by Simon Haynes
"Wait, what if I need help?"
"Trainee Walsh, you did not require help … when you asked me for money. Why would you … need help asking others for the … same?" With that, Bernie closed the lift doors before Harriet could ask any more questions.
Moments later she heard a familiar thud-thud-thud from the basement as the huge robot returned to the charger. The lights went dim, and Harriet heard the jangle from her terminal as it rebooted and began to play the intro all over again.
"So let me get this straight," she muttered. "I joined the Peace Force, put on this uniform … and now I have to cold-call the good people of Dismolle and sell them raffle tickets." Harriet thought about that for a moment. "I'd rather do the bank robbery."
She went to sit at her terminal, then changed her mind. She was hungry and thirsty, and according to Bernie she had funds in her bank. She decided to dash out for five minutes and get some supplies.
Chapter 5
As Harriet left the office, she paused to look at the shattered front doors. There wasn't much she could do about them now, and it wasn't like anyone was going to rob the Peace Force. In fact, there were no pedestrians at all: cabs were free, so why would anyone walk?
Well, she did. She'd spotted a couple of shops on her way into the office that morning, not that far away, and a bit of sunshine and thinking time would suit her just fine.
Harriet walked quickly, taking off the heavy jacket as she got warm. The broad pavement was clean, the slabs perfectly level and laid with millimetric precision. By robots, naturally. Some things they were good at, like construction and maintenance. Other jobs, like, for example, single-handedly running a Peace Force station, less so. Harriet realised that if she stuck with the traineeship, she'd probably end up managing the place herself, whatever her rank. Assuming they managed to pay off Bernie's debts of course.
She frowned at that. Surely headquarters, wherever they were, wouldn't want the Peace Force running raffles and fund-raisers to provide essential services? Take Bernie, for example. The robot obviously needed a new set of batteries, and why shouldn't HQ pay for them? And weapons, and new front doors, and …
Walsh realised she was standing in the doorway of a small deli. She walked inside and stopped in confusion, because it was nothing like the shops she was used to. The deli near her apartment had a row of screens where you entered your requirements. Then, as you left, your items would be bagged and waiting at the service counter.
Here, on the other hand, it was chaos. There were shelves crammed with display boxes, each containing actual products. There was nothing to stop her reaching out and touching the merchandise. Nearby, raw fruit and veg sat in boxes made from cardboard, all stacked on top of wooden crates. And at the back, behind a wooden counter, sat an elderly man reading a sheaf of printed pages. He was lean, with short grey hair and a thin, slightly beaky nose, and he held the paper delicately with slender fingers.
"Hi," said Harriet.
The man was writing something on the pages, and nodded without looking up.
"Can I get some help?"
The man lowered the sheaf of papers. "Bit early for a fancy dress party," he remarked, when he saw Harriet's uniform.
"Oh, it's not for a party. I'm really Peace Force."
Slowly, the man looked her up and down. "Real Peace Force?"
"Yup."
"Well I'll be." The man set aside his stack of pages and got up hurriedly, standing to attention. Then, to Harriet's surprise, he saluted. "Inspector David Birch, retired. Late of the Chirless branch, sir."
Harriet copied his salute as best she could. "Harriet Walsh." Then, quickly: "I'm just a trainee."
Birch relaxed, no longer standing quite so straight. "What are you doing in a Super's uniform?" he said mildly, sounding more resigned than annoyed.
"I'm sorry. It's all we had."
"Oh well, I don't suppose it matters nowadays. The Peace Force is a joke around these parts." Slowly, Birch took his seat. "So when did they reopen the station? Must have been recent. I go past every day."
"I started this morning," said Harriet. "The station never closed, though. It was running with a skeleton staff."
"Nonsense, the place has been locked up tight for years. I should know, I went by a few times and the doors were sealed. Just wanted to poke my head in, to get a look and a smell."
"Smell?"
"You must have noticed it. Sweat, machine oil, deodorant, the tang of ozone." Birch sounded wistful.
"Were you in the Force long?"
"Forty years, give or take."
"And now you run a deli just across the road. That's some coincidence."
Birch gave her a look. "Who said it's a coincidence? I like to keep an eye on the place, remind myself of the good times. You'll find old bulls like me will always be drawn to the yoke, even after we're put out to pasture."
"But you're from Chirless, not Dismolle."
"All these stations are cut from the same mould. Anyway, I couldn't afford to rent in Chirless." Birch looked around the deli. "Can barely afford it here, truth be told," he murmured.
Harriet couldn't believe her luck. Here, practically next door to the station, was an old-school veteran of the Force. She could question him, learn from him, maybe even get his help from time to time! It would be like having her own personal training manual. And unlike Bernie, he wouldn't need recharging every couple of hours. Then she remembered her task at the office. "Look, I'd love to chat but I really have to get back."
"Oh, got a case on?" In an instant, Birch's whole demeanour changed. One minute he was an old man, and the next he was a Peace Officer again, keen and eager.
"Sorry, nothing like that. Just fund-raising."
"Oh. Community relations." The way Birch said it, it sounded like a curse.
"It's sort of urgent too, so if I could just order a few things …"
"I don't usually do orders." Birch gestured. "It's just what you see on the shelves."
"Yes, I meant … I'll …"
"Oh, you live near one of those," said Birch dismissively. "Order goods with a screen, pick them up on the way out?"
Harriet nodded.
"Well, I prefer the old fashioned way. Here, take this." With that, Birch reached under the counter and took out a basket. "Add whatever you want, bring it back here and I'll tell you how much to pay."
"Really? Isn't that back to front?"
"Says the trainee in a Super's uniform, who's busy fund-raising for one of the biggest and most powerful organisations in the galaxy."
Harriet wanted to explain, but she really didn't have time. So, she took the basket and hurried round the shop until she had everything she needed. Well, almost everything. "Mr Birch, do you have any coffee?"
"Next shelf over. Customers call me Dave, by the way."
Harriet looked, but couldn't see the familiar tins. "It's not here. You only have these bags."
"Yes. Coffee."
"But it's just … beans."
"Yep. Grinder and pot on the top shelf."
"Don't you have instant?"
"Not in my shop," growled Birch. "A real Peace officer wouldn't touch that rubbish."
Harriet put the items in her basket, scarcely believing she could spend so much, so quickly and so casually. She told herself the coffee was vital for work, and not just a luxury for home, but the excuse sounded weak.
She took the basket to the counter, where Birch rang the items up. The total was more money than she'd seen for weeks, but her card went through without a murmur, and idly she wondered exactly how much Bernie had put in. Twice her debts, the robot had said. So, a couple of thousand, at the very least. Although knowing Bernie, it could be an amount equal to her debts over the next twenty thousand years, plus interest. Say, a cool forty billion or so.
She dismissed the crazy thought, and Birch handed her a couple of bags with her items. "Come back again," he said with a smile.
"I will. And Dave, if I need any help with a cas
e …"
"Sure, I'd like that." Then Birch sighed. "Of course, it would have to be outside business hours. I have to mind the shop."
Harriet glanced at the empty aisles. "You're right, you can't let all your customers down." Immediately, she regretted her words. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Every customer counts." Birch shrugged. "Once you fall behind with the rent, it's near impossible to catch up again."
"Don't I know it," said Harriet, with feeling.
* * *
As she entered the Station, Harriet had a sudden thought. With Birch just across the street, why had Bernie wasted all those years trying to get her, Harriet Walsh, into the Peace Force, when the robot could have tempted Birch back with little more than free coffee and a uniform? Surely he would have been a better fit?
She was still thinking about it as she set up the grinder and coffee pot in the canteen. The room was large, built for dozens of officers, and when she operated the grinder it sounded like a child's toy in the big, open space. After the beans had turned into a kind of lumpy dust, she spooned some into the pot and set it on the stove.
Not for the first time, Harriet wondered why Bernie had chosen her above all others. Maybe it was the robot's all-too-literal thinking: HQ told Bernie she could have a trainee, so that's exactly what she set out to do. She didn't think to widen her parameters and include ex-Peace Force officers.
Then she had a thought. If Bernie found out about Birch, she'd probably bring him in and fire Harriet. Or worse, thought Harriet. The robot might relegate her to coffee making and uniform cleaning, while the two real officers got on with real Peace Force work.
At that moment she decided to keep quiet about Birch. She'd go to him for assistance, but she was damned if she was going to lose her brand new job to him. Anyway, he'd already left the Force whereas she'd only just joined.
Her train of thought was interrupted by a gentle hissing noise, and the most amazingly enticing aroma she'd ever smelt. Compared to her usual coffee, it was like eating a real steak versus the fake protein stuff they served in fast food joints.
Eagerly, she poured some into a mug and stirred in a little milk. Then she sipped the frothy, caramel-coloured brew, so keen to try it she barely blew on it first. Slowly, a smile spread across her face, and she realised she could easily become an addict.
Back at her desk, with a second mug of coffee at her elbow, she activated the terminal to get a look at Bernie's new telemarketing software. At first glance it wasn't that different to the crime-fighting app. In fact, it was identical, except the buttons for next and previous suspect were missing. Oh, and there was also a handy slider to record the number of tickets sold to any given person. Rather optimistically, the minimum was 5. Even more optimistically, the maximum ran into the millions.
Bernie had even supplied a name for Harriet to call: Mr Kirten. Harriet shook her head at the sight. It would be a cold day in hell before she bothered him with lottery tickets.
Harriet eyed the screen, deep in thought. All she needed was people with a few credits to spare. She didn't need to filter the population using complicated algorithms, especially not the ones Bernie had used. No, she just needed a directory and a list of the more affluent areas.
Ten minutes later she had a dozen suburbs listed on Trainee Walsh's Day Planner. She wrote a few sentences underneath, changing a word here and there, before picking up the commset.
"Hi, I'm Harriet Walsh of the Dismolle Peace Force," she said, in her most charming voice. "I'm calling because I need your help."
Might work, she thought, and then she called the first contact and started for real.
Chapter 6
It was two hours later, and Harriet's throat was dry from talking. So far she'd sold about a hundred tickets, but it was hard going. Whenever she called older people, they tended to complain about some ancient slight by the Peace Force, real or imaginary. And when she called a younger resident, they were either too busy to stop and talk, or they had no idea the Force was back on Dismolle. Harriet grew tired of explaining the Force had never left in the first place, and in the end she told everyone the fund-raiser was for a grand opening.
She was in the middle of the latest call when the lift doors opened and Bernie stepped out. Harriet held up a hand, letting the robot know she was busy. Moments later she convinced the person to buy a single ticket, and hung up. On the screen she set the number of tickets sold to five, and clicked the 'next' arrow.
"You are performing admirably," said Bernie. "Almost five hundred tickets sold … that is an excellent start."
"More like a hundred," said Harriet, indicating the screen. "I can't set this program to less than five, so the count's off."
Bernie was silent.
"It's better than nothing," said Harriet encouragingly.
"There's a reason the minimum is five," said Bernie. "It costs four credits to make each call."
"Oh." Harriet looked at her jotter. That meant she'd lost three hundred credits. "In that case, we should probably re-think the raffle idea."
"I concur."
"By the way, I called Kertin one last time and told him the original raffle has been cancelled. So that means we don't need a hundred-odd grand for the first prize."
"Very good, Trainee. Now we only need seventeen thousand credits."
Harriet winced, but realised it could have been worse. "That's a lot of electricity."
"I use a substantial amount," said Bernie simply.
"Who do you owe the money to? Some bank, I guess."
"'Many banks' would be more accurate."
"Smart. If you get a bunch of different loans you can juggle them all."
Bernie hesitated. "They are not loans, exactly."
"What do you mean?"
"As mentioned earlier, I have access to all of Dismolle's networks. In order to obtain the funds I so desperately needed, I divert transactions as they pass through the financial system."
"Wait … you really did rob a bank?"
Bernie looked truly unhappy. "I would prefer not to use such strong words, as I have not stolen anything. The funds are merely delayed a few seconds between their source and destination."
"So how do you get to spend anything? It would be in and out of your account before you could get at it."
"I process thousands of transactions a second. Enough remains in the account to pay a bill here, then make up the difference there."
"So the total pool of cash on Dismolle is a fraction less, but nobody is worse off because you keep moving it around?" Harriet shook her head in wonder. "What a fantastic wheeze!"
"You think it's … acceptable?"
"Well, if I had my Peace Force hat on I'd say no … but I don't. As far as I can tell you're not stealing, you're only borrowing. I'd say go for it, at least until we work out a long term solution."
"Very well, I will maintain our funding level for the time being." All of a sudden Bernie looked happier. "I must admit, this has been a severe strain. I am relieved you approve."
Harriet realised the robot might stand up in court and blame the new trainee for authorising a dodgy money transfer scheme, but she dismissed the idea. First, she'd only just started with the Peace Force and Bernie's little sideline sounded like it had been going on for years. And second, there were no courts on Dismolle.
"Now pay attention," said Bernie, "It's time to continue your training."
Relieved, Harriet switched off the terminal and stood up. "What's next?"
"There are certain skills essential to every Peace Force officer, and I have devised a training scenario which will test many of these skills to the limits."
Oh great, thought Harriet. More raffle tickets.
"Later today, a sub-orbital flight from the city of Chirless will be landing at the Dismolle spaceport. There is a person of interest aboard that flight. Your first task is to examine the passenger lists for all inbound flights and identify the individual."
> "Needle, meet haystack."
"I'm sorry?"
Harriet gestured. "How am I supposed to pick out one person from a whole bunch of passengers? I mean, you said person of interest, but since it's a training mission I'm guessing they're no different to everyone else."
"I will give you several clues. First, this person runs their own business. Second, they recently arrived from another planet. And third … no, I think two clues will suffice."
"Bernie!"
"Please do your best. I will be recharging."
* * *
After Bernie left, Harriet sat at her desk and set about checking inbound flights. There were two interstellar ships landing, but they were both cargo vessels. It was possible Bernie's clues were red herrings, but from what she knew of freighter pilots, one sight of the law and they'd run for it.
However, there was also a sub-orbital passenger ship from Chirless, which was ideal. The only thing was, the arrival wasn't for another three and a half hours. In fact, when she checked the departure time from Chirless, she discovered it hadn't even left yet, since the flight was only forty minutes long.
Still, she had the passenger list and most of them were locals. She filtered by age, selecting people twenty to twenty-five. She reasoned that she couldn't very well follow children around, and as for older people … Oh, who am I kidding, she thought, as she filtered out all the women. If she had to stalk someone, it might as well be a decent-looking single guy around her own age. Hopefully, a single guy with millions in the bank.
She ran the search and her terminal pinged: Zero results.
To prove she wasn't too fussy, Harriet bumped the upper end of the age range to thirty. After all, an older guy was more likely to have millions.
Ping! Zero results.
Just to check it was working, she entered ages five to sixty and tried again. The terminal showed her dozens of passengers, but the screen did not list their ages. Instead, she had to tap each name and check their personal information to find their date of birth, then do a quick mental calculation. After reading the personal stats of twenty old-aged pensioners, she gave up on that method and went back to the search.