by Simon Haynes
It was weeks before he pieced together what happened next, and even then the exact details were still a little murky. First, there was an ear-splitting explosion, a flash of light, and a neat hole which appeared in the roof like magic. Before Hal could jump, duck or run away, the explosions continued, and the 'telescope' … or rather, the 'vintage machine gun', toppled over, still firing like mad. Hal felt something brush his scalp, another something graze his shoulder, then a tug at his elbow as the gun blasted off high-velocity rounds like there was no tomorrow. Plaster, insulation and fragments of wood rained down as the gunfire continued, and Hal cowered with his hands over his ears as the walls, ceiling and floor of the turret were torn apart around him.
* * *
Clunk was just wrapping a delicate vase in an old rag when, inexplicably, it exploded in his hands. Like magic, a series of holes appeared in the wall above his head, and then a light fitting fell from the roof, almost braining him. More glassware exploded, picture frames danced as the photos were punched and drilled through, but Clunk still didn't react … until something pinged off his elbow with enough force to leave a big dent.
That's when the distant chattering sound registered, and a quick audio analysis gave him the answer: someone was firing an ancient weapon. And, with only one human in the vicinity, Clunk had a fair idea who that someone might be.
"Mr Spacejock, what have you done now?" he murmured, as a table leg exploded in a fine mist of sawdust. Splinters flew, burying themselves in the plaster like wooden nails, and Clunk was thankful his armoured skin was immune to such trivial damage. Then a machine-gun round spanged off his shoulder, hurling him sideways, and as soon as he managed to regain his feet, he growled an expletive and set off for the turret at a run.
Clunk arrived to discover a flood of paperback novels cramming the doorway, and he dived in with both hands a blur, hurling the books over his shoulder with little regard for alphabetical order, whether by author name or title. As for categories, he mentally filed them all under 'door stoppers'.
Fortunately, the gunfire had ceased by now, although Clunk had no idea whether Mr Spacejock had stopped firing on purpose, or whether he'd just stopped one or more bullets. For all he knew, the human could be dead or dying, and at that sobering thought Clunk redoubled his efforts.
He cleared the way and charged up the steps, where - to his relief - he found Hal unharmed. Physically unharmed, that was. Mentally, he looked unhinged. His hair was sticking out in all directions, and the liberal amounts of plaster and sawdust caked to his skin made him look like a startled wooden statue. Hal was muttering something under his breath, over and over, and as Clunk got closer he managed to pick out the words:
"Bang, bang, bang. Bang-bang-bang. Bang! Bang!"
"Are you all right, Mr Spacejock?"
"Bang."
"Are you hurt?"
"Bang," said Hal. "Bang, bang."
"Let's get you downstairs for a nice cup of tea, shall we?"
"Bang?"
"Yes, I think a biscuit would be a good idea." Clunk took Hal by the arm and led the unresisting human downstairs, stepping over scattered books, loose shell casings and fragments of door frame, electrical fittings and ceiling joists. All he could think, as they headed for the kitchen, was that it was damn lucky the house was going to be underwater before the day was out.
* * *
Amy shifted her position in the darkness, trying to get comfortable. Unfortunately, an old stove was never going to match a comfy armchair, and when she tried crouching on top, her legs went numb. The water had risen over the past hour or so, and she could imagine the pressure on the door. Her dad was a good builder, careful and competent, but he'd been putting a door on a basement, not fitting a hatch to a submarine. Sooner or later a wall of water was going to come cascading down the stairs, and when it did, Amy knew her life would end.
She wondered how they'd explain it to her class, at school, and her eyes prickled as she thought of her students. They were a lovely group, and she felt guilty as she thought of their distress when they learned she was dead.
There was her dad, too. He relied on her for all sorts of things, from filling out his tax returns, to dealing with pushy door-to-door salespeople, to keeping his ancient computer up to date. He'd be devastated to lose his only daughter, and she had no doubt he'd blame himself for not being there.
Finally, she allowed herself a stab of self-pity. She'd never travelled, had never met that special someone … had never really lived. Surely her time wasn't up?
Amy thought of her class again, and the adventure stories they enjoyed so much. All those stories had one thing in common: instead of sitting around waiting to be rescued, the characters in them had the good sense to save themselves. Amy frowned in the darkness. Well, stories were all very well, but she was stuck in a basement with an old stove and a whole lot of water. The only exit was the door at the top of the stairs, which held back even more water, and her commset was fried.
Face it, she thought: she was trapped, and there was no way out. Waiting for rescue was the only option.
* * *
It took Hal fifteen minutes and about as many nips of brandy before the fog lifted. His brain snapped into gear, and before he knew it actual thoughts began forming again. Unfortunately, the brandy made them bump into each other like tipsy guests trying to dance the conga at a wedding reception, but that wasn't much of a step down from his usual thought processes, and he merely frowned a little more to compensate.
"So, what happened?" he demanded.
"You, er, cleared the turret," said Clunk.
Hal closed his eyes, and a montage of fireworks, puffs of exploding walls and falling masonry assaulted his senses. Hurriedly, he opened his eyes again. "Good. Excellent. So, is there much left up there?"
"Not a lot," said Clunk honestly.
"Weren't there books, and —"
"I think you should forget the turret and concentrate on this sideboard," said Clunk hastily. "I'd like you to admire the craftsmanship as we carry it to the Volante."
Hal glanced at the sideboard, then looked again. Slowly, he extended his forefinger, until it was poking right through a neat hole in the sideboard's polished wooden surface. "Bloody big woodworm on this planet," he remarked.
"Yes, quite large. Now, would you take the other end?"
They lifted the sideboard between them, and there was a rattle as several misshapen bullets tumbled onto the floor. Hal bent to inspect one, just as Clunk kicked them away. "What were they?" asked Hal.
"Cockroach baits."
"Really?"
"Well, they do kill cockroaches," said Clunk. "Amongst other things."
Hal shrugged, and they hefted the sideboard and carried it to the ship in silence. "I can't believe this is the last of it," he said, as they laboured up the Volante's cargo ramp. "Are you sure you checked every room?"
"I'm certain. The house is as empty as your bank account."
Hal slipped on a patch of mud, and almost dropped the sideboard.
"Careful, Mr Spacejock. Some of these items are quite valuable."
"Pity they got soaked by the rain then, isn't it?"
They made it into the hold and carried the sideboard to the last remaining space, where it fitted perfectly. "How about that for luck?" said Hal. "Could have been made to measure."
"Luck?" Clunk glared at him. "Do you honestly believe all this furniture just happened to fit? I'll have you know I measured every item while you were —"
"Planning, luck … what's the difference?"
"A viable freight business, for one."
Hal dropped his end of the sideboard. "All right, we're done. Fire up the engines and let's get the hell out of here."
"Not so fast, Mr Spacejock. We must switch off the generator and lock the house up."
"What for? I say we leave the generator going. It'll give us time to get clear."
"We can't do that. It might be dangerous."
"Not compared
to that explody zeedeg thingy."
"Believe me, Mr Spacejock, this is the correct procedure. We must —"
WHOOPAH WHOOPAH WHOOPAH!
Hal jammed his hands over his ears, but it made little difference to the piercing alarm, which drove into his skull like a turbo-charged ice pick. Half a dozen hazard lights flashed red and orange, assaulting his vision, and emergency lighting bathed the cargo hold with a chilly blue glow. "What the hell is that?"
Clunk gestured, muting the siren. "Navcom?"
"Power loss sector two. Fire alarm sector two. Priority three emergency."
"Fire alarm?" said Hal.
"Priority three?" said Clunk.
"There's a major fire in the third deck," said the Navcom calmly.
Hal and Clunk stared at each other, then …
"To the lower deck," cried Hal. "Now!"
Chapter 9
They set off for the third deck at a run, with Hal pausing to grab a big, shiny fire axe from the emergency cupboard. He'd spotted it a couple of weeks earlier, and had been itching to use it ever since. Unfortunately there wasn't much call for chopped firewood aboard a spaceship, although Hal had cast a few thoughtful glances at some of the furniture they'd carried on board.
Now, with a real fire raging below decks, it was his chance to swing the axe with abandon.
Hal caught up with Clunk, then deferred to him at the lift. Not out of courtesy … it was just that the robot weighed twice as much as Hal, and had very large feet to boot.
Clunk jammed his finger on the call button, and they waited impatiently for the lift to arrive.
"Aren't we supposed to take the stairs?" asked Hal, whose memories of fire drills were as hazy as the air he was breathing.
"There aren't any stairs," said Clunk.
"That's a bit dangerous, isn't it?"
"Only if there's a fire."
"But there IS a fire!"
"Precisely." Clunk glanced at him. "You can stay here if you like."
"Forget it." Hal brandished the huge axe. "You might need my help."
"Swinging that thing around won't help anyone," said Clunk, and he plucked the axe from Hal's grip and leaned it against the wall.
The lift doors opened, and thick smoke spread out to engulf them. Clunk entered the lift first, and Hal grabbed the axe and stepped in behind him. When the robot turned to address him in the passageway, Hal pressed the down button, shutting them both in.
Clunk turned this way and that, while Hal darted around behind him, doing his best to avoid being seen. In the end the robot spun his head all the way round, fixing Hal with a stern gaze. "Mr Spacejock, you cannot accompany me. You'll suffocate without breathing equipment."
"Nonsense," said Hal, hiding the axe behind his back. "A little bit of smoke never hurt anyone."
"I'm afraid I must insist. I don't want you risking your life."
"I'll be fine. You'll see."
The lift doors opened and Hal coughed as the smoke thickened. The fumes made his eyes water, and he couldn't see more than a metre or two. He raised his hands to brush the tears from his eyes, and almost parted his head with the axe.
Clunk grabbed it off him again, and vanished into the smoke with it. Hal put his hands out and stumbled into the gloom, trying to remember precise distances. Emergency lights pulsed dimly through the haze, but he couldn't feel any heat and there certainly weren't any raging flames. He noticed the smoke had a blue tinge, and he recognised the acrid smell from past mishaps. Somewhere down here, a piece of electrical equipment had burnt out, and he could only pray it wasn't anything expensive.
Suddenly there was a WHOOSH, and the smoke vanished like magic. Through watering eyes Hal could just make out Clunk at the rear of the lounge, hammering something into the plush carpet with the back of the axe. "What is it?" demanded Hal. "Did the owner leave a molotov cocktail in the drinks cabinet?"
Clunk put the axe aside, and picked up a speck of carbonised matter. He inspected it carefully, then tugged open a drawer and looked inside. "Aha, there's the culprit. It's a packet of self-lighting candles."
Hal stared at him in disbelief. "Self-lighting candles?"
"They catch fire when you shake them. An ingenious invention, according to the manufacturer."
"That's not ingenious, it's madness!" Hal spread his hands. "What next, self-igniting fireworks? Self-exploding grenades?"
"I'm afraid you're too late for patent applications. Both those products are already on the market."
"Why am I not surprised?" Hal eyed the sideboard, which was smouldering gently. He realised it could catch fire again at any moment, which meant they had to get rid of it. Then he remembered the 'whoosh', and he looked around, puzzled. "Hey, what happened to all the smoke?"
"I had the Navcom vent the atmosphere."
"Couldn't you have done that sooner, before I breathed most of it in?"
"No, I had to make sure there weren't any flames. Otherwise, the fire could have spread to the ducting, destroying the ship."
"It nearly destroyed me instead, but I guess that doesn't matter."
"I did advise you not to come down here," said Clunk mildly.
"All right, well now I'm advising you to toss that sideboard in the lake before it bursts into flames again."
"I shall do so. In the meantime, perhaps you could return to the house and switch off the generator. You'll find it in the basement, and there should be a large switch with signs reading On and Off."
"On and Off," repeated Hal. "Got it."
"Are you sure? I can write some instructions if you like."
Hal glared at the robot, but Clunk's expression was a picture of innocence. "No, I think I can manage."
"And Mr Spacejock …"
"Yeah?"
"Once you switch the generator off, I wouldn't delay. I can't tell exactly how long it will be before the zeedeg explodes."
Hal eyed the sideboard, wondering whether they should switch jobs. He could carry the thing out and toss it in the lake, while Clunk risked his neck with cobweb-infested basements, cranky generators and exploding eggs. Then he decided against it. Turning off a switch … how hard could it be? So, he grabbed a torch from the cargo hold before setting off for the house.
* * *
Halfway back to the house, Hal discovered the rising waters had covered the path they'd been using. He played his torch on the swirling current, debating whether to wade through it, then thought better of it. Instead, he was forced to take a new route through the undergrowth. As he crashed his way between sturdy bushes and branches, he realised they'd only just finished emptying the house in time. It was lucky he'd kept on Clunk's case during the previous few hours, insisting the robot keep working despite Clunk's complaints about the weather and his unwillingness to pull his weight.
Arriving at the house, Hal found a river flowing down the hallway, and with a shock he realised the ground floor was already under several inches of water. If there was water here, what was the basement going to be like? They had spacesuits aboard the Volante which could double as diving suits at a pinch, but the idea of fetching one, suiting up and jogging back in it didn't appeal to Hal at all.
He knew where the basement was, and he splashed along the corridor at the double, ignoring the cold water seeping through his boots. When he got there, water was already running down the steps, and for a moment he thought he was too late. Fortunately, the compact generator was sitting on a waist-high plinth, and the thick power cables all ran up the walls rather than across the floor. It was still surrounded by water, but Hal could see the big switch and the on/off sign Clunk told him about.
Before he took the stairs, Hal wedged the basement door open. He'd look pretty silly if the door closed on him, trapping him downstairs while the water rose higher and higher, and he knew if he drowned himself Clunk would never forgive him.
It took seconds to cross to the switch. The generator was almost silent, with only a gentle whine to show it was running at all, and when
Hal flipped the switch off, the whine subsided until the only sound was the trickle and burble of running water.
Then Hal spotted a sign on the side of the generator:
Do NOT switch this device off until you have completed the shutdown checklist.
Underneath was a whole sequence of steps, involving various controls on the illuminated panel set into the side of the device. There were lots of warnings about voltage spikes, sudden pressure loss, and explosions.
Hal hesitated. The generator would be under water in minutes, so it didn't matter if he ruined it by ignoring all the warnings. On the other hand, spikes and explosions sounded bad, particularly where the zeedeg was concerned. He glanced over his shoulder, then shone the torch at the water swirling around his feet. The list of instructions wasn't that long, and for once in his life he decided to follow them. The generator whined into life as he switched it back on, and then Hal spent ten minutes scrolling through menus on the touch screen, selecting the highlighted options as he ran through the correct shutdown procedure. Then, when he was done, he flipped the main power switch off again.
The generator continued to whine.
Hal tried the switch again, toggling it up and down, but the generator seemed to have a mind of its own and it continued to motor on no matter what he did to the switch.
Frowning, Hal accessed the help menu on the screen.
Help not available. Please call the supplier.
Next, he tried the shutdown menu.
Shutdown already in progress. On/off switch reactivation in … twelve minutes.
Hal stared at the screen. Twelve minutes? At the rate the water was rising, he'd be lucky if the generator wasn't flooded by then, and he could only imagine the lightning display when cold, wet water met high-powered electricity.
"Crap," he muttered under his breath. Should he wait it out, or run for it? He looked around for inspiration, and that's when he spotted something in the far corner of the basement. There was an old folding ladder attached to the roof, and he realised it wasn't just stored there - it was mounted in place, with a pull cord to extend it. And on the floor underneath … was that a trapdoor, just visible under the water?