Hal Spacejock 6: Safe Art Read online

  Hal Spacejock: Safe Art

  Copyright © Simon Haynes, 2013

  www.spacejock.com.au

  Book six in the Hal Spacejock series

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  A wealthy patron is sponsoring a series of art exhibitions, and Hal Spacejock has been employed to transport valuable pieces from one venue to the next.

  The only question is which of them will last longest ... Hal or the artworks?

  v 1.0

  I have to mention my wonderful muse ...

  without whom this book would have been on time.

  Chapter 1

  Hal Spacejock was sitting in the Volante's flight deck, studying a stylised graphic of a planet on the main screen. Half the planetary disc was in deep shade while the rest was unbroken, eye-straining white. Underneath the graphic were three lines of text:

  A) This planet exhibits characteristics common to frozen worlds.

  B) This planet is almost certainly volcanic.

  C) I have absolutely no idea.

  Hal eyed the planet, then the choices, then the planet, playing for time while he tried to guess the correct answer. The planet looked cold, which made A the obvious choice, but he knew these sort of tests always tried to trick you. "Okay, Navcom. I choose B. It's volcanic."

  "That is incorrect," said the ship's computer, in a neutral female voice.

  "A," said Hal quickly. "I meant A. It's a frozen world."

  "Unfortunately, the correct answer is C."

  Hal stared at the text. "How can it be C?"

  "Did you know the answer?"

  "Er, no."

  "There you go, then. Here's the next question."

  A friendly-looking robot appeared on the screen. It was bronze all over, and had a squashy, furrowed face with a big happy smile. Clutched in one hand was a large spanner, while the other held a mallet. Hal looked from one to the other, then studied the text underneath:

  To adjust the manemol flange on the hyperdrive, one would …

  A) Smash it with a spanner.

  B) Try to unscrew it with a mallet.

  C) I have absolutely no idea.

  "C!" shouted Hal.

  "Very good, Mr Spacejock. Now for your final question. Are you ready?"

  An unflattering picture of Hal appeared on the viewscreen. To one side, a ship was plunging towards a frozen planet, while on the other a robot was desperately trying to fix the hyperdrive motor. Hal concentrated hard on the images, then read the text underneath.

  Since you obviously know nothing about planets OR hyperdrive motors, please explain why you fiddled with the hyperdrive AND why you tried to cover up your ham-fisted tinkering by reprogramming our course in the middle of a jump.

  Underneath there was only one response:

  A) I am a lousy pilot with little technical skill and no regard for my own safety.

  "A?" said Hal, after a slight hesitation.

  "Correct! The quiz is complete. You scored sixty-six point six percent from a maximum of one hundred percent."

  "Yes!" Hal pumped his fist. "That's one for the ages."

  "Incidentally, Clunk has finished repairing the hyperdrive, and the ship is back on course."

  "Just as well. We only missed that frozen planet by a few hundred metres."

  "More like a dozen," said the Navcom. "Fortunately, we skimmed an icy wasteland, so there weren't any trees to hit. Unfortunately, the local wildlife wasn't so lucky."

  "Why?"

  "My air intakes were sealed."

  "What's unlucky about that?"

  "You'd have to ask the seals we scooped up."

  "They should have ducked." Hal fiddled with the controls. "How much longer are we going to be? I don't want to keep our customer waiting."

  "Don't worry, there's plenty of time … provided you don't adjust any more equipment."

  At that moment the lift arrived and Clunk stepped out. The robot was cleaning his hands on a rag, and there were streaks of grease and silver paint across his bronze chest. "So, Mr Spacejock. How was your quiz?"

  "Excellent! Sixty-six percent this time."

  "That's very good. Keep trying, and one day you might get a perfect score."

  "Have you finished those repairs?"

  "I finished reversing your modifications, if that's what you mean. There was no lasting damage, although I had a devilish job with the graffiti."

  "What graffiti?"

  "Someone had drawn wavy lines down both sides of the engines."

  Hal tutted. "Those weren't wavy lines."

  "No?"

  "No, they were go-faster stripes."

  Clunk blinked.

  "There was a kiosk at the spaceport," explained Hal. "They were selling this special magnetic paint which aligns all the molecules in the fuel. You can save a fortune over the life of the ship."

  "How much did this special paint cost?"

  "It's usually four ninety-nine a can, but I got a discount."

  "That's a relief. For a minute there I thought you'd been ripped off."

  "No, they let me have it for four hundred."

  Clunk closed his eyes. "Four hundred credits for a tin of paint?"

  "Special magnetic paint. It'll save five percent of our fuel bill."

  "It seems to me you saved a hundred percent of your thought processes." Clunk turned on his heel and left the flight deck, muttering under his breath about gullible pilots, ripoff merchants and humans in general.

  * * *

  The Volante landed at the Forzen spaceport a couple of hours later. As he shut down the flight systems, Clunk explained to Hal that their customer was leaving full instructions at the information counter. Hal planned to accompany the robot to the terminal, hoping for coffee or snacks, until the outer door opened and his lungs nearly froze in his chest. "F-far out," he said, through chattering teeth. "Have a nice walk. Goodbye."

  "No, I'll just —"

  "Go on, you'll be fine." After pushing Clunk out and closing the door, Hal remembered he hadn't extended the passenger ramp. "Er, Navcom?"

  "Yes?"

  "Can you answer the following quiz for me?"

  "I'll do my best."

  "Right, here we go. A robot falls out of the Volante and plunges to the ground. Which of the following is correct? A, he lands in a soft pile of snow. B, he falls into a passing truck which was delivering feather mattresses, or C, he uses the springs in his legs and bounces to safety."

  "I'd choose D, he lands with a big crash, leaving a huge hole in the tarmac."

  "I thought you might say that."

  "Shall I extend the ramp?"

  "Oh, so now you remember." Hal thought for a moment. With the ramp retracted Clunk was locked out of the Volante, and given the robot's short fuse and the long drop to the ground, that was exactly the way Hal wanted it. "No, best leave it up for a bit."

  "As you wish."

  Hal made himself a fresh coffee and returned to the console. "By the way … this cargo job. Clunk's being very cagey about it."

  "He doesn't want to bother you with the details."

  Hal's eyes narrowed. "That bad, is it?"

  "On the contrary, the cargo is legitimate and the deadline is achievable."

  "So why the mystery?"

  "Clunk is worried you might upset our customer. You see, we've been hired by an important artist."

  Hal snorted. "There's no such thing. Famous or rich, maybe. Important? Hah."

  "That's exactly the response Clunk expected," said the Navcom. "Hence the secrecy."

  "Well, you've told me now. You might as well spill the whole deal."

  "We've been hired to transport valuable artworks on be
half of Maximilius Bright."

  "Never heard of him." Hal eyed the console. "He's not one of those abstract weirdos, is he? Old toilet bowls and severed fingers?"

  "His work is at the experimental end of the artistic milieu," admitted the Navcom.

  "I knew it! And you said he was important."

  "Reviewers rave about the masterful simplicity of Fish in a Jar. Experts are united in their praise of Cow in a Field."

  "Sounds like the menu in a cheap restaurant." Hal crossed his arms. "These are the sort of artists who fuss over a chunk of rock for three weeks, drape two hairs on top and call it a masterpiece."

  "I think you mean Hairpiece. It's Bright's greatest work."

  "So we have a cargo of dead fish, stuffed cows and hairy rocks." Hal sighed. "Are we getting paid for this job, or is Clunk doing it for the fame and glory?"

  "There's a generous payment involved."

  "How generous?"

  The Navcom told him.

  "Well, I guess I can put up with it just this once."

  * * *

  The delivery truck dropped Clunk at the loading dock, where he gave the driver a thank-you wave. His heavy landing had crushed several mattresses, but fortunately they were heading for the local tip. An uncharitable robot might think humans pushing them off landing platforms was inconsiderate and cruel, but Clunk knew Mr Spacejock better than that. He was impressed with the timing of Mr Spacejock's shove, and he didn't believe he could have done any better himself. Even so, he resolved to have a shot next time Hal was standing on the very lip of an unprotected ledge with a speeding truck passing underneath.

  A freezing wind howled across the landing field, and Clunk picked up a blizzard warning on the traffic network. There were patches of ice on the ground, and he could see deep snow in the distance. It was lucky Mr Spacejock had stayed aboard the Volante. Not because the severe cold was dangerous - it was because the human's endless complaints about the severe cold tended to get on Clunk's nerves.

  As for the cargo job, they'd received a small payment up front, which was something of a novelty, and Clunk was feeling good about their prospects. Their reputation would be enhanced if they delivered the precious artworks on time, and new clients would be falling over themselves to hire the experts. That is, unless Mr Spacejock put his elbow through a canvas, or accidentally dropped the whole cargo into a volcano.

  Clunk's thoughts turned to an advert he'd seen recently, which had been promoting a nice little retirement village. The Shady Grove had tidy rooms, plenty of peace and quiet, somewhere to lay one's head … Oh, the freight business would be so much easier if he could only convince Hal to move there.

  No, he was being unfair. Sure, Mr Spacejock had fiddled with the hyperdrive, almost crashed the Volante into a stray planet, wiped out half a seal colony and pushed Clunk out of the airlock into the path of a speeding truck, but he did it all with such childlike enthusiasm. Ruefully, Clunk realised it was impossible to stay angry for long.

  "Yeah?"

  Clunk blinked. While he'd been lost in thought, his autopilot had navigated a path the length of the spaceport, delivering him all the way to the information counter. "I have a pickup for Max Bright."

  The young man took a battered cash tin from under the counter, made a big show of finding the key, then popped the lid. Inside was a slim envelope. "Sign here," he said offering a clipboard.

  Clunk eyed the envelope. "What sort of artworks are we talking about? Miniatures?"

  The young man shrugged. "Can't have it 'til you sign."

  Once his name was printed on the form, Clunk took the envelope and snipped the top off. Inside was a scrawled note on Truck-U stationery:

  Truck driver taken ill. Artworks will not be delivered in time. Please communicate our apologies to your client.

  Chapter 2

  Ding dong!

  Hal was busy at the console, struggling to draw an accident diagram for the insurance claim. He'd more or less managed the Volante, although it looked like a depressed lemon, but he was having trouble showing Clunk plunging towards the landing pad. His first three attempts had ended with a one-legged stick figure bouncing around the scenery, and the fourth looked more like a ragged hand puppet than his treasured co-pilot.

  Ding dong!

  "Are you going to answer that?" asked the Navcom.

  "I would if I knew what it was."

  "It's the doorbell. There's a visitor waiting outside."

  "It's not Clunk, is it?"

  "No. I detect a human."

  Hal frowned. "Customs? Parking inspector? Quarantine?"

  "I cannot say."

  Ding dong, ding dong, ding DONG!

  Hal dumped his pencil and hurried to the airlock. The only thing worse than a visit from an interfering official was a visit from an angry interfering official, and this one sounded pretty unhappy.

  "Good evening, sir. Are you the owner of this here vehicle?"

  Hal eyed his visitor warily. When he'd opened the door, a senior Peace Force officer in full dress uniform was the last thing he'd expected to see. "Sure. What's the problem?"

  "I'm Inspector Boson, and before I begin I'd like to issue a warning. Your ship is surrounded, and if you attempt to flee this interrogation you will be shot on sight. Clear?"

  "Er, yes." Hal gulped. "Interrogation, you say?"

  Boson licked his thumb and dragged it across his thinscreen. "Says here you're a Mr Half Spacepoke. Is that right?"

  "The name is Spacejock. Hal Spacejock."

  "Is that so?" The Inspector squinted at his computer. "And your ship is the Folanti?"

  "No, it's the Volante." Hal was about to add a witty comment about Peace Force intelligence, but he held his tongue. First, because it was never a good idea to irritate officers of the law, and second, because he couldn't think of a suitable quip. Tomorrow, sure. Then he'd come up with something sharp and insightful.

  The Inspector pressed something on his screen, which beeped at him. "I understand you're transporting artworks for an exhibition?"

  "We will be. Clunk's organising the delivery now."

  "Clunk?"

  "He's my co-pilot."

  Boson angled his thinscreen to the light. "It doesn't say anything about Clunk in my records. New crew member, is he?"

  "Definitely not new. He's a very old robot."

  "Oh well, that's why. Equipment and chattels come under a different heading."

  Hal winced. "I wouldn't say that around Clunk."

  "Touchy, is he?" Boson sniffed. "One of the Robot Rights lot, I suppose." Judging from his tone, the Inspector lumped them in with murderers, thieves and arsonists.

  "I support his views," said Hal evenly.

  The officer made a note of this, pressing the screen so hard it creaked. "Very well. Now, there are two reasons for my visit. First, I'm here to warn you about a potential threat. There's a good chance an attempt will be made to steal your cargo." Boson peered at him suspiciously. "I assume you're not in on the heist?"

  "I'd never do anything illegal," said Hal firmly. "I was an officer like you once, until —"

  "You?" Boson looked shocked. "You were in the Force?"

  "Well, a deputy really. I helped with a missing person case."

  "I heard standards were slipping." Boson eyed Hal doubtfully. "Seems the rumours were correct."

  "It's true. I was an officer like you until I took a position as a bodyguard."

  "You hear that a lot." Boson shrugged. "No matter. As I was saying, there's a chance someone might try and steal your cargo."

  "I'll bear that in mind. What was the other thing?"

  "Our political masters have come up with an exciting new initiative." From Boson's tone of voice he was no happier with this new initiative than he was with any of the earlier ones. "Instead of sitting Peace Force trainees behind desks until they're well and ready, we're sending them out on the job."

  "I don't see the connection."

  "You will, because one of them ha
s been assigned to your ship."

  "Here! For how long?"

  "Until you're done with the artworks. Hosting a trainee for a few days will ensure you remain on the right side of the law, and it will also deter hijackers and thieves."

  "What if you send one of your trainees out on a ship which gets attacked? Won't they be in danger?"

  "Hardly. My people shoot first and ask questions later."

  Hal snorted. "They've passed basic training then."

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Nothing." Hal looked around. "Where's this trainee now?"

  "Covering your cargo hold in case you make a run for it."

  "I thought you said the ship was surrounded?"

  "One Peace Force trainee is more than a match for the likes of you," said Boson with a sniff. "Now, show me your hold."

  "What for?"

  "I'd like to inspect your cargo."

  "But we don't have any."

  "Don't play games with me, son. Are you delivering artworks to the exhibition or not?"

  "Yes, but the artworks aren't here yet. Clunk's gone to get them."

  Boson eyed his thinscreen. "Empty or not, I still have to see the hold."

  "Why?"

  "Because it's right here on my checklist, and I can't close this blasted program until it's ticked off."

  * * *

  Hal let Boson into the flight deck, a spacious well-lit area with a curved instrument panel, a large display screen and a comfortable pilot's chair. There was a mug of coffee sitting amongst the controls, and a chess board was rotating slowly on the screen.

  "Which side are you?" asked Boson.

  "Black."

  "Interesting offence. Mate in three moves, by my reckoning."

  There was a crackle from the console speakers. "I'm sorry, but you're mistaken," said the Navcom. "I make it checkmate in four moves."

  Boson scanned the board. "It's definitely three."

  "Four," said the Navcom.

  "Why don't you toss for it?" said Hal.

  The officer looked shocked. "One does not decide a chess game on the flip of a coin."

  "Doesn't one?"

  "Of course not. Chess is an intellectual challenge. A war of wits. A battle of the minds. Chance has nothing to do with the outcome."