Alpha Minor Read online

  Table of Contents

  Alpha Minor

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

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  About the Author

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  Publication Details

  The Hal Spacejock Series

  The Mysteries in Metal series

  The Secret War series

  The Harriet Walsh series

  The Robot vs Dragons trilogy

  The Hal Junior Series

  How to Write a Novel

  Short Fiction by Simon Haynes

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Alpha Minor

  Book 2 in the Harriet Walsh series

  Copyright © Simon Haynes 2018

  Release v 1.01

  Bowman Press

  Written and published using yWriter by Spacejock Software

  Stock images © depositphotos.com

  3D models © cgtrader.com

  This novel, like the author, employs British spelling.

  Chapter 1

  The powerful Peace Force cruiser made short work of the late afternoon traffic. The blazing sirens and high intensity lights were completely unnecessary, since the rest of the cars were automatically shunted aside by their programming, but Harriet Walsh had them switched on anyway. The people of Dismolle weren't used to having the Peace Force around, and sometimes she felt like giving them a little reminder.

  There was barely enough clearance between the slower-moving cars, and they rocked on their anti-grav cushions as the heavy cruiser belted past with millimetres to spare.

  Harriet's eyes narrowed as she saw her target ahead. "Steve, call the station."

  "Calling the Peace Force station," said the car, in an even male voice.

  "Bernie? It's Harriet."

  A deep, female voice came through the speakers, speaking slowly and precisely. "Yes, Trainee? How may I help you?"

  "I have the target vehicle in sight," said Harriet urgently. "Can you authorise an intercept?"

  "Negative, Trainee. I will authorise no such action." Bernie's tone was severe. "You will follow the vehicle to its destination as agreed."

  "Oh, come on! That could take all evening!"

  "There will be no intercepts. Please do not ask again."

  Muttering under her breath about stubborn robots, Harriet cut the call. "Steve, can you get in front of that car?"

  "I can, but you heard Bernie's orders. An intercept is not permitted."

  "Who mentioned intercepts? Just get in front of it."

  "Now who's being stubborn?" said Steve, but he obeyed her all the same, and with an effortless burst of power they closed the gap. Green cross-hairs tracked the slower vehicle on the windscreen as the cruiser approached, whizzing down the side windows as they sped by. Harriet glanced over her shoulder and saw the occupants deep in conversation, paying no attention to the traffic - or her. They didn't even look up at the sound of her siren.

  When they were safely ahead of the other car, Harriet groaned loudly.

  "Harriet, are you all right?" asked Steve in concern.

  "I think I'm going to be sick."

  The car was silent for a moment. "That would be unpleasant."

  "It usually is."

  "I meant for me," said Steve. "What should I do to prevent this?"

  "How about pulling over for a minute? It's just motion sickness."

  "I cannot. Stopping here would block the traffic."

  "Oh dear." Harriet put a hand to her mouth. "I think it's too late."

  Steve reacted immediately, braking hard and coming to a halt across both lanes. All the other cars stopped automatically, lining themselves up along the sides of the freeway so there would be room for an emergency vehicle to reach the seemingly broken-down Peace Force cruiser.

  Once she was sure she wasn't going to get run over, Harriet jumped out and strode up to the target vehicle, which had stopped about four rows back. She had a satchel in her gloved hand, and as she approached the car she donned her official Peace Force hat and readied her ID. Not that she expected the occupants to run away, but it paid to follow procedure.

  The occupants were still talking away, blithely unaware of their surroundings. That changed when Harriet rapped on the windscreen with her badge. The three elderly ladies sitting in the car lowered their knitting and peered at her, having difficulty making out her identity with the setting sun behind her. Then the windows went down.

  "Oh look, Esme," said a woman in a pink cardigan. "It's that nice young lady from the Peach Force."

  "I think you mean Preach Force," said Esme, an elderly woman with a blue-rinse hairdo. "I hear they have cells where they make you pray."

  "You're both daft," said the third occupant of the car mildly. She was the youngest of the three, hardly a day over eighty, and she had a fashionable sweater and an impressive string of pearls. "She's Peace Force. You know, the police people."

  "Do we have police people?" asked Esme. "Trudy? Do you know?"

  "I thought robots did all that sort of thing," said Trudy.

  "Good afternoon, ladies," said Harriet, touching a forefinger to her hat. "Harriet Walsh, of the Dismolle Peace Force."

  "Are you arresting us?" asked Esme. "Was our car going too fast?"

  The car had barely been doing twenty, which was the speed most Dismolle residents preferred. Ninety percent of the population was long past retirement age, and they did not like fast vehicles. "No, ma'am."

  "Esme."

  "No, Esme," said Harriet obligingly. "Your vehicle was travelling at exactly the right speed."

  "So why did you stop in the middle of the road?"

  "I was responding to a code green-zeta."

  "Ooh. Is that the one where someone got murdered?"

  The younger of the three women rolled her eyes. "Don't be a leg of mutton, Esme. She means you left your bag at the shops. Again."

  Harriet blinked. "How did you know that?"

  "I'm Agatha Foster, head of the Dismolle Residents' Association."

  "Yes, but that doesn't explain how you knew—"

  "My late sister was Superintendent of the Chirless Peace Force. She used to discuss her work with me. Far too much, in my opinion." Foster gave Harriet a look. "I assume you got the required authorisation for this intercept?"

  "Er…"

  "I thought not." Foster frowned at her. "I appreciate you bringing Esme's bag, but I've half a mind to report you to your superior officer."

  "Um," said Harriet, still lost for words. So much for Dismolle residents not knowing about the Peace Force. Half the people she met seemed to be retired officers, or their relatives.

  "We don't need a loose cannon on our streets, Trainee. Are you a loose cannon?"

  "No ma'am."

  "Very well. Implement a code forty, Trainee Walsh. As quick as you can."

  Harriet looked blank.

  "Return to your official vehicle, get
it off the road, and let everyone go about their business."

  "Oh. Yes. Sure." Harriet saluted as best she could, then ran back to the cruiser. "Hit it, Steve."

  "Are you feeling any better?"

  Harriet remembered Foster's cold, hard eyes. "Not really, no."

  "Should I let you out again?"

  "No, I'll be fine. Just get me back to the office."

  "Sirens and lights?"

  "Definitely not. And just this once you'd better stick to the speed limit." Harriet glanced out the side window as a car drove by, and through the tinted glass she saw Foster watching her.

  "As you wish," said Steve. They pulled out and joined the traffic, moving as slowly and sedately as the rest.

  — ♦ —

  "I'm sorry Trainee Alice, but you'll have to redo this assignment."

  Alice groaned. She'd spent at least five minutes pasting articles from Galnet into the word-processor, and she'd hoped it would be enough to fool Bernie. Unfortunately, the big Peace Force robot had access to the same articles. "Bernie, when can I do some real training?"

  The robot studied her thoughtfully. Two metres tall, as bulky as a fridge and about as agile, Bernie was designed to analyse crime scenes, gather intelligence and knock down walls. Instead of eyes, she had a curved screen with holographic lasers, which was surprisingly expressive. Right now, her eyes were expressing resignation. "When you learn to follow orders, Trainee Alice."

  "I wish you were more like that suck Harriet," mouthed Alice.

  "I wish you were more like Trainee Harriet," said Bernie. "Apply yourself, Alice. Stop taking shortcuts. A good Peace Force officer would walk all day to solve a case—"

  "With a heavy pack stuffed full of bribes," mouthed Alice.

  "—wearing a heavy pack for all her equipment," finished Bernie.

  "I was always told to work smart, not hard."

  "Right now, you're doing neither," said Bernie severely. "If you want to become an officer in the Peace Force—"

  "Yes, yes. I got it. I'm slow and lazy and useless." Alice swept her assignment on the floor, scattering the pages. "Why did I join this labour camp?"

  "You were broke and homeless."

  "I call that freedom," muttered Alice.

  Bernie studied her. "I'm going for a recharge. When I come back, that assignment will be finished properly." Without waiting for an answer, she turned and strode towards the lift with slow, heavy footsteps.

  As the thudding sound faded, Alice put her head in her hands. She hated writing essays, hated studying, hated everything. All she wanted to do was investigate crimes, arrest crooks, and get promoted. How was an essay on the rise of the galactic empire going to improve her career prospects?

  Then again, living on dullsville didn't help. When she first arrived on the planet as a stowaway, she thought she'd get along by picking pockets and living rough. Harriet Walsh had put a stop to that, and now, as a member of the Peace Force, Alice suspected that picking pockets would be frowned upon.

  She gathered up the pages and turned to the screen. There was nothing for it, if she wanted to go out on calls like Harriet, she'd have to get Bernie's approval. And to do that she had to write the damned essay.

  Alice was about to start when the commset on Harriet's desk buzzed. Since Dismolle had a crime rate of zero, any calls were usually wrong numbers or people seeing burglars in the shadows. Still, Harriet was out, Bernie was in the charger and anything was better than writing an essay. So, she jumped up, crossed to Harriet's desk and put the commset to her ear. "Dismolle Peace Force. Officer Walsh speaking."

  "Hello? Is that the Peace Force?"

  Alice felt a flash of irritation. No, it's the fire department, she wanted to shout. Then again, the caller sounded worried. "Yeah. What's up?"

  "You don't sound like a Peace officer."

  "Well I am. I have a badge and everything." Alice didn't mention it was only a trainee's badge. Although, come to think of it, Harriet got to drive around in the cruiser and wear a uniform in public, and she was only a trainee too.

  "If you say so. Anyway, I have a crime to report."

  Alice's pulse quickened, and she adopted a more official tone. "Start with the important facts, sir. Are there any casualties?"

  "What? No!"

  "Assault? Mugging?" said Alice, writing them on the call sheet.

  "Nothing like that. My wallet has been stolen."

  Alice sighed. Then again … essay. Right now she'd take any crime she could get her hands on. "Very well, sir. Let me note down the address, and I'll despatch an officer immediately."

  Once she had the details, she eyed her terminal with the unfinished essay still displayed on the screen.

  Then she eyed the armoury, which held several spare uniforms and a Peace Force hat.

  Then she decided it wouldn't be fair to trouble Bernie with such a trivial case. She'd be back before anyone missed her, and investigating a real crime would teach her way more than five hundred words on the stupid galactic empire.

  — ♦ —

  Harriet pulled into the Peace Force garage, but instead of jumping out of the car, she sat there in silence, thinking about her encounter with Foster. Bernie had ordered her not to intercept the car, but Harriet thought she knew better. Now there might be trouble in the form of a reprimand, or a mark on her record or something, and all because she'd been impatient.

  She was supposed to be setting an example for Alice, even though they'd both joined the Peace Force within days of each other. After all, she was the older, wiser head … all right, not that much older, she added quickly.

  With a sigh, she got out of the cruiser and left the garage. The office was deserted, which wasn't unusual. Bernie had been pushing Alice's education pretty hard, and Alice responded by disappearing whenever she could.

  "Hello?"

  There was no reply. Harriet noticed the armoury door was ajar, and when she looked inside the uniforms were jumbled together on the floor. There was a hat missing too, but fortunately the case with the station's only pistol was still on the shelf.

  Her face cleared as she realised what had happened. Alice had decided to dress up, and was probably in the locker room trying on uniforms. As for Bernie, she'd be in the charger, as usual.

  She heard a noise, and realised Bernie wasn't in the charger after all. "Good afternoon, Bernie," called Harriet, and she slipped out of the armoury and closed the door quickly, before the robot could see the mess.

  Bernie wasn't there.

  "Hello?" Harriet glanced around the office. The noise definitely sounded like one of Bernie's heavy footsteps, but there was usually more than one … unless the robot's batteries had died for good. She went to check the reception area, which had recently been converted into a grocery store. Bernie had objected strenuously, until Dave Birch, the retired Peace Force officer who owned the store, had offered to pay a couple of hundred credits a week in rent. Bernie had a keen eye for a profit, and since nobody ever came to the Peace Force Station, she almost snatched Birch's hands off in her rush to accept his offer.

  But when Harriet peered into the shop, it was deserted. There was a hand-written sign on the automatic glass doors leading to the outside, and although it was reversed she could still make out the words: 'back in 5 minutes'.

  With a shrug, Harriet went to sit at her desk, where she checked the call log. Half a sheet had been ripped off, but that wasn't unusual. Alice often took stray pieces of paper for sketches.

  She drummed her fingers, then decided to go find Alice after all. Someone would have to tidy up the armoury before Bernie saw it, or there'd be another row. Bernie didn't even realise Harriet knew the combination code … and, until now, Harriet had no idea Alice also knew the code. In fact, they might just as well leave the damn thing open.

  She strode through the staff room to the double doors at the back, and pushed them open. There was a bank of lockers, and draped all over the benches were Alice's clothes. "Alice? Are you here?"


  No reply.

  Frowning, Harriet checked the bathrooms, then gave up and returned to the office. Alice was probably sitting behind a desk somewhere, pretending to be a Peace Force captain, and she was blowed if she was going to search the entire station. Anyway, Alice was supposed to be Bernie's responsibility.

  Harriet returned to her desk, sat down, and removed the other half of the torn page from the call log. That's when she noticed indentations in the newly-revealed page, and she grabbed a pencil and rubbed it lightly across the marks. Faint lettering appeared, and her eyes widened as the words were revealed: CASE! MURDER? MUGGING? THEFT!

  Underneath was an address, and Harriet sighed and picked up the commset. "Bernie?"

  "Yes, Trainee Walsh?"

  "Did you send Alice on a —" Harriet stopped. No point dropping Alice in it, that could come later. "Did you send her out anywhere?"

  "Of course not. She's restricted to the office until she finishes her essay."

  That'll be a week then, thought Harriet. "Okay Bernie. Thanks."

  "How is her essay coming along?"

  "Great. Excellent. Gotta dash. Bye!" Harriet hung up, and she was just about to call Alice's commset when she heard a noise close by. Standing behind her, just metres away, was a tall, dark-haired man with a tanned face and a battered leather coat. The coat hung open, and she could see a gun-belt and holster — empty, luckily. He wore tall boots, battered and cracked with age, and there was an old scar on one cheek. He was almost a caricature of the hardened space pilot, except caricatures were supposed to be humorous, and there wasn't anything remotely funny about this man. "Who are you?" demanded Harriet.

  He said nothing, just studied her thoughtfully.

  "Members of the public aren't supposed to enter the—"

  "Looking for my niece," said the man, in a gravelly voice.

  "Have you filed a missing persons report?"

  "About to," said the man.

  "What's her name? Actually, let's start with your name."

  "Really?"

  "For the paperwork."

  "It's … Smith."

  "You'll have to do better than that, sir."

  The man reached under his coat, and Harriet felt a chill. Did he have another holster? A hidden weapon?