Hal Spacejock 6: Safe Art Page 8

  Clunk brightened. "That might just work."

  "Good. I want you to lift off for Pegzwil the second you both get back here. I'm going to rescue Harriet."

  * * *

  Harriet opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. She was lying on her back on a hard floor, and lights were glaring down on her like a row of merciless suns. She had no idea if it was early morning or late night, and she couldn't remember where she was or how she got there. Then the pain hit her, and she groaned at the savage headache. What the hell happened?

  She turned her head and saw a pair of nylon cuffs lying on the carpet. They'd been cut apart, and the sight brought everything back. She'd entered the control tower and found Higgs slumped at the desk, still wearing the cuffs. Harriet had bent over to check Higgs was okay, and the woman had caught her with a double-fisted roundhouse: both fists to the side of the head. Pow! Darkness. So much for her Peace Force training - she'd walked straight into the trap like a tame bunny.

  Harriet tried to sit up, but when she rolled over she discovered her hands were tied behind her back. Then she looked down, and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the empty holster at her hip. That was bad, really bad. First, Higgs had done a runner. Second, someone out there had her weapon, and third, the paperwork and explanations would take months.

  Harriet angled her shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of her wrists. Higgs had trussed her up with a pair of her own nylon handcuffs, which wasn't so bad. If she could just find a sharp edge …

  At that moment she heard footsteps on the metal stairs outside. Someone was coming up in a hurry, and if they found her like this she'd be entirely at their mercy.

  Harriet gave up struggling against the bonds and rolled towards the door, ignoring the sharp pain in her head. When she was close enough she drew her leg back, the hefty Peace Force boot at the ready. She might be tied up and almost helpless, but whoever came through that door was going out again backwards.

  * * *

  As soon as the Volante reached orbit, Clunk made his way to the cargo hold. He didn't share Mr Spacejock's confidence vis-a-vis the huge rock, and the sooner he dealt with it the happier he'd be. He'd come up with the solution during lift-off, when he realised he could carry the rock in a cargo sling beneath the ship. That way, it couldn't do any damage.

  It took him almost an hour, but Clunk finally managed to fashion a large enough sling. Then, with the hold's artificial gravity switched off, he moved the asteroid outside and secured it below the ship. As he regained the hold, Clunk realised he'd never have attempted anything so risky with Mr Spacejock at the controls.

  With the rock nice and secure, Clunk made his way to the flight deck to keep an eye on the tall young man lounging in the pilot's chair. The teleporter scientist's son had agreed to Clunk's plan willingly, and so far he'd proved a resounding success.

  "Remember you're not really a pilot," said Clunk, for the tenth time. "You mustn't touch anything."

  "Sure, sure." Hans looked at him thoughtfully. "As the only human on board, I'm in command. Is that right?"

  "Nominally, that's true."

  "Yes or no?"

  Clunk hesitated. He could guess where this was heading, and he didn't like it. On the other hand, Hans was being helpful and he didn't want to upset him. "Yes, under certain circumstances you're in command."

  "Good. Make me a ham sandwich."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "One ham sandwich, and go easy on the mustard." Hans clicked his fingers. "Come on, come on. Don't keep me waiting."

  Clunk frowned. "Who do you think you are, the Emperor?"

  "No, I'm your captain. Now hop to it before I make you polish the hull."

  "I can't do that in flight. I might lose my grip and vanish into deep space."

  "Exactly." Hans smiled. "Now fetch that sandwich, and make it snappy."

  * * *

  Hal palmed the door controls and hurried into the control tower. According to the staff downstairs, Harriet had been coming up to question someone. He hoped she'd just lost track of time.

  He'd only taken two steps into the room when a well-aimed boot, fitted to a shapely leg, hacked at his shins. Hal leapt at the last second, landed awkwardly and pitched full-length along the carpet. When he recovered he saw Harriet Walsh lying behind the door, a stunned look on her face. "Harriet! Are you all right?"

  "I'm sorry, I thought someone was … never mind." Harriet displayed the cuffs at her wrists. "Can you get rid of these?"

  Hal freed her, then helped her into the chair. "What happened?"

  "I got careless. Higgs got the drop on me and —" Walsh broke off. Sitting on the desk was her gun, and underneath was a handwritten note. She took both, and scanned the brief note as she tucked the weapon away. "It's a warning."

  Hal snorted. "They're trying to scare you off?"

  "Yeah." Harriet passed the note over.

  Keep your nose out of our business. I won't tell you again.

  Hal crumpled the sheet and tossed it over his shoulder. "What are we waiting for? Let's get them!"

  "No, I was mad to try and handle this on my own. From now on I'm doing this by the book." Walsh reached for the commset on the desk, studied the controls for a second, then pressed a button. "Put me through to the local Peace Force office. Priority one."

  "Complying."

  There was a brief delay, and then …

  "I'm sorry, your call could not be connected."

  "Why not?" demanded Harriet.

  "There is no Peace Force office on Forzen."

  "Crap, I forgot it's a company planet," muttered Harriet. "They think they're better off without the Peace Force, and then something like this happens."

  "Would you like Better Off Pest Control, or Better Off Funeral Services?"

  "Neither. I need the law."

  "Would you like a brief summary or the entire constitution? Before you choose, please be advised that additional charges apply for —"

  Walsh hit a button, terminating the call.

  "I guess we're handling this on our own," said Hal.

  "No, we can still get help. We'll take the Volante to Pegzwil, and I'll report to the local Peace Force office when we get there."

  "Yes, that's a good plan … except for the minor wrinkle."

  "Oh?"

  "Clunk already left."

  "Damn." Harriet's eyes narrowed. "He took off without a human pilot? Isn't that risky?"

  "No, Clunk's a fine pilot. He has a little gold badge and everything." Hal sounded a little wistful. The only time he got a gold badge was in a packet of breakfast cereal, and he'd swallowed it by mistake.

  "That's not what I meant. According to the law —"

  'Don't worry, it's all legit. There's a human being on board."

  "A real one?"

  "Breathing and everything."

  "Where did you find a trained pilot?"

  "We should get back to the spaceport," said Hal quickly. "We have to organise transport."

  "Hitch a ride, you mean?"

  "No, something much better." Hal hesitated. "There is one thing. Since I'm helping on your case, don't you think we should …"

  Harriet sighed. "Not that again."

  "Go on! You know it's the right thing to do."

  "All right, you win. Come over here."

  * * *

  Hal strode through the spaceport, his shoulders back and his head held high. He was no longer Hal Spacejock, freelance cargo pilot. He was Hal Spacejock of the Intergalactic Peace Force! Now that Harriet Walsh had made him a deputy, nobody was going to stand in his way. Crooks would cower in their lairs, bandits would bugger off to their hideouts and as for fraudsters … they could all fu—

  "Oy! I just cleaned that bit!"

  Hal caught a brief glimpse of a man in overalls wielding a mop, and then his feet slipped from under him and he went down hard. As he sat on the damp floor, he wondered whether real Peace Force officers were issued non-slip boots.

  "Are y
ou all right?" asked Harriet, helping him up.

  "Fine. No damage." Hal shook her hand free and strode off, paying a little more attention to his surroundings and a little less to his crime-fighting daydreams. Eventually he saw his target, and he smiled at the sight. The elderly teleport scientist was speaking to a young couple, waving a handful of brochures and gesturing at his impressive machine. As Hal got closer, the scientist spotted him.

  "Now this gentleman … he knows I am no faker. Is that not correct, fine sir? Do you not have shares in my fabulous invention?"

  Hal nodded. "That's right."

  "And once, did you not travel with my marvellous machine?"

  "Correct."

  The young couple looked doubtful. "Did it really work?"

  "Yes indeed," said Hal. "In fact, Peace Officer Walsh and I are about to demonstrate the teleporter again."

  "You are?" said the young woman.

  "Can this really be true?" said the teleporter scientist eagerly.

  "We're about to what?" demanded Walsh.

  Hal turned to her. "We're going to teleport to Pegzwil! It's the answer to all our problems."

  "More like a whole set of new ones."

  "You saw it working earlier," Hal pointed out.

  "I'm sorry, but it's out of the question." Harriet gestured at the teleporter. "You're mad if you think I'm stepping into that contraption."

  The young couple started to back away, and the scientist reacted quickly to the threat of a lost sale. "No, please. This gentleman has passed through my teleporter before. Look, he is perfectly normal!"

  The couple gave Hal a long and very dubious look. "He may look normal," said the woman at last. "But he's clearly lost his mind."

  "But the brochures, the successful demonstration, the patents which I hold …"

  "Sorry, no sale. Y'all have a nice day."

  With that the couple turned and left, hurrying away as though the teleporter could reach out and suck them in from a distance.

  The scientist rounded on Hal. "Thank you most kindly for your interference," he said bitterly. "Without their money, breakfast cereal is all I eat for a week."

  "Never mind your diet." Hal waved his hand at the teleporter. "Do you want to try this thing on real people or not?"

  "You would have to sign waivers. Release forms, even." Despite his cautious tone, the scientist's eyes gleamed at the prospect. "Maybe top up your share holdings just a little?"

  Walsh crossed her arms. "Hal Spacejock, you're not hearing me. I'd no more step into that crackpot device than I would throw good money into his overpriced share scheme."

  "But —"

  "No buts! It's complete madness."

  "All right, I'll go."

  "What?"

  "I'll go through, and then I'll come back again. And then we'll both go."

  "I'm not standing here while you put yourself in danger."

  "Do you have a better idea?"

  "Yes! We'll find a ship and …"

  "… And your boss will find out you're not babysitting the Volante, and they'll put a big black mark in your file."

  "Our lives are more important than any Peace Force record!"

  "There's no danger, Harriet."

  "But if we go through at the same time … won't we get mingled together?"

  The scientist coughed delicately. "My dear lady, what you do in the privacy of the teleporter booth is your business. However, it would be best not to confuse the matter disentangler. That could lead to unfortunate consequences."

  "You see?" Harriet gestured at the scientist. "Even he says it's not safe!"

  Hal was about to argue his case when he heard a commotion. He glanced over his shoulder and saw three or four heavies entering the terminal, clad in black outfits and carrying identical blast rifles. They stopped just inside the doors, and Hal saw them scanning the terminal. Their expressions were hard, ruthless, and they looked like they meant business. "I don't suppose they're on our side?"

  Harriet glanced at the group, and one of them immediately pointed her out to the others. The rest fanned out, prepping their weapons.

  At that moment the lights went out, and Hal was just getting used to the darkness when the men opened fire. Flashes lit the terminal, and he was about to duck when he realised they weren't the target. Instead, the men were shooting out all the security cameras.

  "Fire up the teleporter," muttered Hal.

  "I'm sorry?" hissed the scientist. "What was that you said?"

  "Fire it up!"

  "You wish to go through?"

  "I don't wish to stay here, that's for bloody sure."

  The scientist slipped away, and a few moments later Hal heard beeps and bloops from the control panel. Fortunately the intruders had only cut the lights, and he could only hope they didn't go back to kill off the mains as well.

  There was a low hum from the teleporter booth, which started to glow a deep, pulsing violet. Hal tried to drag his gaze away, but the rhythmic pulse was magnetic. Then he heard Harriet's whisper in his ear.

  "Are we really going through with this?"

  "There's four of them. Reckon you can take them all out?"

  "We don't know what they're after."

  "They're not handing out parking tickets."

  The pulsing got faster, and the scientist reappeared at Hal's side. "It is ready. Enter together, and do not touch the walls."

  "Thanks," said Hal.

  "Good luck, my friend." The scientist shook hands. "My public liability insurance will not cover any … mishaps. You understand?"

  "Of course. It's on my head."

  "Wherever that ends up," muttered Walsh.

  "If you're going, you must be quick," said the scientist.

  Hal led the way, crossing to the teleporter in a crouched-up run. He guided Harriet into the cramped cabinet, and they stood face to face in the glowing purple light. There was a warning shout nearby, and Hal saw a gun raised to cover them. He felt Harriet's hand in his, warm and firm, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  Then the teleporter fired up.

  Chapter 13

  "Robot, this bread is stale, the ham is as thin as a sheet of paper and the brown sauce tastes like toilet scrapings."

  Clunk opened his mouth to protest these unfair slurs on his cooking skills, then closed it again with a snap. How could he complain, when Hans had just identified the ingredients so accurately? "I'm sorry, but that's exactly how Mr Spacejock takes his sandwiches."

  "Well it's not good enough. Take another demerit point."

  "Yes sir, although I must point out that I'm only using eight-bit integers for the tally. Should you continue to hand out demerits …"

  "That's enough! When I want your chatter I'll ask for it."

  Clunk's eyes flashed dangerously. "Of course, sir. As you wish, sir."

  They were in the Volante's third deck, where Hans had commandeered Mr Spacejock's comfy armchair. The stand-in pilot had his feet up on a polished wooden side table that Hal was particularly fond of, and the heels of his boots had already put deep scratches in one of the artistic nudes. There was a litter of food wrappers, napkins, empty plates and spilled glasses surrounding the chair, and although Clunk did his best to clear up it was an unequal fight. He'd heard horror stories about sharing kitchens with teenagers, but this was far worse.

  Hans grabbed the big remote and pointed it at the screen. "More documentaries. Don't you have anything good?"

  "Mr Spacejock can only afford the budget package," said Clunk.

  "I've met him, remember? Budget describes his package all right."

  Clunk frowned. "I'd ask you not to insult —"

  "Call me sir."

  "Sir, I'd ask you —"

  "And another thing. Why aren't we there yet? Didn't I tell you to go faster?"

  "As I've already explained," said Clunk patiently. "If we go any faster, we'll run out of fuel. Sir."

  "This is a lousy ship." Hans looked around, oblivious to the comfortabl
e furnishings. "Where's the bar, anyway?"

  "This is a freighter, not a passenger liner. We don't serve alcohol."

  "No drink, no premium channels and no grub. This isn't what I signed up for."

  Clunk glanced over his shoulder, and there was a calculating expression on his face as he eyed the glossy black cabinet sitting in the corner. Anyone who knew the robot would be treading very carefully right about now, but Hans had no idea what he was getting into. "There is better food aboard," said Clunk slowly.

  "Good. Fetch it immediately."

  "I can't do that. You have to order it yourself, sir, since the AutoChef won't obey a lowly robot."

  "What's an AutoChef when it's at home?"

  Clunk pointed to the black cabinet. "It's right there, sir."

  Hans eyed the machine. "You mean I have to get up?"

  It was all Clunk could do not to yank the mouthy human out of his chair and shove him head-first up the AutoChef's dispensing slot. Some misguided humans actually believed the PR nonsense about the laws governing robot behaviour, and Clunk was itching to dish out a short, sharp lesson. On the other hand, if he landed on Pegzwil with an unconscious pilot aboard there would probably be questions - even if he propped Hans up at the console and mimicked his irritating voice during final approach. "Sir, it's not very far."

  Hans made a big show of standing up, sighing and wheezing as though he were an elderly robot. He followed Clunk to the machine, which stood inside a cube of toughened perspex. If Hans was curious about the strength and thickness of the walls, or indeed, why they were there at all, he didn't show it. He stood aside, arms crossed, while Clunk unlatched the door. The entrance was small, and there was only room for one at a time. Hans ducked his head and pushed in first, pausing to cast an eye over the machine. The sides and front were covered in animated displays of succulent foods, from sizzling steaks to crisp fries, from steaming mugs of coffee to icecream sundaes with cherries and chocolate sprinkles. There was even a thick sponge cake with icing, gleaming under soft lighting. As far as Clunk was aware the machine had never delivered anything resembling the images, and as for the cake … he was certain that was a cruel hoax.

  On the front of the machine there was a grille for the speaker and microphone, and across the bottom there was a wide delivery slot. A small sign read 'please speak your order clearly'.