Hal Spacejock 7: Big Bang

by Simon Haynes

  "How much further?" shouted Hal.

  Clunk turned his head one-eighty degrees, paused long enough to shout "Five paces less than the last time you asked," and kept turning his head until he was looking forward again.

  Hal freed one hand and gestured at the robot's back, then yelped as a stream of cold water found a gap in his flight suit. It burned an ice-cold river down his chest, and he almost dropped the sofa as a frosty grip took hold of his southern regions.

  Ten uncomfortable minutes later, the Volante's slab-sided hull loomed from the murk. The cargo ramp was down, and Hal willed his arms and legs into one final effort as Clunk led him up the slope. The sofa grew heavier with every step, until Hal was convinced he was carrying the thing by himself. Then they were inside, and the rain ceased as though a dozen shower-heads had been turned off. Hal glanced over his shoulder at the solid curtain of rain, at the water cascading down the ramp, and at the miserable grey landscape beyond, and shivered.

  "We'll put it down here," said Clunk, his voice loud in the confines of the ship's cargo hold. "I'll move it later."

  "That'll make a nice change," grumbled Hal.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, you're hardly moving it now, are you?"

  "That's correct. I just said I'd move it later."

  "No, I meant … Oh, forget it." Hal dropped his end of the sofa and flopped into a nearby armchair. He put his head back, groaning as he took in the house contents now crammed into his cargo hold. Under the bright lights the furniture, bric-a-brac, paintings and boxes of junk had turned his nice clean ship into a charity shop. Hours of backbreaking labour, and from the look of it they'd only shifted a third of the gear. "We're never going to finish in time," he said. "That water's rising. It's going to flood the bank soon."

  "Given the house is below the new waterline, that's inevitable."

  "Might as well pack it in now." Hal sat up. "Come on, let's go and set the course."

  "Not so fast, Mr Spacejock. If we work a little quicker we can still complete the task."

  "I say we take the best stuff and leave the rest for the fishes."

  Clunk shook his head. "We've been contracted to remove everything. Ms Ryder was most explicit."

  "We should never have taken this job. There wasn't enough time to do it."

  "The deadline was perfectly reasonable. It was you who refused to work in the rain."

  "Like I said, it's a lousy job. We should have turned it down."

  "Mr Spacejock, you've made your position clear at every opportunity, and all that talking isn't moving any furniture."

  Muttering under his breath, Hal stood up, only to discover the armchair he'd been sitting in was even soggier than the sofa. "Great. Just great. Give me a minute to change?"

  "Into what? The rest of your clothes are still wet, since you left them scattered on the floor of your cabin instead of putting them in the dryer."

  Resigned to the damp, Hal followed Clunk out of the hold, hunching his shoulders as the rain beat down on him. The dog, far wiser than both of them, took one look at the weather and remained in the hold.

  "I still say we should have landed right next to the house," grumbled Hal.

  "And I've explained again and again why we didn't."

  The Volante disappeared into the murk as they trudged on through the trees. The ground was studded with deep footprints, all of them brimming with muddy water, and Hal picked his way carefully lest he sink up to his armpits in the cloying mud.

  A few minutes later, they arrived back at the house. Hal shuddered at the sight of it, and not for the first time he wished they'd misjudged the landing and flattened the place on arrival.

  "Must be a pleasant spot in summer," said Clunk. "Nice view of the valley."

  "Not for long," said Hal darkly.

  They trooped into the hall, which was covered in muddy footprints. Earlier in the day Clunk had reminded Hal to wipe his feet every time they entered, until Hal had pointed out that rising floodwaters weren't going to fuss about a bit of dirt. After that it had been quite some time before Hal tired of gouging rude words into the walls, splintering inconvenient doors from their hinges and swinging from the curtains until they came free, depositing him in a dusty heap on the floor. Even Clunk had got caught up in the excitement, operating a light switch with excessive force.

  Eventually the novelty wore off, and they concentrated on the job they were getting paid for.

  * * *

  After clearing two more rooms, Clunk announced it was time to empty the lounge. However, they soon discovered a major problem: the large wooden table and all the sideboards must have been built in place, and they'd have to be disassembled to fit through the doors.

  "We could leave them behind," suggested Hal.

  "You've said that about every item of furniture so far." Clunk extended a screwdriver blade from his finger, and set to work. "Why don't you check the garage while I'm busy here? I spotted a couple of vehicles inside, and they'll have to be moved to the ship."

  Hal brightened. Moving cars around … that was more his style. He jogged around the side of the house, head bent against the falling rain, and the big garage doors opened to his touch. Inside was a late-model car, and alongside it was a big yellow tractor with a snow plough on the front. Hal looked at it thoughtfully, then glanced over his shoulder at the house, then smiled to himself. That was the answer!

  Chapter 7

  Amy Frost wiped the back of her hand across her brow, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She was exhausted after a hard day's work, and she was glad the job was almost done. She glanced at the rented van parked in the driveway of her father's modest house, and then at the flood waters beyond, which were creeping ever closer. There was a brand new car parked next to the van, and she realised she'd have to move it again if they didn't leave soon.

  Her dad was sitting in the front seat of the van, watching the swirling waters as he mopped his face with a large handkerchief. His mane of white hair - normally sticking out in all directions - was plastered to his head, and she'd never seen him looking so tired. It wasn't just the effort of moving the belongings, it went deeper than that. Amy looked along the driveway, towards the single-storey house her father had built with his own two hands. She'd lived there her entire life, and her father had expected to live out his remaining years in the same place. Instead, the authorities had bought the place up, as they had with many others affected by the new dam.

  On the plus side, the generous payout had bought her dad a unit in a nice retirement village, with enough left over for a down payment on a flat for Amy. It was much closer to the primary school where she taught, too, which meant no more late mornings and weak excuses about the awful traffic. And her new car … that had been a lovely surprise.

  Yes, there were several positives, if only her dad could see them.

  "Amy!" he shouted through the window. "Did you pick up the keys?"

  Amy nodded. "Got them, dad."

  "Do you want me to lock up?"

  "I'll do it." Amy allowed herself a wry smile. Why bother locking up, when the empty house was going to be underwater in hours? Still, it would keep her dad happy.

  "The pictures," called her dad suddenly. "We forgot the pictures!"

  "We took them on the last trip," Amy called back.

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm certain."

  "Will you check?"

  Amy glanced at her watch. If they didn't get the rental van back on time they'd have to keep it overnight, and that wouldn't be cheap. "Dad, why don't you make a start? I'll check the house over and catch you up on the way."

  Her dad was unwilling to look around the empty house again, and he gave her a grateful smile. "Very well. Don't delay, and drive carefully."

  "Will do, dad. See you soon."

  Amy watched her dad drive off, then glanced at her precious new car. The water was getting closer, but she'd only be a couple of minutes inside and it wasn't worth moving it
.

  Then, reluctantly, she went to say goodbye to her home.

  * * *

  Clunk had just removed the second leg from the huge dining table when he heard the roar of a powerful motor. He frowned, wondering whether it was a visitor, then frowned some more as the roar got closer and closer.

  Then, before he could react, a big yellow tractor crashed through the front wall, knocking out the windows and leaving a big, ragged hole in the brickwork. Hal reversed out and jumped down from the tractor, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. Clunk was still standing there, sprinkled with falling plaster and with his mouth wide open, when the human jerked his thumb towards the remaining furniture. "Come on, give us a hand. This stuff won't move itself, you know."

  * * *

  After overcoming Clunk's protests, objections and general air of dismay, Hal hit upon a new idea: By tipping the plough back, they could balance all manner of furniture on the big yellow vehicle and transport it to the Volante at speed. Hal completed three whole trips before the batteries ran out, at which point they had to spend an hour pushing the plough all the way back to the ship, up the ramp and into the hold.

  "Excellent work, Mr Spacejock. You just set us back a further twenty minutes."

  "I didn't know the batteries would run out, did I?"

  "It was inevitable," said the robot. "Now, alas, you won't be getting that four-hour sleep I planned for you."

  "But you promised!"

  "I'm sorry, but we're behind schedule and the waters are rising faster than ever. We must continue through the night."

  Hal rubbed his chin. "How about connecting that zeedeg power module to the plough? That would give it some oomph."

  "Mr Spacejock, that would give it orbital velocity." Clunk spread his hands. "I'm afraid it's back to manual labour."

  "Oh well. At least you won't have to unscrew any more furniture."

  * * *

  While Clunk worked downstairs, Hal made his way to the turret. He remembered seeing a brass telescope and a load of old books through the windows when they landed, and he was keen to get a closer look. Despite his promise to the agent, there was always a chance one or two first editions might end up in his possession. People lent books to each other all the time, and half of them were never returned. The antique telescope too … that would be more at home aboard a spaceship than in some rich couple's study.

  However, when he finally reached the top of the spiral staircase, Hal was in for a disappointment. The books were cheap paperbacks, thousands of thrillers carefully arranged by author surname, and the telescope was nothing of the sort. Instead of lenses it had a hollow tube, and the eyepiece was more like a gunsight. There was a chain of brass cylinders hanging out the side, vanishing into a battered metal box, and underneath there was a crude type of trigger. Hal wondered whether it was a weapon of some kind, but when he pulled the trigger it just moved freely, and nothing happened. Anyway, who'd ever heard of a weapon without a battery pack?

  "Cheap piece of art," he muttered under his breath, before turning to more pressing matters: how to get a couple of thousand books down the spiral staircase without spending all day toiling up and down. After considering the problem for a couple of minutes, he took a handful of books from the nearest shelf and threw them neatly down the stairs. They sailed away, pages fluttering, and after much bouncing, ricocheting and slithering, ended up on the ground floor. Satisfied, Hal began clearing the shelves by the armful, heaving stacks of books over the bannisters in a never-ending stream.

  After half an hour, the shelves were empty. Hal tucked the 'telescope' under his arm, gathered up the battered metal box and slung the chain of brass cylinders over one shoulder. He was surprised at how heavy it was, and he struggled to remain upright as he staggered downstairs. On the way down he kicked stray books ahead of him, and then, as he approached the bottom, he became aware of a slight problem: the books had plugged the spiral staircase, and two metres of solid paper had effectively trapped him in the tower.

  * * *

  After checking they had indeed taken down all the family photos and paintings, Amy made her way to the kitchen. She had a nagging feeling they'd forgotten something, and she wanted to pull all the drawers right out and dig deep in the cupboards just in case.

  There was a short flight of steps leading down to the kitchen, and she was shocked to see the floor was already flooded. She took off her sneakers and socks, rolled up the legs of her slacks and splashed through the water to the cupboards, struggling to stay upright on the slippery floor. The drawers moved easily, and it only took a few moments to confirm they were all empty. There was nothing in the cupboards underneath either, and Amy was just turning to leave when she spotted the door to the basement. They'd checked it once, leaving most of the old junk down there to be swallowed up by the rising water, but what if they'd missed something?

  Amy pulled the door open with an effort, and water immediately poured in, sluicing down the stairs in a cascade. She picked her way down carefully, almost losing her footing in the racing torrent, and halfway down she realised it was pointless. By the time she reached the bottom, water would have soaked everything. So, she turned to make her way back up again … just as the basement door slammed shut.

  She stood there in total darkness, shocked. Had someone shut her in? No, of course not. There wasn't anyone for miles around. It must have been the water flowing around the door.

  She stumbled up the stairs, thankfully free of cascading water now the door was closed. Then she turned the handle and pushed. The door opened a crack, and a jet of water pushed her backwards, sending her slipping and sliding down the stairs.

  Amy recovered halfway down, wet and bruised and shaken. There was no time to hang around though - water was still flooding into the kitchen above, and the pressure against the basement door would only build the longer she waited.

  She hurried up the steps and put her shoulder to the door, pushing for all she was worth. It opened a little wider, but the water jet was even bigger and it knocked her legs clean out from under her.

  Amy tumbled almost to the foot of the stairs, and this time she got up a little more slowly. The door was the only exit, and it seemed she wasn't going to get out without help. There was nothing else for it - she'd have to call her dad and get him to rescue her.

  Amy reached into her pocket for her commset, and her blood ran cold as her fingers closed on thin air. Desperately, she checked her other pocket, but it was empty too. The commset had been there earlier, of that she was certain, which meant it had probably fallen out when she'd tumbled down the stairs.

  Really worried now, she made her way to the lowest steps, which were already under water. She pulled her sleeve back and felt around in the dark waters, wincing as she dug through soggy cardboard and waterlogged paperwork. Then, with a sigh of relief, she felt the rounded shape of her commset. She plucked it from the water and popped the screen up, only to drop it immediately as a powerful shock ran up her arm. The commset splashed into the water, and there was a crack and a fizz as it expired.

  "Oh shit," muttered Amy. "That's done it."

  Not sure what to do next, she sat on the step and leaned her shoulder against the wall. Fortunately, with the door closed the flow of water had slowed to a trickle, and it would be hours before the basement filled up. By then, with any luck, her dad would have come looking for her. All she had to do was sit tight in the darkness, and not panic.

  Then she noticed something: water wasn't just trickling down the stairs any more. Instead, it was running down in a stream. Amy returned to the door, where she could hear a hissing noise. When she ran her hand around the crack, she felt water spraying in under high pressure. Then, by tapping on the door, she discovered the water was already halfway up. The deeper it got, the faster the water would force its way in, until eventually the basement was full. Or, alternatively, until the door exploded from the frame and the whole lot came in like a freight train.

  Feeling
much more nervous now, Amy backed down the stairs and - after a moment's hesitation - stepped off them into the water. She remembered there was an old stove against the back wall, and she found it by feel in the darkness. Then she hoisted herself up, sitting on top with her legs dangling over the side.

  Safe for the moment, she sat there in the darkness, listening to the water running down the steps as she waited for help to arrive.

  Chapter 8

  Hal eyed the pile of books crammed into the stairwell, his forehead creased with concern. Burning the things was out of the question, since the flames would also consume the tower, the staircase, and him. Moving them out of the way would take ages, and if he stacked them on the stairs there was a good chance the whole lot would come tumbling down as he tried to leave, suffocating him. As for transporting them all back to the bookcases … forget it.

  No, there was only one solution: get hold of Clunk, and get the robot to dig in from the other side. Problem was, the thick pile of books would muffle Hal's loudest shouts and whistles, and he didn't have a commset. Oh, he'd asked for one, over and over, but Clunk had some silly notion he'd run up a gigantic bill in no time, bankrupting them. So, no commset for Hal.

  After several minutes hard thinking, the best workable plan he could come up with involved opening the upstairs window and attracting Clunk's attention. Somehow.

  Hal returned to the turret, where he leant the so-called telescope against the wall. As he did so, he noticed a slot on the side of the device, with a sliding bolt inside. He pulled it back, and his eyebrows rose as it snicked into place with a well-oiled click. Intrigued, he crouched down next to the 'telescope' and - very unwisely - pulled the trigger.