Hal Spacejock 6: Safe Art

by Simon Haynes

  Hal eyed the doors, deep in thought. What if they backed the car into them really fast? But no, Harriet's mic would pick up the noise, and a squad of Peace Force officers would be sent to investigate the crash. Whatever happened, he had to get Harriet out of her uniform, and the sooner the better.

  Moments later his thoughts returned to the job in hand. They couldn't batter the doors down, but maybe they could pull them open with a handy length of rope? Hal patted his pockets, but came up empty. That only left one option.

  Tap tap!

  Harriet glanced up at him through the window, and Hal made a winding motion. She looked at him blankly, so he mimed opening the window. Then he mimed having a conversation, and in return Harriet mimed ignoring him.

  Eventually Clunk took pity on him and opened the door. "What is it, Mr Spacejock?"

  "I need something to open the padlock with."

  "We knew that ten minutes ago," said Clunk.

  "I just thought I might borrow Officer Walsh's, er, special key."

  "I don't have any keys."

  "You know, that special key for opening stubborn padlocks." Hal made a gun with his hand and cocked his thumb.

  "Forget it," said Walsh flatly.

  "It's the only way!" Hal knew he was right. Harriet couldn't go around shooting things, not with the Peace Force bug listening in to her every move. "Come on, let me use the key."

  Harriet sighed and reached for her holster.

  "I wouldn't," said Clunk. "Mr Spacejock has a chequered history where … keys are concerned."

  "Hey, whose side are you on?" demanded Hal.

  "The other side of whatever you're firing at, more often than not."

  Despite the robot's warning, Harriet passed Hal the gun, and he took it with both hands before spinning round to aim at the building, crouching down and making 'pow pow' noises under his breath. Then Hal saw Harriet's expression, and he lowered the gun before trudging back through the snow to the warehouse. He spent a couple of minutes examining the chain and padlock for weak points, and once he was satisfied there was no way to open them, he raised the gun and blasted a big hole in the wooden door.

  * * *

  Hal peered through the swirling sawdust and smoke, and gradually made out the interior of the warehouse. The place was freezing cold and deserted, and there was obviously nobody home. He was about to step over the threshold when Clunk and Harriet came hurrying up.

  "What happened?" asked the robot.

  "Harriet's key worked a treat." Hal went to spin the weapon on his finger, but Clunk was much too quick. The robot's hand cracked like a whip, and Hal's new toy vanished in the blink of an eye. Hal was about to object, but arguing gun control with Clunk was like asking a planet to spin backwards.

  The three of them entered the warehouse, squinting in the gloomy interior. Harriet moved away to their left, keeping her back to the wall as she started a sweep of the building. Hal and Clunk stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the harsh light. The first thing they saw was a row of glass cases, coated with a layer of sawdust from the ruined door. Then Hal spotted the truck. "Wow, would you look at that?" he said, feasting his eyes on the huge spotlights, the forest of whip aerials sprouting from every surface, and the giant metal bullbar which was bigger than a farm gate. The wheels were taller than he was, and the cab was so far off the ground it required a telescopic ladder to access it. "Bags I drive."

  "I think not," said Clunk. "These models can be unwieldy in the wrong hands."

  "You could run over a house in that thing without knowing it."

  "My point exactly."

  "All right, I'll toss you for it."

  "And afterwards I'll toss you. Furthest throw wins."

  Hal knew when he was beaten. "Never mind, at least I get to drive that sports job outside."

  "I'm thinking of leaving it here."

  "You can't. The overdue fees would be astronomical."

  Clunk looked uncomfortable. "There won't be any overdue fees."

  "Why not?"

  "The, er, rental office was closed for the off-season."

  "So how did you …" Hal gaped. "You stole a car?"

  "I did no such thing! I merely borrowed it from our hosts."

  "What hosts?"

  "We're guests on this planet. Someone must be hosting us."

  "Yeah, but …" Hal's voice tailed off as Walsh returned from her sweep of the building. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss stolen vehicles within range of her ever-present uniform bug.

  "Can you two ride together?" asked Walsh. "I need to use the rental."

  "What for?"

  "I have to interrogate the truck driver. It's the only way I'm going to get to the bottom of this scam."

  Hal frowned. "I thought you were supposed to come aboard the Volante?"

  "I'll meet you at the ship after I've seen the driver."

  "Don't forget we're on a tight schedule," warned Clunk. "We can't delay departure or we'll be liable for a very large penalty."

  "I'll be there. Anyway, you still have to load the artworks." Walsh turned to Clunk. "Do you have the car keys?"

  "I, er —"

  "He lost them," said Hal.

  "Never mind, I'll use an override code. I'll see you at the ship in an hour or so. And if you see anyone acting suspiciously, don't try and be a hero."

  Hal threw a salute, trying to lighten the mood, but Harriet merely frowned at him before heading for the car.

  "She's changed," said Clunk, as the car drove off.

  "Tell me about it. All business, no pleasure." Hal sighed, then turned his attention to the warehouse. "Okay, what have we got?"

  Clunk pointed out a glass case, which contained a large salmon jammed head-first into a small container. "That has to be Fish in a Jar."

  "I did art in school once. We used to paint trees and houses and little stick people with big heads." Hal frowned through the glass. "That's not art." He walked to the next cabinet, which contained a clear pipe brimming with yellow-tinted liquid. The pipe was at least a metre tall, and suspended in the liquid was a length of pale, fleshy tube. "What the hell is that?"

  "It looks like a piece of intestine."

  "I know what it looks like. But what is it?"

  "There's a card on the other side."

  Hal went to look. "Semi-Colon."

  "More like a third," mused Clunk.

  "And I can guess what that is," said Hal, pointing beyond the cases to a patch of fake grass. Standing on the greenery was a stuffed cow with a sheaf of half-chewed straw in its mouth.

  "Cow in a Field." Clunk brightened at the sight. "I wonder how they killed it?"

  "Have a heart. What did the poor thing do to you?"

  "Cows and I have a history," said Clunk grimly. "Boots, leather seats or artwork … I don't care how they get rid of them."

  "You can touch them, though?"

  "Only when I have no choice."

  "Good, because we've got to bung this one in the truck. You grab the udder end and I'll steer."

  Chapter 8

  Harriet drove in silence, concentrating on the icy roads. She was thinking of Hal, and specifically about the so-called bug in her Peace Force uniform. It had seemed like a good ploy to keep him at arm's length, but he was going to be pretty hurt when he found out it was a total fiction. Clunk had already guessed the truth, she was sure, but the robot was playing along like a trooper. He probably appreciated the way her 'bug' was keeping Hal in check.

  A sign flashed past, breaking into her thoughts, and the car's navigation system beeped to indicate the next turning. The engine note changed, and the car slid into the left-hand lane before taking the off-ramp. Through the darkness Walsh could see snow-covered houses, snow-covered trees and snow-covered vehicles. She pulled a face. Forzen was certainly the planet for snow.

  On the dash, her destination was marked with a pulsing red dot. The settlement was small, just a collection of houses clustered around a supply depot. Bulk goods from the
spaceport were shipped here, before they were divided up and sent to the mines. Equipment, food, spare parts … an endless stream of cargo to feed Forzen's primary industry.

  The pulsing dot turned green, and the car pulled over and stopped. Walsh cut the engine and checked her blaster, preparing herself for the challenge ahead. Not that she expected much - she was confronting a truck driver who'd been paid to take a sickie, not busting a major crime syndicate.

  Walsh pushed the door up and stepped out into the cold. She eyed the house, taking in the steep, rust-streaked roof, the shuttered windows and the deep snow leading to the tatty front door. At first glance it looked deserted, but there was a plume of smoke rising from the chimney, and faint yellow light filtered through the shutters.

  She opened the gate, which creaked on its hinges, and trudged through the deep snow to the front door. The doorbell was hanging by a wire, and she was about to knock when she remembered her Peace Force training. She stepped to the side, using the brick wall for cover, and unclipped her holster. With one hand on the grip of her blaster, she reached out with the other and rapped sharply on the door.

  * * *

  When Hal and Clunk looked inside the truck, they discovered there was little room for the remaining artworks, thanks to a huge granite boulder jammed inside. Hal was all for dumping the rock, until Clunk pointed out it was one of Bright's precious artworks. They grabbed a couple of poles and rolled the rock to the front of the truck, only stopping when it thudded into the cab.

  Clunk bent to retrieve a printed card.

  "Don't tell me," said Hal. "This one's called Big Trucking Rock."

  "No, it's Hairpiece."

  "Come again?"

  "Hairpiece. Two strands of human hair laid on a granite rock. The strands symbolise …" Clunk's voice tailed off. "Oh dear."

  "What?"

  "The hairs were sitting on the rock."

  "Are you telling me they split?"

  "That's not funny."

  Hal eyed the muddy footprints covering the floor of the truck. Then he shrugged. "We'll just shove another couple on top when we get to the other end."

  "You don't think Bright will notice?"

  "If he does, we'll just tell him the new hairs symbolise the fact you lost the old ones." Hal prodded the rock with his finger. "None of this is real art, anyway. It's pretentious nonsense."

  Clunk looked up at the rock, which towered over them by at least two metres. "We may have a problem, Mr Spacejock."

  "Do tell."

  "I'm afraid this boulder isn't going to sit in the Volante's hold."

  "No problem. We'll just chisel bits off until it does."

  Clunk winced at the thought. "I said sit, not fit. There's no way to secure something this shape and size during flight."

  "Drill a few holes through the middle," suggested Hal. "Then you can thread the straps right through it."

  "It's a valuable piece of art, not a giant bead for some craft project." Clunk looked thoughtful. "No, I think we'll need a different solution."

  "You could jam all the other artworks around it."

  Clunk sighed. "If you have any workable, practical suggestions I'm willing to hear them. In the meantime we'd better get the rest of this art on the truck."

  After securing the boulder, they loaded the remaining artworks one at a time, packing them with large sheets of damp cardboard they found leaning against a wall. When Clunk was satisfied they hopped down to the ground and made their way to the cab. Hal pulled the telescopic ladder down and prepared to climb aboard.

  "I've been reconsidering the driving arrangements," said Clunk. "With you at the controls, I fear the artworks may endure a rough ride."

  "Don't be silly." Hal indicated the truck with his thumb. "This thing has more springs than a mattress factory. It'll be as smooth as butter."

  Clunk looked doubtful.

  "Hey, I'm a pilot! I fly a two-hundred tonne ship all over the galaxy, and I haven't crashed yet. How much damage can I do with one little truck?"

  "I really don't want to find out," muttered Clunk.

  "Anyway, you drove the rental straight off the road. I wouldn't call that safe driving."

  "You kicked the control column!"

  "Yeah, after you tried to cut me in half with the seatbelt."

  "I admit I was partially at fault, but I will only accept fifty percent of the blame. No more."

  "Make it sixty-forty and you have a deal."

  "Very well. I agree."

  The shook hands solemnly, and then Hal clambered up the ladder before Clunk could change his mind.

  * * *

  Harriet was about to knock again when she heard footsteps inside the house. They stopped just the other side of the door, and then a muffled voice called out.

  "Who is it? What do you want?"

  Harriet hesitated for a moment, then remembered the driver's name. "Mr Allson? I work for Demrik's insurance, and I'm here about your claim for medical expenses."

  "What are you talking about?" shouted Allson.

  "Can we not do this through the door?"

  There was the sound of bolts being drawn back, and the front door opened a crack. Walsh kicked it wide open and held her badge up. "Peace Force. Step away from the door and put your hands on the wall." She caught a glimpse of a pasty, unshaven face, and then Allson turned and ran. Walsh drew her blaster and flipped off the safety. "Freeze, or I'll gun you down."

  Allson ducked through a doorway, and Walsh was about to run after him when she recognised the danger. During Peace Force training they covered these situations over and over again, until they were second nature. Follow the suspect inside, and she might run straight into a trap.

  Instead, she left the door and ran around the outside of the house, making heavy work of the deep snow. She was halfway round when the back door burst open and two men raced across the yard towards a battered old car.

  Without hesitation Walsh took aim and squeezed off a shot. Blam! The car rocked from the impact, and the men skidded to a halt as the windows exploded in a shower of glass. "I said STOP!" shouted Walsh. "The next one's for you!"

  The men stuck their hands up. "Don't shoot," shouted Allson. "I surrender!"

  Walsh hurried over, took two pairs of cuffs from her belt and threw them on the ground. "Put those on. Both of you."

  "What did I do?" demanded the second man. He was overweight, with a bald head and grey stubble on his cheeks.

  "You ran from the law." Walsh gestured with her gun. "Put them on. I won't ask again."

  The man glanced at his companion, then lowered his hands. "Know what I think? I think this is harassment. You bust into a private home, you —"

  Walsh turned a dial on her gun and shot him in the chest. He shook violently, struggling to keep his footing, then dropped like a sack of spuds.

  "Just putting the cuffs on," said Allson quickly. He put his hands through the slender loops, and the device tightened with a beep. When he was secure, Walsh rolled the unconscious man onto his side and cuffed him too.

  "Wh-what's this about?" asked Allson nervously. "Why are you here?"

  "You're going to answer a few questions. If I don't like the answers I'm taking you into custody."

  "But I didn't do anything!"

  "That's for me to decide." Walsh holstered her gun and leant against the car. "Now, what do you know about a truckload of missing artworks?"

  * * *

  Hal revved the truck's engine, the cab twisting under the massive torque. The old-fashioned steering wheel was as big as a boardroom table in his hands, and the massed instruments glowed like a newborn galaxy. When he was ready, he sought out the reversing screen, judged the distance to the doors, and pressed the accelerator.

  "Not too fast," said Clunk. "Take it easy. Take it easy!"

  Hal took his eyes off the screen. "I know what I'm doing, Clunk. It's just a —"

  Scrunch!

  They came to a lurching halt, and the engine stopped with a clatt
er. Hal stared at the camera, but the screen was dark. "What happened?"

  "You drove into the wall."

  Hal restarted the engine and changed gear. The truck lurched forward, and the reversing camera showed a grey concrete wall with deep scratches and paint marks. Hal spun the wheel, selected reverse and tried again.

  Scrunch!

  This time they hit the other side, and there was a patter on the cab as fragments of shattered concrete rained down.

  "Mr Spacejock, I really think I should …"

  "Will you stop distracting me?" Hal jerked the wheel and planted his foot, spinning the huge tyres on the slick concrete floor. The truck leapt forward, and he stomped on the brake to stop it. Then he frowned at the screen in concentration, sawing the big wheel back and forth, alternating throttle and brake as he tried to line up with the exit. When he was happy he gripped the wheel and pressed hard on the accelerator.

  The truck roared backwards, skimming the right-hand doorpost. The thick concrete wall trimmed off the driver's side mirror with a smash, leaving a waving metal stalk, and the antennae on the roof weeouwed and boinged as they bent double under the lintel. Then they were clear of the warehouse, careering backwards across the snow at full reverse power. Hal spun the wheel and applied the brake, bringing the huge truck around in a neat one-eighty. They were still sliding and spinning when he rammed the gears into first and planted his foot, sending the truck roaring towards the road.

  Clunk cleared his throat. "Don't forget the fragile, and might I say, extremely valuable artworks we're carrying in the back."

  Hal grunted and pressed his foot down even harder. They joined the main road with a four wheel powerslide, straightened up with a wiggle and barrelled down the icy highway towards the spaceport. The artworks might be battered and bruised, but if Hal had anything to do with it they would not be late.

  Chapter 9

  Olivia Backsight held the commset to her ear. "Yes?"

  "It's the artworks … our driver just turned up to collect them, and they're not there. Someone's busted into the warehouse and taken the lot."