Hal Spacejock Omnibus One Read online

  "You may, but I am not purchasing anything."

  "Understood. However, I notice your weight has increased steadily over the past few weeks. A gym membership costs only ninety-nine credits a month, and a quick check of your income reveals that you can easily accommodate such a modest fee."

  There was another ping as the lift arrived. Vurdi stepped forward, but the doors remained closed. "Open the lift," he snapped.

  "I'm afraid I can't do that, Vurdi."

  There was thud as Brutus stepped out of the flyer, followed by heavy footsteps as the robot approached the doorway.

  "I think you will," said Vurdi, as the robot stopped alongside him.

  "Not until we've finalised your gym membership."

  Vurdi waved Brutus towards the door. "Open it."

  "Only ninety-nine credits," said the door, which had been programmed not only for persistence but also with a complete disregard for its own safety.

  Brutus cracked his knuckles slowly, deliberately. Then he kicked the door in.

  Vurdi stepped inside, and the lift sagged on its cable as Brutus followed. "Open a new task," said Vurdi as they plunged downwards. "Visit building management and suggest to them in the strongest possible terms that tenants do not appreciate over-enthusiastic sales pitches from the amenities."

  Brutus nodded, his eyes gleaming at the prospect. Strongest possible terms!

  Vurdi exited the lift on his floor and strode along the hallway to his apartment. The door slid open and Vurdi stopped as he saw a glossy brochure lying on the doormat - another advert for the gymnasium. He tore it up, threw the pieces into the corridor and slammed the door.

  As he passed through the kitchen he gestured at the coffee maker, which bubbled into action. Then he activated his terminal, a vibrant orange machine sitting on a polished desk. With an impatient gesture he wiped a gym advert from his display, and with a twirl of his index finger he activated his files. After discarding three invoices for repairs to elevator doors, a series of icons filled the screen. Vurdi tapped the Spacejock one and entered a couple of observations, then shifted it aside with a sweeping gesture. The remaining icons rearranged themselves to fill the gap, and Vurdi pursed his lips as he studied the rewards listed under each - none of them worth bothering with, except … "What's a Hinchfig doing with money troubles?" he murmured, his eyes glued to a red icon with a large reward beneath it. He remembered the rich houses they'd flown over on the way back to the office - the Hinchfigs were so wealthy they could level the whole suburb and pave it with gold bricks.

  Vurdi tapped the icon with his finger. "Summary please."

  A page of text crammed into the screen. "Background information," said the terminal in a smooth, male voice. "The Hinchfig corporation has extensive business interests on Forg, including commercial and private real estate, two banks and a robot factory."

  "I know that," said Vurdi. "But why does one of them have a debtor file?"

  "Shall I continue in more detail?"

  "Only if you are unable to get to the point immediately."

  The terminal continued in more detail. "The head of the Hinchfig company was lost in a passenger ship accident ten years ago, and the eldest son, Gordon Hinchfig, took over. His goal is to keep the company running exactly as his father left it, which means the firm won't expand and never branches out into new fields."

  Vurdi frowned. "So what?"

  "Farrell Hinchfig is the younger brother. Ambitious and opportunistic, he spent years trying to convince Gordon that the company had to change in order to grow with the times."

  "And this relates to the debt in what manner?"

  "Farrell gave up trying to change the company, and instead began to enjoy himself."

  "Aha," murmured Vurdi. "Gambling debts?"

  "Those and more. In the past he turned to Gordon for help."

  "But this time Gordon refused?"

  "Correct. Walter Jerling, of Jerling Enterprises, has sewn up exclusives with all the robot parts manufacturers in this sector of the Galaxy, and Hinchfig Robots has all but closed due to severe shortages. The rest of the Hinchfig business is still performing, but Gordon has been forced to rein in costs. That includes cutting handouts to Farrell."

  Vurdi's dark eyes gleamed. "So Farrell Hinchfig has debts?"

  "Yes. He attempted to negotiate with his creditors, but they insist on payment in full."

  "They would, with that kind of wealth in the family." Vurdi reached for the icon with trembling fingers. This was the big one - a new house in the suburbs, perhaps …

  There was a splintering sound as his front door caved in. Brutus ambled through the swirling smoke and flashes of shorting electrics with a purposeful tread, wearing the remains of the door like a collar.

  "And perhaps a new robot," muttered Vurdi. Shaking his head, he turned to the terminal and accepted the Hinchfig job.

  *

  The groundcar tore across the field at full speed, leaving whirling eddies of pollen in its wake. The sun's last rays threw the car's shadow across the field, pointing directly at the billowing clouds of white smoke that enveloped the Black Gull.

  Hal was hunched over the controls, eyes narrowed against the tearing wind. The car's screaming engine hammered his ears and the wind howled through the open vehicle, threatening to tear him from his seat. Still Hal pushed harder on the stick, until the warm metal felt like it was bending in his grip.

  The car reached the extreme edge of the smoke, leaving vortices in its wake as it whisked through streaming tendrils. Visibility decreased and Hal was forced to throttle back. At full speed, he was likely to slam into his ship before he saw it.

  The smoke grew thicker, cutting visibility to nothing, and Hal slowed the car to walking pace. In the sudden quiet he could easily hear the crackle of raging flames. Ahead and to the left a red glow burned through the smoke like an open pit, and even at this distance Hal could feel the heat. Moving the car closer he spotted the edge of the landing pad through the drifting smoke. As he passed the shattered fuel pipes, Hal saw flames reflecting off the Black Gull like firelight off an old kettle.

  He stopped the car next to the landing pad, leapt out and ran, coughing in the thick smoke. He stumbled at the foot of the ramp, tripping over a tangle of wire lying on the ground beneath the ship. Freeing himself, he ran up the ramp, his feet clattering on the metal grille. Once inside the airlock, he glanced back at the scene.

  The sun had gone down, its dying glow barely visible through the smoke. The fuel pipes easily outshone it, a fiery red heart burning out of control. Near the pipes, light glinted off a fallen robot lying face down in the blackened stubble. Hal eyed the bronze, soot-streaked form for a moment or two, then turned to the inner door. "Who did this?" he demanded, as he saw the broken wall panel lying on the floor.

  "XG99," said the Navcom.

  "Who?"

  "The robot. It was looking for the fire extinguisher."

  "Why didn't you tell him where it was, instead of letting him rip the place apart?" Hal stepped over the buckled panel and entered the flight deck. "Start main engines," he said, sitting in the pilot's chair. "We're getting out of here."

  There was a rumbling noise as the engines fired, and exhaust noises whistled through the open doors.

  "Retract ramp and seal the airlock," called Hal. The roaring noise shut off as the outer door thudded to, and wires rattled as the ramp folded against the hull.

  "Your orders?" asked the Navcom.

  "Set course for Seraph. Departing straight out."

  The engine note rose to a roar and the floor started to shake. "Clearance?"

  "I sorted that out with the Portmaster." Hal spotted the extended bed and the crumpled blanket. "Was the robot having a kip?"

  "Negative. He was looking for a fire blanket."

  "He was supposed to mop the floor." Hal looked up at the screen. "Are we ready yet?"

  "We cannot launch with the winch extended."

  Hal remembered the coils of wire
at the foot of the ramp. "Pull it in, then."

  "Manual controls only."

  Hal entered the airlock, where he flipped open the locker and caught the loose button as it fell out. "Did the robot do this too?" he asked, staring at the buckled winch controls.

  "Yes."

  Hal pressed the lower button and the winch began to reel in the cable. "I thought I told him not to touch anything," he said, returning to the flight deck.

  "He was trying to save the ship."

  "You could have fooled me."

  "Boost tested to fifty per cent. Please be seated for take-off."

  Hal took the pilot's seat and placed his feet on the console. "Okay, hit it."

  *

  "Leave me alone," grumbled Clunk, as a warning siren brought him online. Darkness? At this time of the day? He dispensed lubricating fluid onto the surface of his eyes and forced them open. Light stabbed into his visual sensors and blurry, distorted vision returned.

  Rolling onto his side, he raised his head and looked towards the landing pad. Through the smoke, he saw a groundcar hovering nearby, an angular vehicle with green lettering along the side. Clunk sighed with relief. Help had arrived.

  His head dropped into the blackened stubble and he was just about to enter standby when he heard the whistling thunder of a ship's engines. He squinted at the Black Gull and saw the landing jets shimmering as the thrusters fired. It was leaving without him!

  "Black Gull, Black Gull, please respond!" His internal radio hissed static back at him. "Black Gull, this is XG99 calling. I'm on the landing field!" He waited for a response, but the unbroken roar of the ship's thrusters told their own story - nobody could hear him.

  Clunk staggered to his feet and stumbled toward the landing pad, ignoring the warning bleeps from his power management software. As he got to the pad the Gull's main engines roared, shredding the thick smoke and sending a swirling cloud of dust and stones towards him. He clambered onto the landing pad, shielding his eyes from the debris, and struggled towards the ship, barely making headway against the hot, blasting wind.

  The ship began to rise, departing the landing pad with a rolling thunderclap of sound. Clunk grabbed for a landing leg but the blast from the jets hurled him to the ground. Half-blinded by the maelstrom of dust, grit and smoke he was about to give up and run for cover when a glint caught his eye. Barely five metres away loops of steel cable were vanishing rapidly as the ship rose into the air. The winch!

  Scrabbling on hands and knees, Clunk dragged himself across the oil-streaked concrete towards the cable, and as the last coil vanished he grabbed for the heavy yellow hook on the end.

  Chapter 7

  The Hinchfig empire was based in North Forgberg, half a dozen kilometres from Vurdi's apartment. From his elevated office, Farrell Hinchfig could have fired a laser cannon through Vurdi's window, except that he didn't have a laser cannon and he had no idea Vurdi existed … yet.

  Farrell was at his desk, writing short phrases into an old-fashioned exercise book before typing them into his computer terminal. It was his daily routine - turn up around midday, spend five minutes tossing urgent messages into the trash before getting down to several hours of hard work. That work consisted of opening a connection to the company's accounting department and entering one passphrase after another, in the hope that one of them would give him access to all the money.

  Farrell was very thorough with his research, regularly jotting down notes about his elder brother Gordon - where he had lunch, his favourite shows and names of friends and associates, all of which gave Farrell endless combinations of new material to enter into the computer.

  So far, after three months of trying, the computer had rejected every one.

  "Spaghetti carbonara icecream," muttered Farrell, tapping out the letters one by one.

  "Passcode rejected," said the computer politely.

  Farrell wrote the phrase into his exercise book and put a cross next to it. "Spaghetti carbonara jelly," he said, typing in the next phrase.

  "Invalid passcode," said the computer, which liked to vary the responses a bit.

  "Spaghetti carbonara lemon."

  "That passcode is …"

  Farrell's gaze snapped to the terminal.

  "Rejected!" said the computer, which also had a sense of the dramatic.

  "Shit!" hissed Farrell, scoring a heavy X in his book. He was about to try the next when his terminal buzzed. "Yeah?"

  "Farrell?" said a muffled voice.

  "Who else would it be?"

  "I got some vital info for you."

  Farrell frowned. This was pretty subtle, even for his computer. Was it going to pretend to give him the code, only to hang up at the last second? "Who is this?"

  "Snake. You know, we met down the pub last night."

  That ruled out the computer. "Look Snake, I don't know what I promised but I'm a bit short right now."

  "You said to keep me eyes open. To let you know what's what."

  "I did?" Farrell struggled to remember the previous evening, but it was like exploring a black hole with a candle.

  "Yeah. And I got some vital info, brand new. Could be worth something."

  "Info on what?"

  There was chuckle from the terminal. "I ain't stupid, Farrell. They call me snake coz I'm cunning, see?"

  "I thought that was foxes."

  "Nah, it's Snake."

  Silently, Farrell vowed to change pubs. "So, Snake, how do I get this info?"

  "You got to pay for it."

  "Yes, we've established that. How much?"

  "How much is it worth to you?"

  "I don't know. What is it?"

  "I ain't saying until you pay."

  Farrell sighed. "All right, I'll give you twenty credits."

  "Twenty?" Only a single word, but it was heavy with disappointment.

  "Thirty, then. And a couple of pints down the pub."

  "I ain't getting rich on thirty."

  "Take it or leave it."

  "Will you make it fifty if the info's solid gold?"

  "Whatever. Now spill it."

  "Me missus works for Jerling, right? She's in marketing."

  "You're not calling with the password to Jerling's bank, are you?"

  "Nah, they don't let her into that bit. Look, your firm makes robots but you can't get the parts. Right?"

  Farrell frowned. His latest interview with Gordon was still fresh in his mind. "Correct."

  "Well, me missus got wind of a shipment."

  "So what?"

  "There's a couple of hundred grand's worth of parts. If you got hold of 'em, they'd keep your factories going for weeks."

  "No chance. Jerling tags his ships. If one of his pilots so much as veers off course his head would be on Jerling's desk first thing in the morning."

  "Ah, but they're hiring out for this job." Snake lowered his voice. "They got a bloke in special, he's collecting from Seraph and dropping at Jerling's. You could get to 'im, straight up you could."

  "How am I supposed to do that? Ask him nicely for the cargo?"

  "You're the businessman. You figure out how to steal it."

  Farrell shook his head. "Sorry Snake, I can't use this."

  "Do I still get me thirty?"

  "I guess."

  "And the pints?"

  "When I see you."

  "Thanks, Farrell. Look, I'll tell me missus to send the stuff anyway. Read it through. It could be worth more if you study it."

  "Sure, Snake. Thanks for calling." Farrell flicked the microphone off and returned to his exercise book. "Time-wasting snake," he wrote, before typing it into the computer. Maybe Gordon knew the guy too.

  "Unknown or incorrect passphrase," said the terminal.

  Farrell crossed it out. He was just planning the next entry when his terminal beeped.

  "You have a call," said the computer politely. "Would you like to speak to them?"

  "Is it that Snake guy?"

  "Negative."

 
"Are they selling anything?"

  "Negative."

  "All right, put them on."

  There was a brief pause. "Am I speaking to Mr Farrell Hinchfig?" said a soft voice.

  "Yes."

  "My name is Vurdi, Vurdi Makalukar. I run a debt collection business here on Forg, and I'd like to make an appointment to discuss your finances."

  "We have nothing to talk about," said Farrell, reaching for the disconnect.

  "Running from your problems will only make them worse," said Vurdi. "Say three o'clock?"

  "Three, four or five o'clock, I don't have any money."

  "Your brother does."

  "Maybe so, but he won't give it to me. Business is tough right now."

  "It's only a hundred and twenty thousand. Can't you help yourself?"

  Farrell glanced at the exercise book. "I'm exploring one or two options."

  "Tell me, should the unthinkable happen to your brother, who would inherit?"

  "Me, I guess." Farrell's face darkened. "Now you listen to me, you filthy little git. If you're suggesting …"

  "Far from it. Your brother is in perfect health and we must work together to keep him that way. I shall see you at three, please don't keep me waiting." There was a click as Vurdi rang off.

  For several minutes, Farrell stared into space. What couldn't he do as managing director? Drag the company into the present, plan for the future, open new factories, explore new business opportunities … Within twelve months he'd have that little viper Jerling at his mercy, open to a rock-bottom takeover. He'd have the fame, the fortune …

  Farrell sighed. Whatever Gordon's flaws, they were still brothers. Setting him up for this Vurdi character was unthinkable.

  His terminal beeped. "You have a new message," said the computer politely. "Shall I read it to you?"

  "No, bin it."

  "According to the subject line, this message contains vital information."

  "Those are the worst."

  "The sender is Mrs Snake, from Jerling Enterprises."

  Farrell's eyebrows rose. "Display it."

  The accounting department login screen was replaced with a line of text: "Dear Farrell, this vital info is from Snake at the pub. He says your paying him twenty creds and I want half."