Hal Spacejock 6: Safe Art Page 7

  Higgs glanced over her shoulder, her face drawn. "I swear I don't know anything. Someone's setting me up."

  "Keep stalling and I'll lock you up so fast —"

  "Okay, okay. Just … let me sit down."

  "Sure." Walsh swept the keyboard onto to the floor and slid the commset out of reach. She guided Higgs to the chair, then leant over the desk until their noses were almost touching. "Name. Now."

  Higgs swallowed. "I c-can't. It's too dangerous."

  "Oh, don't worry about the danger. I'll tell 'em you squealed anyway."

  "You're insane. You'll get me killed!"

  Walsh slammed her fist on the desk. "I-don't-care!"

  "What sort of officer are you?"

  "Have you heard of good cop, bad cop?"

  "S-sure."

  "I'm angry cop with a big gun."

  Higgs closed her eyes. "There's this guy in Accounts. He started gambling and got into debt. Big debts with the wrong people. Know what I mean?"

  Walsh nodded.

  "One day he comes to work with a pocketful of cash. All his problems solved, just like that. Well, we've all got debts, right?"

  Again, Walsh nodded.

  "All we had to do was share a little info. There was no harm in it."

  Sure, thought Harriet. No harm except a string of stolen trucks, wasted Peace Force hours and higher insurance premiums all round. "I need a name."

  "If I tell you, will you let me off? I—I've got kids at home. Their dad ran out on us a couple of years back. It's hard, you know?"

  Walsh felt a stab of sympathy. She'd been raised by an aunt herself, and money had been tight. "If this pans out I'll try and keep your name out of it."

  Higgs looked relieved. "I really didn't mean any harm. It's just that once I got in …"

  "I understand. Now, who am I looking for?"

  "Matt Ranford. He's in Accounts, second floor."

  Walsh turned to leave.

  "Hey, what about these cuffs?"

  "They'll come off when I've got Ranford."

  "But —"

  "No buts. And don't even think about leaving this office. If you're not here when I come back, I'll have your face on every Peace Force bulletin across the galaxy."

  * * *

  While Harriet was chasing down leads, Clunk was busy showing customs officers all over the Volante. Hal would have accompanied them, but he was bailed up in the flight deck by a middle-aged officer with a swept-up hairstyle, a flashing red nose ring and a tattoo of a hollow pencil on his neck. Hal kept eyeing the tattoo, trying to work out the significance. He really wanted to ask, but he wasn't keen to antagonise the officer by saying the wrong thing. In the end the temptation was too strong. "How come there's no lead in your pencil?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Hal tapped his neck.

  "Oh, that." The officer frowned. "My ex-wife had it done while I was out cold."

  "Why don't you have it removed?"

  "Funny you should ask," said the officer sourly. "She tattooed that exact question across my chest."

  "No, I meant …" Hal realised he was digging himself deeper and deeper, so he switched to a safer topic. "Why's your ring glowing?"

  "It's an early warning system, see?" The officer tapped his nose. "You take a sniff of your meal, and if it's too spicy your ring turns red."

  "Better before than after, I guess." Hal eyed the officer's hair style, which looked like a badly mown lawn crossed with a field of dry bracken, but he decided to keep his mouth shut. "So, how's the customs game? Caught many smugglers?"

  "We get our fair share."

  "You're wasting your time here. We've got nothing to hide."

  "That's not what our informant said."

  "You want to speak with Peace Force officer Harriet Walsh," said Hal. "She knows me. She'll set you straight in no time."

  The customs officer gave him a strange look. "Officer Walsh, you say?"

  "Yeah, she's around here somewhere."

  "I know exactly where she is," said the officer. "She's the one who reported you."

  * * *

  Walsh stood outside the door to the spaceport's accounts department, unsure of the best approach. So far she'd been cautious, but the closer she got to the ringleaders the more likely they'd put up a fight. Her jaw tightened as she came to a decision: it was time to go in hard.

  Walsh bashed the door open with a well-aimed kick, then charged into the office with her gun at the ready. Inside, a dozen staff were sitting at their desks, all busy at their terminals. When the door crashed open there were screams and cries of alarm, and Walsh waved her badge. "Peace Force! Down on the floor!"

  There was a panicked rush as everyone shoved their chairs back and dived under their desks, cowering with their hands over their heads. Walsh nodded in satisfaction, then crouched next to the nearest, a red-haired woman with big jangly earrings and heavy makeup. "Matt Ranford. Where is he?"

  "He d-doesn't work here any more."

  "Don't play games, or you'll end up in the same cell."

  "I swear! He left last year. Check with HR if you don't believe me."

  Walsh swore under her breath. Higgs had fooled her!

  Rrring!

  Walsh jumped at the sudden noise. She spun round with her gun at the ready, and saw a commset flashing on a nearby desk. The man hiding under the desk cringed.

  Rrring!

  "Sh-should I get that?" asked the man.

  "Go ahead."

  He reached for the handset, feeling on the desk until he managed to find it. There was a quick conversation, and then he held it out to Walsh. "Er … it's for you."

  * * *

  The customs officer passed the handset to Hal. "Here you are. All yours."

  Hal took it. "Harriet, what the hell are you playing at? I've got a ship full of goons, and …"

  The officer's expression soured at this scathing appraisal of his honest, hard-working employees, and Hal covered the handset to mumble an apology. "Sorry, no offence."

  "Just get on with it," growled the officer.

  "Harriet, these idiots tell me you sent them. What's the story?"

  There was a brief silence, then … "Hal, do you trust me?"

  "Sure I do," said Hal, without hesitation.

  "I'm onto something big, but it's going to take a little time. I'm sorry about the customs thing, but I couldn't let you go without me."

  Hal frowned. "How could I leave you behind? You're one of the crew."

  "But your delivery job. The artworks …"

  "You think I'd choose that bunch of junk over you?" growled Hal. "I'd give up the whole cargo business just to buy you lunch."

  There was a longer silence. "I'm sorry," said Walsh quietly. "I—I should have trusted you."

  "Damn straight. Now where are you? Me and Clunk are coming to help."

  "I'm heading back to the control tower. I left a suspect there."

  "Why don't you wait for us?"

  "No, she won't give me any trouble," said Walsh firmly. "You stay aboard. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

  Hal glanced at the viewscreen. They were already half an hour behind schedule, but they could catch that up easily enough. He'd worry about the excess fuel bill later. "If you're sure?"

  "I'm certain. I've got to go, Hal."

  "Be safe," muttered Hal, as the line went dead.

  Chapter 11

  Olivia Backsight eyed her commset, allowing herself a grim smile as she saw the caller ID. "What's the progress on my artworks? Good news, I hope."

  "Sort of. We found the missing truck."

  "Excellent. Take the artworks to the spaceport immediately, and —"

  "No, we only found the vehicle. The art wasn't there."

  Olivia's eyes narrowed. "Are you telling me it's gone?"

  "Yes. I mean no. I mean, it's worked out okay."

  "How so?"

  "The artworks are safely aboard the freighter. You're going to laugh, but it turns out the guy w
e've been chasing - the guy who took the artworks from the warehouse - was the freighter pilot himself."

  Olivia swore under her breath. "So let me get this straight. First, your team of idiots hijacks a truck carrying my own cargo. Next, the whole lot gets stolen and you chase the thief to the spaceport. Then you discover the cargo wasn't stolen at all - the pilot just happened to track it down on his own. And finally, to cap it all off, he drives it to his own ship, where it was supposed to be delivered in the first place. Have I missed anything?"

  "When you put it like that, it does sound a bit … incompetent."

  "Incompetent?" shouted Olivia. "If you were only that incompetent I'd pay you twice as much. You and your people are blithering idiots!"

  "It worked out okay," said the caller.

  "Don't take that sulky tone with me. And there's another thing … there'd better not be any more problems, or I'll —"

  "Now you mention it, there is one teeny tiny little concern."

  "Go on," said Olivia, a dangerous edge to her voice.

  "This pilot had a Peace Force officer with him, and she's got her teeth into the hijacking. She's chasing all over the spaceport making a nuisance of herself, and it's only a matter of time before someone blabs."

  "You'll just have to deal with her, won't you?"

  "You mean —"

  "Deal with her," said Olivia firmly, and then she hung up.

  * * *

  "Mr Spacejock …"

  "Not now, Clunk." Hal was sitting at the console, frowning at the screen. The customs inspection team had left some time ago, disappointed and empty-handed. Their leader hinted that they usually left 'with a little bottle of something', but the thunderclouds swirling across Hal's brow quickly silenced him.

  "We're a long way past the deadline, Mr Spacejock. If we don't leave soon —"

  "I don't want to hear about it!"

  "But Ms Walsh can make her own way —"

  Hal rounded on the robot. "Clunk, I told her we'd sit tight and wait. We can always make up a little time in flight."

  "A little, maybe." Clunk cast a dubious glance at the main screen. "An hour might be pushing it."

  "We'll burn extra fuel. No big deal."

  "Pretty soon we'll need more fuel than we can carry. And need I remind you about the penalty clause —"

  "No, you may not."

  "But —"

  "No!" Hal jumped up from the pilot's chair and strode into the airlock. He pulled open a cupboard and rummaged amongst the clutter inside. Headless brooms, a cracked space helmet, a tangled length of safety line … was there nothing useful aboard his ship?

  "What are you looking for?" asked Clunk.

  "A weapon."

  "We don't carry guns. You know that."

  "Who said anything about guns?" Hal picked up a broomstick and gave a few experimental swishes. He swung too far, hitting the wall, and the broomstick shattered in two. "They don't make things like they used to, do they?"

  "What exactly are you planning?"

  "Harriet's late, so I'm going to help out."

  "Oh dear."

  "Don't say it like that!"

  "But what if you're late too? The penalty fee —"

  "Blow the penalty fee, screw Max Bright, and bugger his ridiculous artworks." Hal grabbed the space helmet and inspected the cracked visor. "Can you break a piece off of this?"

  "What for?"

  "Sharpen the edges and it'll make a decent shiv."

  "Mr Spacejock, you cannot get involved in an official investigation. You'll endanger yourself, as well as Ms Walsh. If Peace Force Command get to hear of it —"

  "That's it!" shouted Hal. "The bug on her uniform! If anything's wrong they'll know all about it. A Peace Force rescue squad could be on the way right now."

  Clunk looked uncomfortable. "Yes, er, perhaps."

  "What's up?"

  "Well, you know the bug in Ms Walsh's uniform? The bug which records every conversation and reports back to her superiors?"

  "Of course I do. The damn thing's been driving me crazy since she came back."

  "Well, er …"

  "Come on, out with it."

  "The bug …"

  "Clunk!" shouted Hal. "I order you to tell me everything. Everything, you hear?"

  Unwillingly, the robot complied. "The bug doesn't exist," he said with a rush.

  "It what?"

  "It was a fiction. A deception. A bald-faced lie. And the vacuum cleaner catalogue? I really was ogling those beautiful machines."

  "Huh?"

  "And that time you found an empty oil can in the —" Clunk put a hand over his mouth.

  "Go on."

  "Won't," said Clunk, his voice muffled.

  Hal's eyes narrowed. He'd get to the robot's confessions later, but what was the crap about Harriet's bug? "Are you saying she lied to me?"

  Clunk briefly removed his hand. "Correct."

  "Why?"

  "I should think that's obvious."

  Hal twirled a finger at his forehead. "She's gone mad, you mean?"

  "No, of course not."

  "She's running an experiment? Trying to keep me honest? Reassuring me that she'll be safe wherever she goes?"

  "None of those."

  "What, then?"

  "I don't want to hurt your feelings."

  "Don't worry, I'm tough. I can take it."

  "Very well. Ms Walsh is determined to live her own life, and you're not part of her plans. She pretended her bosses were listening in to your conversations so you had to keep things on a professional level. In other words, she didn't want to get intimate with you. She no longer cares for you. She —"

  "I got it, thanks."

  "I'm sure some of the other reasons you mentioned were also a factor."

  "Sure they were," said Hal flatly. Inside, he was churning. Did she think so little of him? All she had to do was make it clear things were over between them, not pretend there was a bug listening in. He pictured her recounting the story in the Peace Force canteen later on, and his toes curled as he imagined all the smart, uniformed officers laughing at his expense. Hal Spacejock, the gullible clown in the coffee-stained flight suit. The cargo pilot with no future, no prospects, and —

  "Now can we leave this planet?" said Clunk.

  "Of course we're not leaving. Whatever Harriet thinks of me, I'm still going to help her."

  "But the cargo!"

  Hal frowned at the screen, then snapped his fingers. "I've got it. You deliver the cargo while I go after Harriet."

  "Oh no, most definitely not."

  "You've done it before."

  "Only in dire emergencies. You know the rules - every ship must have a human pilot."

  "I'm going to regret saying this, but you do realise you might actually be a better pilot than me?"

  Clunk opened and closed his mouth.

  "Don't let it go to your head." Hal began to pace the flight deck. "What we need is a stand-in."

  "Where are we going to find another pilot at such short notice?"

  Hal waved his hand. "They don't have to be a real pilot. We just need a living, breathing human."

  "You want to put an untrained boob at the controls of a two-hundred tonne …" Clunk's voice tailed off as he realised that was the usual setup. "You're right, it would almost certainly work. The only thing is, we'd have to coach them."

  "I can help with that," said the Navcom suddenly.

  Hal turned to the console. "Really? How?"

  "I've analysed all your interactions with the ship, going back several months. I can display the most commonly-used phrases on the screen, and the stand-in pilot would only have to read them at random intervals."

  Hal frowned. "Flying the Volante takes a bit more skill than that."

  There was a lengthy silence.

  "Anyway," said Clunk. "I'm sure it's a workable solution. Navcom, will you share these piloting commands?"

  Several sentences appeared on the console:

  Are w
e there yet?

  Where's my coffee?

  Shit, that was close!

  "Very funny," growled Hal. He looked around as Clunk snorted. "What are you laughing at?"

  "I-I'm not laughing. My f-f-fans malfunctioned."

  Hal glared from one to the other. "Stop wasting valuable time! Harriet could be dead by now, or worse!"

  "You're right. I'm sorry."

  "Good. Now dig up some real piloting phrases, and I'll go find you a fake pilot."

  * * *

  When Hal left the Volante the first person he saw was an elderly cleaner pushing a broom around. With his mop of grey hair, his straggly beard and his stained overcoat he wasn't exactly what Hal had in mind, but on the plus side he'd be cheaper than a more presentable alternative. "Excuse me," said Hal.

  The cleaner ignored him.

  "Hello?" Hal tapped the cleaner on the shoulder, and ducked just in time as the broom came swishing towards his head.

  "What's your game?" shouted the old man. "Sneaking up like that. I could have killed you."

  "I need a temporary pilot," said Hal.

  "What?"

  "A pilot!"

  The old man cupped a hand to his ear. "You'll have to speak up, son. All those noisy ships have done me hearing in."

  "I need a pilot!" shouted Hal.

  The old man gestured with his broom. "You think I fly this around, do you? You making fun of me?"

  "No, of course not." Hal gestured at the Volante. "I need someone to sit in the flight deck while my robot flies to Pegzwil."

  "Ahh, Pegzwil. I know it well."

  "Good. Do you want to go there?"

  "Yes, but my parole officer won't let me."

  Hal gave up on the elderly cleaner, and set off to explore the landing field. Thirty minutes later he was cold and fed up, and he still hadn't found anyone. Irritated beyond measure, he gave up and returned to the Volante.

  Chapter 12

  "That was a total waste of time," growled Hal. He was back in the flight deck, stamping his frozen feet to try and get some feeling back into them. "And Harriet … you still haven't heard from her?"

  "Not a thing."

  "Okay, I'm not waiting a second longer. You'll just have to find a stand-in pilot on your own."

  "I can't go around offering humans money for their services. There are laws against that sort of thing."

  "What about the teleporter guy? I'm sure he'll lend you his son."