Hal Spacejock 6: Safe Art

by Simon Haynes

  During the afternoon Hal had been incredibly busy. While Clunk and Meri had been cleaning the cargo hold, hanging drapes, laying carpet, and generally getting everything ready for the show, Hal had put in a lot of hard work deciding on a name for his new business. After much deliberation he'd come up with Spacejock Professional Artist Management, and the only snag had come when he tried to promote S.P.A.M. on a bunch of mailing lists … for some reason, all his messages bounced. He tried once more, this time advising artists that their businesses would grow much larger under his hand, but shortly afterwards his data connection was severed for good.

  In the end he realised the job was like most others aboard the Volante: something best left to Clunk.

  At five to six, the crowd began to murmur. At six o'clock they were on tip-toes, peering over each others heads in anticipation. By three minutes past they were muttering and shifting impatiently. Then, at precisely five past, a limousine drew up behind the crowd. Cameras flashed, and two liveried footmen emerged from the car with a big roll of red carpet. They divided the crowd and unrolled the carpet all the way across the field to the curtain, where they pinned the loose end down with a couple of pegs. Then they returned to the limo and stood to attention either side of the rear door.

  Maximilous Bright was ready to make his entrance.

  * * *

  Bright stepped out of the limo, resplendent in a mauve jacket and matching velvet pants, his floppy cap tilted rakishly and a silver-tipped cane swinging casually from his hand. He made his way through the crowd, doffing his hat and waving and pointing at various friends and acquantances.

  Bright left the crowd behind and continued along the red carpet to the curtains, where he took a moment to compose himself before turning to face his admirers. There was a loud cheer as he raised his cane, but the crowd was quickly stilled as he motioned them to silence.

  "Friends, enthusiasts, collectors. Tonight you will experience the beauty and classic timelessness of my greatest works. Not only have I brought Semi Colon, Fish in a Jar and Cow in a Field for your enjoyment, but you will also be able to inspect my Hairpiece!"

  There was a murmur of excitement from the crowd.

  "Yes, it's true." Bright cleared his throat. "Now, I realise this venue is a little unconventional, but show me a conventional artist and I'll show you a pedestrian sign-writer!"

  There was a smattering of applause.

  "Now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment arrives." Behind his back, Bright signalled to Hal. "Behold!"

  Hal pulled the cord, drawing the curtains aside. The crowd gasped, and Bright bowed deeply, struggling to keep a smug self-important grin from his face. Straightening, he turned to gaze upon the scene in pride.

  The rear of the Volante was open, and Bright's artworks gleamed under the downlights. Fish in a Jar had been shined to a lustre, and the Cow's glass eyes shone from all the careful polishing. Hairpiece was arranged to perfection, the twin hairs like threads of fine gold under the soft lighting. Bright nodded in satisfaction. Spacejock had done a fine job despite the last minute panic. Everything was perfect.

  A movement caught his eye, and he lowered his gaze to the foot of the ramp. The first thing he saw was a pair of makeshift kiosks assembled from packing crates and cardboard. Arranged alongside, hand-painted signs proclaimed that the 'Spacejock Special' was not to be missed, that visitors could 'Tour the Volanti' for ten credits, and that 'Souviniers' were going 'cheep'.

  Behind the first kiosk stood a battered robot decked out in a sky-hockey cap and matching T-shirt. Emblazoned across the front was the slogan 'I came aboard the Volantay', and the robot's arms were overflowing with bundles of T-shirts and stacks of caps. There was even more headgear on the kiosk's narrow counter, and another large carton stood alongside.

  The second kiosk was even worse. A cloud of smoke rose from rows of sausages frying on a portable barbecue, and behind it stood Hal Spacejock in a chef's cap and apron. He was chopping onions with a large knife, with tears streaming down his face.

  Bright's silver-tipped cane slipped from his fingers, and the brim of his floppy hat drooped over one eye. The other eye grew rounder and rounder, and the small portion of face not covered by hair turned alternately red and white.

  Bright jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Spacejock offering him a greasy hotdog. "Have one on the house," said Hal, pressing the lukewarm bun into Bright's nerveless fingers. "I think the sausage is cooked, but the onions are a bit crunchy."

  Bright looked down at the offending article, which seemed to be receding at high speed.

  "Here, are you okay?" asked Hal in concern.

  The words echoed in Bright's ears, and then his legs gave way. The last thing he saw was a patch of red carpet coming up to meet him.

  * * *

  Bright was treated by one of the footmen, who fanned him with the floppy hat and administered brandy from a silver flask. The other footman conveyed the artist's wishes to Hal using short sentences and a lot of choice language, and by the time Bright recovered enough to sit up Hal's makeshift kiosks had vanished.

  Still in a daze, Bright staggered to his feet. "The exhibition must go on," he cried, to renewed applause from the waiting crowd. The whole episode had taken no more than five minutes of their time, and a number of bored and unwilling partners had brightened considerably at the highly entertaining antics. Oh, they were careful to tut and shake their heads sadly under the beady eyes of art-loving wives and husbands, but secretly they hoped for more.

  As it happened, they were not to be disappointed.

  At first, all went well. Groups of visitors strolled up the Volante's cargo ramp, taking a glass of wine before moving amongst the exhibits in respectful silence. The hushed atmosphere was broken only occasionally by the hum of the ship's generator, the gurgle of its plumbing and the solid, regular thump as Hal kicked a nearby landing leg with his size ten space boots.

  "I wish it was that bastard's head," he muttered, administering another kick.

  "If you'd only cleared things with him first, none of this would have happened."

  "What do artists know about commerce? They hang around drafty studios slapping paint around."

  "That sounds very much like my recent sign-writing experience."

  Hal jerked his thumb at the Volante's hold. "Have you any idea how much money that lot's carrying around? And who wouldn't want a reminder of their visit to my ship?"

  "I don't think Bright will forget."

  "It's not fair," said Hal sourly. "He's restricting my right to an honest income."

  "It's his show."

  "Oh, you can't call it a show. He doesn't like that either." Hal kicked the upright again. "Bloody artists. They're all the same."

  Clunk started to reply, then looked up at the hold. The background murmur had become louder, and people were hurrying into the ship. Bright appeared overhead, and was taken aside by one of the footmen.

  "Sir, several of your guests are attracted to Hairpiece."

  "Of course they are. It's the centrepiece, the ne plus ultra of the exhibition."

  "No, I mean they're really attracted to it. We can't pull them off."

  Hal and Clunk exchanged a worried glance.

  "What are you on about?" demanded Bright.

  "Well, this gentleman bent for a closer look and the rock sort of drew him in. When his partner tried to help, she found herself in similar difficulties. Then a second couple went to their assistance, followed by a third and a fourth. I'm afraid the scene now resembles the classic piece by Hugh Orgie. I'm sure you've heard of it, sir: A night in close friends."

  Bright raised his hand, silencing the footman. "I will sort this out myself. Keep everyone else out of the blasted ship."

  Hal turned to Clunk. "What do you think's going on?"

  "I have absolutely no idea," said the robot, in a most unconvincing tone.

  * * *

  Harriet Walsh spent almost two hours waiting at the fe
nce, and as the time dragged on she began to wonder about her approach to the mission. Peace Force officers generally charged in with guns blazing, interrogated the survivors - if any - and then wrote a completely different version of events for the official reports. It was no surprise that many officers found great success as novelists once they retired from law enforcement.

  At that moment Harriet wouldn't have minded a career as a novelist. A hot coffee, a comfy chair and a bit of typing sounded far better than a damp, muddy hiding spot.

  She shifted her weight, trying to ease the ache in her legs, and scowled as she saw a patrol circling the nearest building. The robots had appeared soon after the lights went on, and unlike humans they didn't get distracted.

  After ten more minutes, Harriet decided the plan was a wash. There was no way back into the compound, and definitely no way to get at the data. She'd just have to report her failure to Boson, and accept whatever punishment he fired her way.

  Moving slowly so as not to be seen, Harriet backed out from under the bush and stood up, wincing at the stiffness in her joints. After a quick stretch she set off in the darkness, heading back towards the Volante.

  * * *

  It was half an hour later, and the last of the guests had finally departed. Hal and Clunk were in the Volante's cargo hold, facing an angry and upset Max Bright. The artist had raged for several minutes, thundering on about the lack of appreciation of his work, the damage to his reputation and the very real chance of legal action.

  He finally ran out of steam, and Clunk saw his chance to smooth the waters. Despite his early plans, he realised blaming Mr Spacejock wasn't really the best option, and so he improvised instead. "This is just a theory," said the robot calmly, "but perhaps the rock was magnetised when our ship flew over the planetary poles. The exposure may have aligned certain crystals within the structure, stimulating the ferro-molecular electron flow until —"

  "Yes, yes, yes," snapped Bright, waving his hand impatiently. "I'm an artist, not a scientist. There's no need to get technical."

  "I'm sorry," said Clunk stiffly. "You wanted an explanation, and —"

  "I really don't care how it got this way. I just want to know how you're going to fix it."

  There was a lengthy silence.

  "How about this?" said Hal at last. "We'll fly back over the poles in the other direction, and that should reverse the magnetism. Right, Clunk?"

  "I suppose that's one possible outcome," said Clunk cautiously. From the tone of his voice it was a billion to one long shot, and the odds were only that good if they sprinkled the rock with magic pixie dust.

  Fortunately, Bright didn't know Clunk as well as Hal did. "That sounds like a splendid idea," said the artist heartily. "I was beginning to have doubts about your level of service, Mr Spacejock, but it seems you have all the answers."

  Hal beamed with pride. He wasn't used to compliments, especially when it came to his business dealings, but Bright seemed genuinely impressed. The only sour note was Clunk's worried expression, but that could be fixed with a little programming tweak.

  They'd barely settled the matter of Bright's magnetic artwork when Meri came hurrying up. "Hal, the buyer would like you to deliver the artworks as soon as possible. Can you handle that?"

  "If they pay, sure."

  "Of course they'll pay, and very generously."

  "Then we're on. Just point us in the right direction and we'll have this load of —"

  Clunk made a throat-clearing noise.

  "— valuable art delivered in no time," continued Hal smoothly, without missing a beat. "So, the destination. Is it far?"

  Meri gestured at the sky. "No, it's an orbiting space station. I'll point it out after we lift off."

  "You're coming with us?"

  "Yes. I'm to accompany the artworks."

  Hal remembered Harriet, and winced. Could he really cope with another juggling act? Still, it would only take an hour or so to deliver the cargo, and with any luck he might convince Meri to stay in the hold with Bright's pieces. In fact, if he locked her in he could skip the convincing part altogether.

  Chapter 29

  "Are we ready yet?"

  "Almost. Final preparations are under way."

  Hal glanced towards the airlock. "Is there time for a last gasp of real air?"

  "The air aboard this vessel is real."

  "No it isn't. It's like tinned food versus a meal in a restaurant." Ignoring the Navcom's protests, Hal made his way through the airlock. He stood on the landing platform, taking deep breaths of real, fresh air as the passenger ramp retracted into the hull. Then he coughed and snorted as the Navcom fired the engines with a whole lot of unnecessary smoke.

  Hal was still blinking tears from his eyes when he spotted a figure approaching the ship. It was a woman, clad in muddy overalls, and she was limping along with the help of a rough-hewn wooden branch. Hal started to wave, warning her away from the dangerous exhaust wash, but instead of retreating the woman began to move quicker. Then Hal recognised her, and his jaw dropped. It was Harriet Walsh!

  "Navcom, cut the engines and extend the passenger ramp," shouted Hal, as he hurried into the flight deck.

  The Navcom muttered something which sounded like 'make up your mind', but complied all the same. As soon as he was certain Harriet wasn't about to be barbecued, Hal charged back out of the airlock and took the ramp at a run, hurrying across the field with his heart in his mouth. He'd believed Harriet to be on board, but here she was, almost left behind. Not only that, she was obviously in a bad way.

  When he reached her, she fell into his arms, exhausted, and Hal held her tight, cradling her head against his shoulder. He ran his hand lightly over her hair, making soothing noises, and Harriet's breathing eased as he comforted her.

  Then, side by side, they made their way back to the Volante.

  * * *

  Harriet stood with her head bowed, letting the steaming hot water flood over her. The shower went some way towards easing her aching muscles, but it wasn't doing anything to improve her mood. She'd let Hal get to her again, despite all her efforts to keep him at bay, and on top of that she wasn't looking forward to Boson's reaction when she explained her failure to secure his precious data. Why couldn't the man follow procedure? Organise a search warrant, drop in a crack team of forensic experts and he'd lay Backsight open from one end to the other.

  The shower spluttered, the sudden noise startling her. Resuming her train of thought, she realised Boson had already explained why he wasn't following procedure. Organising a search warrant would tip Backsight off, and by the time the specialists arrived there would be nothing to investigate.

  Walsh stepped out of the shower, and the water cut off automatically. She dried herself with the towel, wrapped it around her hair, then donned a thick bathrobe.

  Then, with a sense of foreboding, she limped to the terminal and sat down. Unfortunately, when she'd tripped and fallen in the forest, her ankle hadn't been the only casualty. Next to the screen, lying on the desk, were the broken pieces of the decrypting device.

  Harriet pushed the pieces further back, out of camera range, and placed the call she'd been dreading for the past couple of hours. There was only one bright spot as far as she could see: Hal told her they were leaving for the Backsight Orbiter, and she might be able to convince Boson there was another chance to access company data.

  * * *

  "Can you put me through to Inspector Boson, please?"

  "I'll see if he's available."

  Harriet took a deep breath. Calling the Station on an open channel was a big risk, but she had no choice. No doubt Boson would chalk it up as another failure on her part. Seconds later, Inspector Boson appeared on the display. He stared at Walsh, then peered at the bottom of his screen. "Basic encryption? Really?"

  "I'm aboard the —"

  "I know where you are," interrupted Boson. "Why are you calling? Was your mission a success?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  B
oson frowned. "Really, trainee? You disappoint me."

  "There's still a chance, sir. We're heading towards … a certain space-based facility," said Harriet, after some hesitation. "It belongs to the company we were discussing in your office."

  "In that case, your orders are the same." Boson leaned closer. "This is your last chance. I won't tolerate failure."

  "Sir …" Harriet swallowed nervously. "The, er, decrypter was destroyed."

  Boson swore under his breath, and for a moment Harriet thought he was going to explode. Then he seemed to relax. "Very well, trainee. I have a new plan."

  Harriet hardly dared ask. "Yes sir?"

  "You're to sabotage the orbiter."

  "Sabotage the —?"

  "But yes. If you cause enough damage they'll have to bring in a repair team. I can infiltrate the team with my own people, and they'll get their hands on the data."

  Harriet had a vision of herself blowing up generators, destroying airlock doors and creating gas leaks. Problem was, she wasn't trained in demolition and she didn't have any equipment.

  "You'll need equipment," said Boson, as though he'd read her mind. "I'll have a package delivered to your ship in flight. When you land, you'll find it attached to the hull near the cargo door."

  "Yes sir. And … training?"

  "Don't worry, I'll make sure the instructions are in the box." Boson noticed her expression. "Believe me, you'll have no trouble."

  "Will this device cause much damage?"

  "Just enough, Trainee. Just enough. I'll include another decrypter too - use it if you get the chance."

  Boson signed off, and Harriet stared at the blank screen with her thoughts in turmoil. She'd been taught to obey orders without question, but over the past two days she'd graduated from upholding the law to breaking it … from issuing traffic infringements to trespassing, data theft and sabotage. Worse, none of the orders were in writing, and if anything went wrong she was convinced Boson would drop her in it.

  Still, she hadn't gone too far, not yet at least. If the sabotage proved a step too far she'd ignore Boson's orders and tell him she'd missed her chance. He could rant and rave all he liked, but at least she wouldn't end up in prison.