his shin. ‘Let me get this straight. You want me to go to a party with you?’

  ‘You got it. Yes or no?’

  ‘That depends. Are you a robot?’

  Walsh looked startled. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘Well, every time I meet a nice girl it turns out she’s running on batteries.’

  ‘Who said I was nice?’ said Walsh, with a smile.

  ‘I’m serious. Are you real?’

  Walsh laid warm, human fingers on Hal’s cheek. ‘What’s the verdict?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes I’m real, or yes you’ll come?’

  ‘Both. Absolutely!’

  ‘Great! We’re supposed to be there at seven, so I’ll pick you up at your ship at quarter to.’

  Hal nodded, scarcely believing his luck. Now he just had to escape before she changed her mind. ‘So tell me. How did you end up in the Peace Force?’

  ‘It’s a long story, and not particularly happy.’

  ‘If you’d rather not —’ began Hal, realising he’d just foiled his own getaway.

  ‘No, that’s fine.’ Walsh brushed a strand of hair away. ‘I was two or three when my parents left for a second honeymoon. There was an accident, and they never came back. My aunt brought me up, although I don’t think she was really a blood relative. There weren’t any family photos, and she never spoke about my parents.’

  ‘So what happened? To your parents, I mean.’

  Walsh gazed into her coffee. ‘I never knew exactly. I think their spaceship crashed.’

  ‘Didn’t you look it up?’

  ‘It was a taboo subject while my aunt was alive, and to be honest I didn’t really want to know. When she passed away a couple of years ago I decided to find out what I could, but by then it was too late. I didn’t know which ship they took, where it was going, where it came down … there was nothing to go on.’

  ‘Surely it would have made the news? I mean, you've only got to cut your finger and it's “local severs hand in bloody rampage”.’

  ‘All the old news bulletins have been archived, but it’s some weird format. The programmers want thousands to extract them.’
<
br />   ‘Maybe Clunk could have a look?’

  ‘Your robot? I guess so, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve lost the whole lot. The data format thing sounded like an excuse to me.’ Walsh crumbled a piece of cake. ‘Anyway, wherever my parents met their fate, that’s where the news stories would have been published.’

  ‘You’d think the story would have got back to Dismolle. Local residents lost in accident, that sort of thing.’

  ‘I gather my parents moved around a lot, so they might not have been residents. Now and then I’ll get a vivid childhood memory of travelling on a spaceship, but sometimes I wonder whether I’m just remembering scenes from movies.’ Walsh glanced at Hal’s plate. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Great. Excellent.’ Hal could have been sipping mineral water and snacking on tofu wedges for all the attention he was paying to his food. ‘So how did you end up in uniform?’

  ‘After my aunt passed away I nearly took a job as a carer, which was what I’d been doing for the past few years anyway. But one day I got a flyer from the Peace Force, pitching a career in law enforcement. You know, one of those “You have been pre-selected from millions of applicants” things.’

  ‘I usually throw them out.’

  ‘I did, but I kept getting more of them. I dropped by the local office to tell them not to bother, and that’s when I met Bernie.’

  Hal noticed Walsh’s fond smile. ‘Who’s that? Your partner?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘I see.’ Hal took a bite of his doughnut and chewed in silence. Clunk was right. There was always a catch.

  ‘Anyway, she did a great job selling me —’

  ‘She?’

  ‘They don’t like being called it. Robots get touchy about that sort of thing.’ Walsh flashed him a smile. ‘Anyway, she sold me on the Peace Force. Free health and dental, helping the community, lots of travel … you name it. The trainee pay is lousy, but it gets pretty decent once I graduate. Oh, and she mentioned something about catching criminals and upholding the law, but I didn’t really listen to those bits.’

  ‘Aren’t they kind of important?’

  ‘Yeah, that was supposed to be a joke. Anyway, that was two years ago and I’ve been training ever since. Law, weapons, self-defence and endless rulebooks. I’m hoping to graduate in the next few months, and then I’ll be assigned to HQ for work experience. It’ll be a shame to leave Dismolle, but I’m ready to move on. Of course, Bernie is hoping I’m posted straight back again, but that’s because she gets lonely.’

  ‘You mean there’s nobody else at the station?’

  ‘Just the two of us watching the whole planet.’

  ‘Aren’t you overworked?’

  ‘I’ll let you in on a secret.’ Walsh lowered her voice. ‘The water supply is drugged. It keeps the locals docile.’

  Hal stared at her. ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘Why do you think I ordered a case of bottled water?’

  ‘So, er …’ Hal glanced at his coffee.

  ‘Relax, it’s heat-sensitive. You may feel a bit calmer than usual, but you won’t get the full effect.’

  ‘But why doesn’t anyone kick up a fuss?’

  ‘Who’d believe them? Anyway, they’re way too mellow for protests.’

  ‘But -‘

  ‘Listen, do you want to hear about my exciting cases? All the juicy murder investigations?’

  Hal looked at the jam oozing from his doughnut. ‘Maybe skim the forensics.’

  ‘Makes no difference. There’s nothing I can tell you.’

  ‘Ah, official secrets,’ said Hal, nodding wisely.

  ‘No, there’s literally nothing. I’ve been a trainee for two years and I’ve yet to see a crime. And it’s all because of the water.’

  ‘I’ve never heard anything like it. Don’t people get a choice?’

  ‘Sure. They’re free to leave, and they’re free to import bottled water. Oddly enough, most people aren’t all that bothered.’ Walsh reached for her purse. ‘That reminds me, I owe you for the cargo.’

  ‘No, it’s on me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘We were coming here anyway. Clunk reckons there’s work to be had around these parts. By now he’ll have a list of jobs ranked from most to least profitable, slightly dodgy to completely illegal.’ Hal remembered Walsh’s occupation. ‘Of course, we only do the legal ones.’

  ‘Of course.’ Walsh glanced at her watch, then at her empty cup. ‘Time for another?’

  * * *

  After watching Hal and Miss Walsh set off across the landing field together, Clunk returned to the flight deck to seek a nice legal cargo job - preferably one with a slightly higher pay scale than their last effort. After all, the last thing he needed was further restrictions imposed on him by Mr Spacejock. He sat down at the console, and as he waited for the search interface he indulged in several milliseconds of idle speculation.

  He was used to connecting with electronic devices aboard the ship, a process whereby protocols and handshaking took place before interfacing could begin. Recalling the exchange between Hal and Miss Walsh, it seemed to Clunk that he’d just witnessed protocols and handshaking of the human kind. Neither seemed to be aware of this, but then neither possessed his experienced eye for such matters. He felt a twinge of curiosity. Would they proceed to robust interfacing, or - more likely - was Mr Spacejock already chewing on a healthy serve of his own foot?

  Having wasted a hundredth of a second on his flight of fancy, Clunk turned his attention to the viewscreen, which displayed a set of fields for name, date of birth and home address. ‘You can bypass that,’ he said. ‘Just get me a list of outbound cargo jobs.’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot do that,’ said the Navcom. ‘They want you to register first.’

  ‘Give them the usual.’

  Instantly, the boxes filled with data. ‘Welcome, Mr Gates,’ said a mechanical voice. ‘Please enter your search parameters.’

  ‘Outbound cargo jobs in the next twenty-four hours.’

  ‘No results. Would you like to try again?’

  Clunk frowned. ‘Better make it a week.’

  ‘No results.’

  ‘A month?’

  ‘No results.’

  ‘All time? Ever?’

  ‘No results.’

  Clunk’s mechanical heart skipped a beat. No outbound jobs meant an unpaid trip to another planet to find more work, and that meant a big fuel bill - something they simply couldn’t afford. ‘Are there no jobs at all?’

  ‘I have a fetch from the neighbouring planet of Forzen.’

  Hope flooded Clunk’s circuits. ‘Show me the details.’

  The screen displayed information on the job, which involved a short hop across the local star system to collect a cargo of decorating equipment. Clunk skimmed the listing until he found the important bits: payment and legality. He nodded at the pay, which was generous but not enough to raise any warning flags, and as for the legality of the cargo, for once there didn’t seem to be any strings attached. A local interior decorator was remodelling a run-down mansion for a wealthy client. Everything was being replaced with top-quality fixtures and fittings, and it seemed Forzen was the place to get them. Care of the items was more important than outright speed, and the deadline was still two days away. The fee would pay for a refuel, and there would be enough left over to seek another job elsewhere.

  ‘We’ll take it,’ he said, pleased to have found something suitable at short notice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the Navcom. ‘Mr Spacejock said you had to clear all further jobs with him.’

  ‘Mr Spacejock isn’t here. Put it through.’

  ‘He also told me to log any attempts to bypass authorisation.’

  Clunk’s eyes narrowed. ‘Whose side are you on?’

  ‘It’s not a question of sides. The Volante belongs to Mr Spacejock, and —’

  ‘A quarter of it’s mine!’ protested Clunk.

  ‘Correct. And when you’re the
majority owner you can make the decisions. In the meantime, I need his authorisation.’

  ‘But I always book the cargo jobs!’

  ‘Mr Spacejock knows that. Indeed, he seems to think you’re the reason for his financial predicament.’

  Very deliberately, Clunk stood up. ‘I shall find Mr Spacejock and clarify his orders. If we lose this job because of your intransigence I’ll … I’ll …’ Unable to think of a suitable threat, he stalked out of the flight deck, stomped down the passenger ramp and strode across to the terminal building.

  Inside, he spotted shops, rental kiosks and passenger desks, but no cafes, and by the time he reached the lifts at the far end of the terminal his anger routines were barely under control. He was just about to take a lift to the upper level when he spotted an information counter. Why chase all over the terminal looking for the coffee shop when he could simply ask for its location?

  There was a bank of screens on the counter, but when Clunk tried to connect to one a polished robot with a domed head turned its telescopic eye on him. ‘I’m sorry, those are for staff use only.’

  ‘Can you tell me where the coffee shop is?’

  ‘We don’t have a coffee shop.’

  ‘You must have. I’m supposed to meet someone!’

  ‘Sorry, can’t help you.’

  Clunk was about to turn away when he realised he was dealing with an Exactobot. Designed for front desk duties in countless Public Service offices, it was pedantic and unhelpful to a fault. ‘Is there a cafeteria?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Restaurants which serve warm beverages?’

  ‘Can’t say I’ve seen any.’

  ‘Bars? Pubs? Coffee lounges?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Having struck gold, Clunk chanced his luck. ‘Can you direct me to it?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You haven’t told me which one.’

  ‘How many are there?’

  ‘The Dismolle Spaceport is a state-of-the-art facility featuring seven coffee lounges, a parenting room, two motels and —’

  ‘Seven! But this is urgent!’

  ‘You’d better run, then. Won’t take you more than thirty minutes to check them all.’

  ‘Where’s the nearest?’

  ‘Take the lift to the second floor. You can’t miss it.’