Hal Spacejock 4: No Free Lunch

by Simon Haynes

  ‘Completely different animals. The Council represents Forzen business and industry, whereas we look after the inhabitants. They have an all-powerful executive and millions in endowments, while we make do with cake stalls and fundraisers.’ Bigan drove into a narrow alley, passing over a large sign painted across the road: ‘Official Vehicles Only’. The alley led to a small car park, and Bigan reversed into the only free spot. As they got out an elderly woman trundled her shopping trolley into the car park. ‘Afternoon, Miss Arthurs,’ said Bigan.

  ‘Good day to you, Walter. And who are these nice young people?’

  ‘They’re here about the old Peace Force office,’ said Bigan, shooting the nice young people a warning glance. ‘Now, can I give you a hand with that shopping?’

  ‘Very kind, I’m sure.’ The old lady opened the boot, and Bigan transferred the shopping while she stood by and watched. ‘You know, in my day they sent a robot out with you. None of this do-it-yourself nonsense.’

  ‘At least it’s good exercise,’ said Walsh politely.

  The woman sniffed. ‘If I want good exercise I’ll pay for it.’

  Loading complete, the woman closed the boot and pushed the trolley towards Hal. ‘Put this back for me dear? Thank you so much.’

  Walsh and Bigan moved aside as the car drove off, then Hal pushed the trolley into the empty bay.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Walsh asked Bigan.

  ‘I was just lending a hand. It’s neighbourly.’

  ‘No, the bit about the office. You made me sound like a real estate agent.’

  ‘I didn’t want to alarm her. Now, let me show you inside.’ Bigan led them past a dumpster overflowing with soggy cardboard boxes and unlocked a metal door. Inside, a tiled passageway led through a kitchen and opened onto an office crammed with boxes. Several desks were half-buried under the clutter, and a gap between them led to a staircase at the opposite end. ‘I gather neighbourhood pride doesn’t extend to the inside,’ said Walsh, as she took in the mess. ‘What’s in the boxes, anyway?’

  ‘Old Peace Force communications. They’re supposed to keep them for twenty years, but we threw a lot of the older ones out.’

  ‘They didn’t have a computer?’

  ‘Sure, but these are handwritten reports.’ Bigan led them through the mess to a desk which contained an old-fashioned terminal. ‘I’ve never seen one of these before, but it looks simple enough. If you get stuck there might be a manual around.’

  Walsh recognised the screen and keyboard. ‘That’s okay, we have the same kind at my office.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Bigan held out a keycard. ‘There’s a car parked outside you can use, your bed is upstairs and there’s clean linen in the cupboard. You’ll find some food in the fridge, or you can buy your meals from the cafe down the road.’

  ‘Wow, no expense spared,’ muttered Hal.

  ‘Now, something’s come up and I’m going to be out of reach for the next day or so, but I’m sure you’ll be able to find out everything you need without me. Good luck!’ Bigan retreated before they could say anything, and a moment later the back door thudded to.

  Walsh glanced around the silent office, trying to picture it in its heyday. Unfortunately, the only thing she could conjure up was an image of the Dismolle office, which was almost as dead. She sighed, feeling let down after all the excitement.

  ‘Chin up,’ said Hal. ‘It’s a whole new planet!’

  ‘Order something from room service and we’ll celebrate.’

  ‘Now then, Officer Walsh.’ Hal took her by the shoulders. ‘There’s a missing woman who needs your help. Everything else is irrelevant.’

  Walsh smiled at him. ‘Thanks Hal. You’re —’ She broke off as she heard footsteps in the hallway.

  ‘Hello, is anyone there?’ said a male voice.

  ‘In here,’ called Walsh.

  Hal let go of her shoulders, and by the time the footsteps reached the doorway he was casually inspecting a stack of boxes.

  A tall, dark-haired man entered the office, impeccably dressed and carrying a small wicker basket. It was the Panther Mining VIP Walsh had danced with at Morgan’s party. ‘Jon Newman! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Welcome to Forzen, Miss Walsh.’ Newman held out the basket. ‘I brought you some bits and pieces for the office. A jar of coffee, some sugar, that kind of thing. I thought that skinflint Bigan might have left you short.‘

  ‘Don’t I get a basket?’ said Hal, appearing from behind the boxes.

  Newman gaped at him. ‘Spacejock? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh, he’s my deputy.’ Walsh peered in the basket, which contained expensive chocolates as well as the coffee. ‘Thanks for the goodies, that’s very kind of you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Newman, who was still frowning at Hal.

  ‘You’d better be off then,’ said Hal. ‘Don’t let us keep you.’

  ‘I’m not a welcoming committee, Spacejock. I’m here on behalf of the Forzen Council with some information for Officer Walsh.’ Newman passed her a data chip. ‘That’s a copy of Margaret Cooper’s computer files. We were called in to take some satellite photos after she went missing. Doing our bit for the community. They weren’t much help, so I led a search party to her place and had a peek at her computer while we were there.’

  ‘I’d rather go to the source.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I doubt that’s going to be possible. We’ve had some heavy snow this week, and Ms Cooper lives in a remote valley. The road would be deadly going in and even worse coming out. That’s why I took the precaution of copying her files.’

  ‘In that case, I appreciate your efforts. I’ll get onto this right away.’

  ‘No rush. That data isn’t going anywhere.’ Newman glanced around the office. ‘Bigan doesn’t really expect you to stay here, does he? It’s a dump.’

  ‘It’s not quite what I expected, but it’ll do.’

  ‘I’ve got a spare room at my place. Why don’t you —’

  ‘Thanks, but no.’

  ‘Dinner? There’s a nice little restaurant just outside town. It’s impossible to get in, but I could use my influence to swing a table for two.‘

  ‘That’s kind of you, but I’m not here for fine dining. My investigation takes priority.‘

  Newman glanced at Hal, who winked. ‘If you say so.’

  Walsh ignored the taunt. ‘Tell me about Cooper. What have you done to publicise her disappearance? Are the media running regular bulletins? Posters in all the local businesses, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Er, no.’ Newman looked uncomfortable. ‘We haven’t announced anything like that yet.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  ‘No, I think the idea was to play it down. Ms Cooper may be perfectly all right, and we don’t want to frighten the whole planet for nothing.’

  ‘What if a psycho is stalking people? What if there’s another victim?’

  ‘You were invited here to perform a low-profile investigation, not to spark mass panic. Take a look at the data, follow a few leads and you should have this wrapped up in a day or two.’

  ‘Is that the plan? I examine the files, tell them there’s nothing to worry about and then go home? Everyone’s happy that way, right?’

  ‘Well yes, basically.’

  ‘Except the missing woman.’ Walsh tapped the desk. ‘I’m not leaving this planet until I find out what happened to her. Is that clear?’

  ‘I’ll pass that on for you. Now, if there’s nothing else —’

  ‘Actually, there is. Bigan’s with the Residents Association, and they want their money back. But what’s your interest?’

  ‘I’ve told you. When my boss heard Cooper was missing, he wanted to use Panther Mining resources to track her. Show the people of Forzen how much we care.’

  ‘So it’s a big PR exercise.’

  ‘No! These people needed our help, and Panther stepped in to do what we could. It’s good community relations.’

&nb
sp; ‘And did you find anything with all those resources of yours?’

  ‘Nothing at all. I scoured satellite images, contour maps, the lot. For all we know she’s enjoying the sun and sand on Dismolle.’

  ‘She isn’t,’ said Walsh. ‘I checked.’

  ‘Somewhere else, then. She’ll turn up, and in the meantime we don’t want to frighten people. That’s clear enough, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I get the picture.’ Walsh held out the data cube. ‘And thanks for this. But if it doesn’t help I’m going to visit her house, even if someone has to fly me in. Understood?’

  ‘Of course. Here’s my card. You can contact me through the mine if you need to get in touch, and if we don’t meet again before you leave, I hope you enjoy your stay on Forzen.’ Without looking at Hal, Newman turned and left.

  ‘So much for the welcoming committee,’ muttered Hal.

  ‘So much for the investigation.’ Walsh sighed. ‘You heard him. They only dragged me over here to rubber-stamp their conclusions. They don’t want me to investigate anything.’

  ‘Who cares what they want? Like you said, you’re not leaving until you find out what happened.’

  Walsh gave him a grateful smile. He was right of course, and even if the whole thing was a whitewash, she could still check every lead. Bernie would expect nothing less.

  ‘Now, why don’t you look through that data chip while I have a bit of a tidy up?’ Hal eyed the basket. ‘Maybe a snack first, though.’

  They polished off Newman’s chocolates, and then Walsh fired up the elderly terminal while Hal made a start on the boxes of records blocking the armoury door. She’d spotted the door behind the rubbish, a dead match for the Dismolle armoury, and when she explained what might lay behind it, he’d set to with a vengeance. Soon the air was thick with dust as Hal moved the boxes around, stacking them against the opposite wall.

  Meanwhile, she drummed her fingers as she waited for the terminal’s diagnostic tests. These were designed to confirm the machine hadn’t been hacked into or modified, and, more importantly, that all media files stored on it had the correct region codes and playback rights. Walsh reached for the keyboard as the tests finally completed, but before she could touch it another battery of tests fired up, these were apparently designed to check the previous set of tests hadn’t been tampered with. By the time the fourth set of test-the-test tests began Walsh gave up and went to make coffee. On the way she hung her damp uniform over a chair and placed it below one of the heating vents. The flight suit was comfortable and natural, but Bernie would lay an egg if she discovered Walsh had been interviewing suspects in non-standard clothing. Walsh sighed. Assuming she could find any suspects, that was.

  The kitchen was identical to the one on Dismolle, with outdated appliances and a similar collection of mismatched mugs. The only thing missing was another Bernie to make the coffee, and Walsh smiled as she busied herself with the kettle. Perhaps missing wasn’t the right word.

  Mugs in hand, she returned to the office, where she found Hal red-faced and coughing from the dust. He seized his cup as though it contained an elixir of everlasting life, but unfortunately it was only scalding coffee.

  ‘Come and take a break,’ said Walsh. ‘We’ll send a message to let Clunk know where you are.’

  ‘You’d better send it care of Honest Bob’s. It’ll never reach the Volante if it’s still in bits.’

  The terminal was finally ready, and Walsh opened a message window. ‘What do you want to say?’

  Hal told her, and she typed it up. ‘That should set his mind at rest.’

  Walsh nodded, then hit send. Immediately, the terminal buzzed an error. ‘Damn.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They let the data service lapse. No outside access.’

  ‘I could use a public terminal.’

  Walsh frowned at the screen. ‘The Peace Force has its own communications network. I may be able to send the message to Bernie.’ She altered the recipient address and added a brief note to Bernie, asking her to forward the contents, then hit send. ‘That should do it.’

  ‘Clunk’s going to be pretty ropey when he gets it,’ said Hal. ‘Probably accuse me of running out on him.’

  ‘It was just an accident. He’ll understand.’

  Hal hesitated. ‘Actually …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Hal gestured at the dusty cartons. ‘I’d better do some more boxing. Thanks for the coffee.’

  Walsh took out the data chip and pressed it into the reader. A progress bar appeared on the screen, with a legend underneath in red caps: CHECKING REMOVABLE STORAGE FOR UNAUTHORISED MEDIA FILES. She swore under her breath. How long was this going to take? As if to answer her question, the bar moved to 0.1 percent.

  Five minutes later the progress bar had just crawled past ten percent, and Walsh decided to give Hal a hand. She’d arrived with nothing in the way of equipment, and although the decommissioned office had been stripped, the armoury might contain an elderly weapon or two.

  Walsh picked up a stack of cardboard boxes, which contained duplicates of speeding infringements, parking tickets and reports of the occasional public disturbance. From the exasperated tone of the notes scribbled in the margins, they were clearly the work of fellow officers bored out of their minds. No wonder the Forzen branch had closed down.

  Walsh glanced at the computer. The progress bar had crept up to twenty percent, and she sighed as she resigned herself to another hour of tidying up.

  * * *

  Bernie was facing a difficult decision in the Dismolle Peace Force office. Ever since Walsh had left she’d been feeling sluggish, her systems running slower than usual. At first she’d put it down to boredom, but the sudden appearance of a critical error message had put paid to that theory: DANGER. COMPONENT 44-D FAILED. REPLACE IMMEDIATELY.

  For ten years she’d survived on spares from storage, then on parts scavenged from the communications servers, and finally by stripping entire boards from the office terminals. Each had been carefully reassembled so that it still appeared to be whole, but the screens were all inoperative, their housings just empty shells.

  Bernie moved slowly through the office, passing the blank terminals sitting on the unused desks. The problem was that she’d all but run out of components, and only one serviceable 44-D remained.

  She stopped at Walsh’s desk and stared down at the computer. Once she removed the part the terminal would be useless, but what choice did she have? She could take the part now and explain to Walsh when she got back, or she could leave the terminal working while she herself suffered a terminal breakdown. A difficult decision indeed.

  Ping!

  Startled, Bernie noticed a message indicator, and she tapped the keyboard to display it:

  Sender: Harriet Walsh, Forzen PF

  To: Dismolle PF

  Message: Bernie, I have a task for you. Please send the following message from Hal Spacejock to robot XG-99 (Clunk) of the Volante, care of Honest Bob’s. We can’t access it from here. Ta! Harriet.

  Message for Clunk: Clunk, this is Hal. We have a shot at this cargo job but only if you get the ship over here ASAP. This is super urgent, top priority and really important. Get the thing fixed, bring it here and wait for me at the Forzen spaceport. Hal.

  Bernie frowned. Who was this Hal, and why was trainee Walsh using official Peace Force channels to relay messages for him? Then the words Super Urgent, Top Priority and Really Important registered. Could she use them as an excuse for a trip to the spaceport? She tested the idea with her controlling circuits, but the answer was an immediate no: the urgent part of the message wasn’t addressed to her, and leaving the office was unnecessary when she could simply forward the message from Walsh’s terminal.

  DANGER. CATASTROPHIC FAILURE IMMINENT.

  Unless the terminal was unserviceable.

  Bernie unplugged the computer, and seconds later the insides were scattered on the desk. She found the 44-D and swapped it with her own f
ailed component.

  STATUS OF REPLACEMENT 44-D … 89 PERCENT.

  Smiling to herself, Bernie put the guts back into the terminal and straightened it on the desk. She couldn’t forward the message now. She’d have to deliver it in person.

  Chapter 16

  After an hour shifting boxes, the Peace Force office didn’t look much different to Walsh. Teetering stacks of cartons lined one of the walls, but there still seemed to be just as many barring access to the armoury door. She doubted there would be anything interesting inside, although from the way Hal was attacking the job, he clearly expected to find a stash of forgotten treasure.

  Walsh glanced at the terminal and sighed with relief. The bar had finally reached 100 percent, and the screen was displaying a friendly message warning of life imprisonment should she so much as think about downloading any copyrighted media files.

  ‘Makes you want to copy something just to stick it to them,’ remarked Hal.

  After sixty seconds the warning vanished and Walsh was finally allowed access to Cooper’s data. With Hal looking over her shoulder, she touched the icon of the data cube on-screen, watching it explode into half a dozen applications, from email to word processing to accounting software. She decided to scan the email first, and discovered the most recent message was dated a couple of days earlier. It was a curt query from the Forzen Residents Association, demanding the proceeds of the fundraising raffle, and when she moved it aside Walsh discovered a string of similar requests dating back over a week, none of them opened. Before that, almost every message had been replied to. Paging through them, Walsh discovered emails from friends and family, mostly forwarded jokes and chain letters, but nothing work-related - no messages from clients at all.

  She opened the sent items folder, to see what Cooper’s last message had been, but to her surprise it was completely empty. Had Newman botched the file copy, or had the original data been protected?

  She tried the trash folder in case the mail had simply been deleted, but that too was empty. Stumped, she closed the email application and opened the word processor. Here she found a batch of poems and a half-finished novel, but again, nothing relating to Cooper’s business. No memos, no letters or invoices, nothing.