Hal Spacejock Omnibus One

by Simon Haynes

"You'll have a job. He died five years ago."

  Clunk looked shocked. "Died?"

  "Yeah. His son Regan took over."

  Hal shot Clunk a triumphant glance. "Told you it was Regan."

  "But the Black Gull's database —"

  "You're the one telling me it was outdated."

  "But I didn't know … I didn't realise …"

  Clunk lapsed into silence as the tractor came slipping and sliding towards them.

  "How much does this cargo weigh?" asked Hal.

  "Heaps." Bevan was still looking at Clunk. "Are you one of Jerling's robots?"

  Clunk frowned. "I work for Mr Jerling, yes."

  "Sent you here, did he?"

  Clunk nodded. "His staff asked me to present myself at your premises. I have several parts which no longer work properly."

  "What a surprise," muttered Bevan. "All right, go see Regan in the yard. He's in the office."

  "Are you off, then?" called Hal, as Clunk turned to leave.

  "I'll be back."

  Bevan watched the robot picking his way across the muddy field. "The old ones are the worst," he growled, once Clunk was safely out of earshot. "They get ideas, see?" He spat on the ground. "Think they're smarter than we are."

  "What a surprise," remarked Hal.

  The tractor drew up to the Black Gull's cargo doors and a squat grey robot leapt down from the cab. A pair of rough-looking men followed, tucking grubby T-shirts into the waistbands of their jeans. While they stood by watching, the robot moved to the nearest trailer. It opened a small flap and pressed a button, and the hard plastic covers lifted and folded up one after another. There was a full load of rough wooden crates, each plastered with the same red label: "WARNING! FRAGILE!"

  Hal eyed the stacks in concern. "That's a lot of cargo."

  "Two more loads yet."

  Hal stared. "You're kidding!"

  "Yeah." Bevan gestured at the men, who ambled to the side of the trailer and laid hands on one of the boxes. They got it down with much huffing and puffing and cursing, then argued over who was going to go backwards. Meanwhile, the robot took a crate and cruised past them, moving effortlessly despite the heavy load.

  "Be handy if you opened the hold," remarked Bevan.

  "On my way." Hal crossed to the nearest landing leg and flipped open a small panel. He pressed a button and the rear doors opened, allowing a large section of floor to extend from the back of the ship. It slid out, grating and groaning, until it was suspended above the robot, which started to back away. Hal stabbed another button and the ramp lifted about three inches. Then, with a loud hiss, the heavy slab of metal dropped towards the ground.

  "Watch it!" shouted Bevan.

  The robot dropped its crate and threw itself flat on the ground, disappearing completely as the ramp thudded down.

  "Lift the bloody ramp!" shouted Bevan, breaking into a run.

  Hal peered around the landing leg. "What?"

  "Get it up, man!"

  Hal operated the controls and the ramp broke free, rising into the air in fits and starts. The robot was lying face down in the mud underneath, while alongside it the crate was half-buried in the soft earth. "Looks fine," said Hal. "Go on, haul it out."

  Bevan eyed the ramp. "You sure that thing's gonna stay up?"

  "Not really."

  Bevan darted underneath the quivering slab of metal and rocked the crate from side to side, trying to loosen it. Meanwhile, the robot got to its knees and shook its head, scattering drops of mud.

  "Look out!" shouted Hal.

  Bevan dived clear of the ramp, landing flat on his face in the mud. The robot sprinted over the top of him, one foot landing on the back of Bevan's head and pressing the human's face down into the soft earth.

  Above them both, the ramp was still horizontal.

  Bevan sat up, spitting mud. He looked up fearfully, but when he saw the ramp suspended in mid-air he gave Hal a very muddy scowl. "What the hell are you playing at?"

  "Sorry about that," said Hal. "I thought one of your guys was going to trip over."

  Bevan staggered to his feet, scraping handfuls of mud from his coat. "If I thought you did that on purpose —"

  "I didn't, I swear!" Hal withdrew behind the landing leg before his face gave him away. "You gotta laugh, though."

  Somewhere to his left, the grey robot snorted.

  Bevan gave Hal a long hard stare, then turned on his heel and yelled at his team. While they were getting organised Hal lowered the cargo ramp, and as soon as the lip touched down the grey robot gathered its crate and strolled up the incline to the hold. There was a thud as it placed the crate inside, and it reappeared empty-handed and headed towards the trailer for its next load. Meanwhile, the two men staggered towards the ship with their crate, still arguing over who was supposed be going backwards.

  Hal was about to offer advice when he heard a low hum on the horizon. He scanned the skyline until he spotted a flashing red light in the distance. "What's that?"

  "Patrol," said Bevan, still wiping his face with his sleeve. "They'll probably shoot you down when you leave."

  The light vanished, and although Hal watched the spot for a while it didn't come back. He shrugged and turned to watch the loading. The two men were just entering the hold with their crate, and Hal suddenly remembered he'd left the inner door open. The last thing he wanted was those two poking around in his ship, maybe pocketing valuables or souveniring spare parts. "I'm going to get some grub," he told Bevan. "Yell if you need a towel or anything."

  *

  Clunk approached the Incubots yard in high spirits. For the first time in years he was oblivious to the groaning and grating from his knees and elbows, and almost unaware of the stiffness in his neck. A few days from now his aches and pains would be gone for good!

  He passed between the tall gates, strode into the yard and stopped dead. This was a robot factory? He'd expected white-painted laboratories, clean rooms, parts stores and the gentle hum of high-tech equipment. Instead, there were two decrepit buildings, a couple of tin sheds and piles of muddy junk strewn around a barren, oil-stained yard.

  Clunk eyed the nearest building. It was true that Mr Jerling ran his corporation from an old shed, but he would be hard pressed to run a chook raffle from this particular edifice. For a start, there was no roof. Correction - there was, but the large, rusty panels and twisted beams were currently decorating the floor. At least, Clunk assumed there was a floor underneath, because anything not covered by bits of roof was knee-deep in litter.

  The second building was an improvement - it had a roof. Less than half the windows were broken, and the presence of a front door was promising. "Office", said the sign, so that's where Clunk went.

  He pushed through the rickety door and found himself in a small cubby-hole. There was a human male sitting at a buckled desk, his feet up and a sandwich half-raised to his mouth. As Clunk entered the room, he lowered the sandwich. "What do you want?"

  "I'm looking for Regan Muller."

  "You found him. Spill it."

  "Mr Jerling sent me."

  "Ah." Regan pulled open a drawer and took out a dog-eared ledger and a pencil stub. He turned to the middle of the book and prepared to write. "Age?"

  "A little over thirty."

  "Much over?"

  "Six or seven years," admitted the robot.

  "Could have fooled me." Regan wrote in the book. "Any joints worn?"

  Clunk touched his elbow. "I sometimes have trouble with this one. I requested a replacement last year, but they couldn't get the parts."

  "All the others okay? Knees? Hips?"

  "Fine, thank you."

  "Flaky memory?"

  "I've marked one bank as suspect because it returns spurious results from time to time, particularly during standby mode. The other three are mixed brands."

  Regan grimaced as he wrote. "Worth more in matched pairs."

  "I dare say they are."

  "How's your brain?"

  "
Excellent," said Clunk shortly. "And yours?"

  Regan made a final note in his ledger, closed the book and put it back in the drawer. "Ok, you can go. Stick around the yard, keep dry if it rains."

  "When will you make a start? On me, I mean."

  Regan shrugged. "I've got another ship due on Friday. Your parts will be on that one."

  "Thank you. I'm sure Mr Jerling will be pleased with your prompt service."

  "He always is."

  Clunk left the office and strolled to the fence to check on the Black Gull. Loading was still in progress, and judging by the remaining crates he had plenty of time to look around before saying goodbye to Mr Spacejock. Leaving the fence, he began to explore the rest of the yard. There was a run-down truck in one of the tin sheds, while the other held an assortment of cutting tools: hand-held devices with strong, gaping jaws.

  Having inspected the buildings, Clunk turned his attention to the piles of junk. There were several of them, large heaps of discarded robot parts - arms and legs, body shells, even a few heads, all weathered and streaked with mud. He frowned. Why did the factory throw their rejects out here instead of melting them down? It seemed like a tremendous waste of alloy.

  Curious, he approached the biggest heap. A flash of white caught his eye, a distinctive arm with a clumsy ball joint and a three-fingered hand. Clunk stopped. Why was Incubots making parts for an ancient model like that? The only LFE-15 he'd ever met was the elderly robot who used to push the snack trolley around Jerling's offices, back on Forg. Alfie, that was his name. He'd gone to a local family a few months earlier, given the dream job of looking after a frail old human. Clunk smiled as he remembered Alfie's happy face, remembered his inner glow as the faithful old robot had been rewarded for years of service. People grumbled about Mr Jerling's business practices, but he certainly knew how to look after his staff.

  A frown appeared on Clunk's face as he looked down at the arm. If it was a miscast, they wouldn't waste time fitting joints. So why did this one have a hand? Bending down, he gripped the clawed fingers and pulled gently. There was a clatter as the junk pile shifted, but the arm was stuck firm. After a quick look to see whether anyone was watching, Clunk braced himself and heaved.

  The pile broke open and a robot's head burst out, the eyes blank and lifeless in the dented white face. The shoulder was next, still attached to the arm Clunk was pulling, and as he stepped back the rest of the buried robot came free of the junk pile and toppled towards him. It thudded face down into the muddy ground and Clunk stared in horror at the hollowed-out skull and battered shoulders. The he saw the hand-written tag around the robot's twisted, muddy neck: Alfie.

  Chapter 11

  "I'm sorry Mr Hinchfig, Mike is busy right now. He can't see anyone without an appointment."

  "Listen you —" With difficulty, Farrell bit off an angry retort. He took a deep breath and forced a smile. "Have you been in this position long?"

  "Three years," said the secretary coolly. "I was promoted by your brother. If you have an issue with my work you can raise it with him."

  Farrell tried another tack. "You know the robots division is in trouble, right?"

  "Is it really?" The secretary's tone indicated that if it was, it was probably Farrell's fault.

  "They can't get any parts, so they can't build any new robots. Our flagship stores are selling second-hand models."

  "How is that relevant to this department?"

  "Staff cutbacks." Farrell leaned closer. "I've seen the figures. If Robots goes under my brother will lay off two-thirds of the company."

  "Are you threatening me, Mr Hinchfig?"

  "It's Mike you should be worried about. When the crunch comes, high-priced computer programmers will be the first to go. They're a luxury."

  "A luxury? Mike's work benefits this company enormously! Why, the news reports he produces—"

  "Tell that to the accountants."

  "How would your seeing Mike help with any of this?"

  "There's something he can do which could save the robot department. And all those jobs."

  "All I need is Mr Hinchfig's authority."

  "You just got it."

  "Mike only takes orders from Gordon. Why don't you ask your brother to authorise this little job of yours? If it's as vital as you say he'll be more than happy to assign Mike to it. Otherwise you're out of luck."

  At that moment the office door opened and a young man with thinning blonde hair looked in on them. "Could you please keep your voices down? I'm working on a complex algorithm here."

  "Mike!" Farrell hurried forward and grabbed the young man's hand, pumping it vigorously. Without stopping, he led Mike back through the door and closed it firmly, cutting off the secretary's protests. "Listen, Gordon sent me down with something. It won't take a moment."

  "Farrell Hinchfig, isn't it?" Mike gestured vaguely around the office. "I'm working on something right now. Deadlines, you know. Always too close for comfort."

  Farrell glanced around the room. Mike's inner sanctum was crammed with equipment, festooned with haphazard runs of coloured cable and illuminated by the glow of a dozen flickering screens. Half the displays showed human faces, their features changing smoothly from young to old, plain to beautiful and morphing through a wide range of skin tones. The result was a bewildering array of unique characters, a fast-rewind through everyone Farrell had never met.

  Seeing his interest, Mike explained. "It can generate ten thousand individuals in under five minutes, each of them fully rendered in a range of poses."

  "The fake crowds, right?"

  Mike nodded. "We can't reuse anyone in case a sharp-eyed viewer exposed us."

  "They're very lifelike."

  "Every detail is modelled."

  Farrell glanced at him. "Everything?"

  Mike reddened. "They have to be physically accurate or their clothes wouldn't hang properly."

  "All right, skip the biology lesson." Farrell crossed his arms. "Look, I need you to knock up one of those things for me. A one-off."

  Mike gestured at a humming grey box. "Take your pick, I've got several thousand simuloids in there."

  "I don't want a random simu-thingy. This is a custom job. I need someone copied."

  "That's not easy. You have to scan the subject to get their contours, translate the data to the modeller, apply elasticity to every muscle …" Mike shook his head. "You're talking eight hours minimum, and I'm already two days behind schedule."

  "This has clearance from the highest level."

  "Gordon?"

  "I spoke to my brother earlier."

  "Well, if he said it was okay …" Mike looked doubtful. "He was very keen to get the next series of news reports ready."

  "He was even more keen to get this job out the way." Farrell frowned. "Wait a minute - did you say you have to scan the subject?"

  "It's the only way to get an accurate model. I use three laser pickups to map their body from head to toe."

  "No chance."

  "I can obtain a reasonable image from a facial cast. The body can be guessed at, and with the right sort of clothes you can mask anything."

  Farrell tried to imagine a situation where he could get a cast of Jerling's face. Pretend to be a lifelong fan? "Mr Jerling, I'm so thrilled to meet you. Could you sign this autograph book, and by the way would you mind sticking your face into this bowl of wet plaster?" He shook his head. "I don't have time for that. Can't you use a recording?"

  "I could, provided it showed the front and both profiles."

  Farrell pulled the data chip from his pocket. "I've got a taped speech."

  Mike took the tile. "Walter Jerling?" he said in surprise, as he noticed the scribbled label.

  "Yeah, but you can forget the name when we're done."

  "You know it's illegal to impersonate someone?"

  "It's just a bit of fun. I want to surprise some friends of mine."

  "You said Gordon approved this."

  "They're his friends too."
>
  "All right, but you'll have to give me a couple of days. It's time-consuming work and I have things to finish off first."

  Farrell shook his head. "I need it in three hours."

  "Three hours! The rendering alone —"

  "Can't you just do the head and shoulders? I don't need all those poses you were talking about. He'll only be moving his mouth."

  "And blinking. And smiling."

  "You obviously don't know Jerling," muttered Farrell. He remembered something. "Oh yeah, and he smokes big fat cigars all the time."

  "Smoke doesn't work properly. And you'd have to do his hands as well, because they'd be visible whenever he handled the cigar."

  "Okay, no smoke. Just face and voice."

  "Voice?"

  "Of course. I want to speak into a microphone and have him repeat the words."

  "But —"

  "It's all in the recording." Farrell clapped Mike on the shoulder. "Come on, you're supposed to be the best. Just the other day Gordon was defending you, saying how you'd saved the company more than once."

  "He was?"

  "Sure. That new guy in the computer department was mouthing off, saying he could hire half a dozen youngsters, split your equipment between them and save a very expensive wage."

  Mike's lips tightened. "Is that right?"

  "Yeah. Hey, there's an idea … if you make this Jerling simuloid I could use it to offer this new guy a job at double wages. He might hand Gordon his notice."

  "You'd do that for me?"

  "We have to stick together, right?"

  Mike nodded. "You'll have this in three hours, even if I have to slave every computer in the company to the task."

  *

  Hal crossed the Black Gull's flight deck to the access tube, grabbed the exposed part of the ladder and climbed down to the lower deck. Avoiding the loose rung, he stepped onto the bare metal decking and squinted as a powerful overhead light came on. "Turn it down Navcom."

  The light dimmed, and Hal gazed along the cramped passageway to the cargo hold's inner door. He could hear the workmen in the hold: boots clumping on the hollow floor, curses as they manoeuvred a heavy crate into position, howls of pain as one of them trapped his fingers. And over these noises he could hear the even, mechanical tread of the robot as it marched in and out of the hold with crate after crate.