by Simon Haynes
"You know Jerling?"
"Of course. I work for him."
Terry's hand vanished into his jacket.
Clunk peered at him. "I don't recall your face. Do you work for Mr Jerling too?"
Farrell put his arm around the robot's shoulders. "Listen Clunk, why don't you go aboard our ship and make yourself comfortable?"
"Where's Mr Spacejock?"
"He's gone aboard the Orbiter to buy a new pair of boots."
Clunk's eyebrows rose. "I didn't know he had the money."
"I gave him some."
"That was generous of you."
"I hate to see a fellow pilot in need." Farrell leaned closer. "Listen, I can help you too."
"Thank you, but I don't need boots."
"Not that. I can take you back to Jerling."
A pained look crossed Clunk's face. "He … he's not expecting me."
"There's been a change of plan. He really needs your help."
Clunk brightened. "Really?"
"Sure. He has an important task for you." There was a buzz, and Farrell pulled out his commset. "Yes?"
"Loading complete," said a metallic voice.
"Seal up. We'll be there in a minute." Farrell returned the unit to his pocket. "Go ahead with Terry," he said to Clunk. "I'll leave a note for Spacejock explaining everything."
Terry walked over to the tube and disappeared down the ladder. There was a clang and a muttered curse as his foot slipped on the loose rung.
Clunk crossed the deck slowly and stopped at the top of the ladder. "It's a pity I couldn't say goodbye to Hal."
"Call him later," said Farrell, taking a gold pen out of his overalls.
Clunk hesitated.
"You can't stay here. You know how impatient Jerling can be."
After the robot had gone Farrell patted his pockets, looking for something to write on. The only thing he had was the deck of cards, so he peeled off a joker and hesitated, pen at the ready. Then he grinned and began to write.
*
Hal strode into the recalcitrant airlock without hesitation, confident he'd subdued it the first time through. The door closed smartly behind him, and Hal smiled to himself. It was amazing what a firm hand could do when it came to unwilling machinery. Then he heard a sniffing sound.
"Uh, oh!" said the airlock.
Hal looked around, puzzled. "What is it?"
"I detect lethal concentrations of bacteria. Please clear the airlock immediately."
"On my way," said Hal, hurrying to the exit. He pressed the button, but nothing happened. "Open the door please."
"I'm sorry. Which door is that?"
"The outer door!"
"Decontamination cycle commencing in three seconds. Please clear the airlock."
Hal looked up at the speaker. "Close the inner door and open the outer door."
"Two," said the airlock.
It dawned on Hal that his firm hand had got him into trouble again.
"One," said the airlock, and a fine mist sprayed from concealed jets. It was a soapy mix which got up Hal's nose and worked its way under his eyelids. Moments later, the hissing stopped and a blast of warm air roared through the chamber, clearing it.
Hal opened his watering eyes. "Is that the best you can do?"
There was a loud click behind him, and he turned just as a huge jet of water spurted from the wall. It slammed into him, throwing him across the airlock and crushing him against the far side. That jet stopped and a second opened up right next to his chest, hurling him back across the airlock. After he'd been thrown back and forth several times the jets stopped and the water sluiced away. Hal staggered upright, his hair plastered to his forehead and his clothes streaming with water. The outer door swept open and he vaguely heard a ping through the sloshing noise in his ears.
"Cycle complete," said the airlock. "Kleen-Aire Corporation would like to advise that DecoWash Airlock Decontamination was developed without animal testing."
Hal spat out a mouthful of foam and tugged the blaster off his belt. He aimed at the nearest speaker grille and pressed the contact, expecting to blast a smoking hole in the wall. Instead, the wet battery discharged into his hand, sending a powerful jolt racing up his arm and into his brain, which promptly tried to leap through the top of his skull. Then he heard a sniff over the wild buzzing in his ears.
"Uh, oh!" said the airlock. "I detect lethal concentrations of bacteria. Please clear the airlock immediately."
Hal jumped for the exit just as the heavy door began to close. He squeezed through the gap and the door thudded to right behind him, cutting off a metallic chuckle.
*
Farrell led Clunk across the Black Gull's hold to the Volante. They walked past rows of stacked crates to the front of the larger ship's hold, where a door stood open. It revealed a cramped space, about the height of a man.
There was a thud behind them, and when Clunk looked round he saw a grey-painted cargo hauler following with a heavy, measured tread, its head swivelling from side to side as it analysed threats.
"I think you'll find this alcove has all the comforts you require," said Farrell, waving Clunk towards the door.
Clunk crouched to look inside. The back wall was crisscrossed with dozens of cable ducts and studded with fuse boxes and light switches. "It's a bit small."
"Nonsense," said Farrell. "It's even got a power point so you can take a recharge. Hop in, I've got to get the ship under way."
Clunk quashed his reservations, ducked his head and stepped into the recess. Before he could turn round, the door slammed behind him.
"Don't try and escape!" called Farrell through the thin metal, as the tags snapped shut. "I'm leaving a guard out here with a blaster."
"Why have you locked me in?" asked Clunk, his voice echoing around the locker.
"Jerling's orders. He wants you safe and sound."
Clunk crouched and peered through a row of ventilation slots in the middle of the door. He saw the grey robot outside, standing opposite the locker with a rifle clamped in its massive fists. It watched Farrell leave then turned to guard the door, its red eyes boring through the slots.
The ducting creaked as Clunk slumped against the back wall of the alcove. He'd felt so happy after his ingenious escape from deep space, and now he was in worse trouble than ever. He pictured Jerling jabbing a cigar at him, lecturing him on obedience before feeding him into a crusher. A wave of frustration rushed through his circuits, and he clenched his fists. It wasn't right!
Bang! His fists slammed onto the wall, splintering a length of ducting. Clunk froze. Wilful damage? Jerling would have him melted! Then he laughed quietly. What difference did it make? Muller was going to scoop him out and crush him like a tin can anyway.
With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he raised his fists and slammed them down on the ducting, giggling at the splintering, cracking noises. He did it again and again until the insulation split, forcing several wires together. There was a crackle and a flash as the high-voltage lines crossed, and Clunk was hurled against the thin metal door. It bowed outwards under his weight and popped open with a creak of tortured metal. Clunk fell headlong from the locker, sprawling on the hard deck. Instinctively, he covered his head, expecting the hauler to open fire. When nothing happened he looked up, only to discover the hold was completely dark.
Clunk switched to night vision and looked around. He saw the faint outline of the hauler barely two metres away, its arm coming up as it sighted along the blast rifle. There was a flash of light and a bolt of energy whanged off the floor right in front of Clunk's nose, almost shocking his system into a total reset. He heard the thud of the hauler's feet as it moved towards him, and there was another flash as it fired again. This time the bolt ricocheted over his head and slammed into the wall behind, burying itself in the metal with a shower of sparks.
Clunk got to his hands and knees and scuttled behind a row of crates. Behind him, the hauler's measured tread changed direction.
*<
br />
The Black Gull's outer door opened slowly, groaning like a dozen ghosts with terminal hangovers. Hal walked through the airlock to the flight deck, where he found a broken roof panel on the floor and a playing card propped on the console. "This had better be an apology," he muttered, picking it up. He read the first sentence and looked up. "Hey, Clunk's all right! He came back!"
"Correct," said the Navcom.
"Farrell's taking him home," said Hal, reading on. "It gets better! Jerling wants me to go straight back to Seraph for another lot of cargo."
"Are you sure that's wise?"
"Of course it is. I can fetch my cargo ramp at the same time."
"But the Seraph military will be waiting for you."
"I got around them last time."
"Clunk got around them."
"He just helped a bit. Nothing I couldn't do myself." Hal noticed a red light blinking on the console. "Is that a message?"
"Correct."
"Play it on monitor three." Hal stared into the tiny screen and saw a pale, round face. "It's Vurdi," groaned Hal. Then he smiled. "Hey, who cares? I can pay him now!"
The debt collector flicked a lock of hair off his forehead and blinked, his dark eyes glistening in the light. "Mr Spacejock, I have just spoken to Portmaster Linten. I believe you know the gentleman? He tells me you left to do a cargo run, which is both gratifying and totally unexpected."
"I told you I had a job, you cloth-eared git," muttered Hal.
"And I thought you were lying to me." Vurdi tapped his chin. "I would like the name of your employer as soon as possible, so that your fee can be paid directly to Garmit and Hash. Please call me back as soon as you get this message."
"Some chance."
Vurdi continued. "If I do not hear from you within one hour I will send Brutus to find you."
The screen went blank. "Message terminated."
Hal folded the playing card into a wad. "Navcom, detach from the Orbiter and set course for Seraph."
"Without Clunk? Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Complying under protest," said the Navcom. "Fifteen minutes to hyperspace."
*
Farrell sat back in his chair and stretched his legs out. The viewscreen showed a patchwork of fields, gradually increasing in size as the ship came in for a landing.
"ETA fifteen minutes," said the computer.
Terry glanced up at the screen. "Landing at your place?"
Farrell nodded. "Once we've checked the cargo off, I'll call Gordon and tell him it cost twice as much as expected."
"You're doing well out of this."
"You'll get a cut." Farrell rubbed his chin. "Pity about Spacejock. He seemed a decent sort, but Jerling will probably have his ship over this."
Terry grinned. "Don't you worry about Spacejock. I fixed him good."
"You what?"
"I left him a little pressie."
"What are you talking about?"
"I planted a distorter on his jump drive. First time he uses it …" Terry raised his fist and splayed his fingers. "Whoosh."
Farrell looked shocked. "You can't! I didn't authorise that!"
"Sometimes you got to use initiative, right? I'm not having this Spacejoke character after me."
"We have to warn him!" Farrell turned to the console. "Computer —"
"I wouldn't do that," said Terry.
Farrell's eyes narrowed. "What? Why not?"
"If you tell Spacejock about the bomb, and he records the conversation …"
Farrell winced.
"… none of your pals would save you," finished Terry. "Anyway, you're too late. It's gone off by now."
Something went thump in the bowels of the ship, shaking the flight deck.
"What was that?" said Terry, pulling his blaster.
Farrell turned his head to listen. "I think the robot just tried to leave its prison."
The sound of a single blaster shot echoed through the ship.
"First Spacejock, now the robot." Terry grinned. "There go the loose ends." His grin vanished as the chatter of a heavy energy weapon echoed through the ship. The firing stopped, and they heard debris clattering on the floor.
Terry ran for the personnel lift.
Farrell stared at him. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Down to the hold."
"You must be joking. Have you any idea how fast that hauler's reactions are? It'll gun you down like a rabbit!"
"It can't shoot me. I'm human."
"Are you willing to gamble your life on that?"
"What happens if Clunk gets hold of a weapon and comes after us?"
"That's different. He can't kill us deliberately." Farrell glanced at the console. "Computer, have you got video surveillance in the hold?"
"Yes sir."
"Show me, please."
Farrell squinted at the dark, cloudy image. A flash of laser fire lit the scene, illuminating Clunk as he dodged behind a crate. The lumbering hauler followed, there was another flash of fire and the crate exploded in a shower of wood and twisted metal.
"They're destroying my cargo!" shouted Farrell. "Get down there and take control!"
Terry blinked. "You said I could get shot."
Farrell shook his head. "They won't hurt you."
"But …"
"Scared of a couple of robots?"
Terry's jaw tightened. There was a moment's silence, then he hefted his weapon and ran into the lift.
Farrell grabbed hold of a microphone. "Patch me through to the hold. Audio."
"Link enabled."
"Cease fire, cease fire!" shouted Farrell. He saw the hauler pause and look around. Then Clunk's head popped up above a crate and the hauler raised its gun.
"Cease fire!" yelled Farrell.
The robot pulled the trigger and a blaze of light lit the scene. A large strip of wood exploded off the top of the crate and the robot adjusted its aim and fired a burst, blowing a series of smoking holes across the side. The weakened timbers gave way and it fell apart, revealing Clunk, who was crouching near the ground with his hands over his ears. The hauler grinned and raised its rifle.
Chapter 20
Walter Jerling was sitting in his office, trying to invent a legitimate excuse for skipping the engineer's retirement party. It wasn't that the fellow didn't merit his presence, it was just that every retirement was one step closer to the end of his own career. By ignoring them altogether he could carry on as if nothing were happening, as if none of his loyal staff were being replaced by young upstarts fresh out of business college.
Jerling's gaze settled on his novelty cigar lighter, standing in the corner like an obedient statue. Semi-obedient, he amended, remembering his painful forefinger. Idly, he wondered whether the senior engineer was a cigar smoker.
One of the screens on his desk beeped, and Jerling looked down to see a waiting message. It was Regan Muller at Incubots. Jerling tapped the icon and Regan's face appeared on the screen, lit with flashes of red and blue light.
"G'day Jerling, Regan here. The Peace Force just called me out. Someone's trashed my yard and they want a number for that pilot of yours. Oh, and that robot you send over did a runner. Call me right back, eh?"
Jerling wiped the screen. He had more important things to deal with than a fugitive robot and a careless freelancer. Regan could handle it.
The terminal beeped again and a call waiting symbol popped up. He tapped the icon and a face appeared - the head of his robot factory.
"Good morning, Mr Jerling." The man hesitated. "I didn't want to disturb you, but —"
"Get it out."
"Do you remember those parts … the shipment you organised?"
"Of course I do. Something wrong?"
"I don't know, but the equipment is set to go and the staff are due soon. Weren't the parts supposed to be here first thing?"
"Good God!" Jerling snatched the cigar from his mouth. "You mean they haven't arrived?"
"Not yet. That's why I
called, you see. I know you don't like having staff on wages with nothing to do, and —"
"Leave it to me." Jerling blanked the screen and called up his address book, scattering ash on the polished terminal as he paged through it. "Spacecow. Spacehog. Spacejock - that's him." Jerling clamped the cigar between his teeth and tapped the call icon. "Better have a good excuse, son."
*
The Black Gull's engines throttled back to a murmur and the console speaker chimed twice. "Hyperspace in twenty seconds," said the Navcom. "Cross check the escape hatches and prepare for jump."
Hal smothered a yawn and put his feet up on the console.
"Ten seconds to hyperspace. Please be seated."
For a moment or two, the flight deck was completely still. Then a distant whining noise impinged on the silence. Faint at first, the sound grew to a thin wail which sought out Hal's teeth and drilled them one by one.
"Five," said the Navcom.
Hal glanced down at the folded playing card in his hand, then looked around the flight deck.
"Four."
Hal spotted the wooden box full of chess pieces at the far end of the console. Carefully, he took aim.
"Three."
Hal let fly, and the folded card hit the side of the box and fell to the deck.
"Two." The console buzzed. "Jump suspended - incoming transmission."
"You mean we have to go through all that nonsense again? Couldn't it wait?"
"It's an urgent call from Walter Jerling."
"Aha, payday!" Hal sat up. "Come on, don't keep him waiting."
Jerling's face appeared on the console screen, wreathed in cigar smoke. "Where's my cargo, Spacejock?"
"It should be delivered any minute. You gave me twenty-four hours, remember?"
"My people would have done it in twelve." Jerling dragged on his cigar. "Another thing, Regan Muller tells me the robot escaped. Have you got it?"
"I did, until it left with Farrell."
"Who the hell's Farrell?"
"Your pilot, of course."
Jerling shook his head. "I don't have anyone called Farrell."
"But you called me when I got to Forg! You said this guy Farrell was meeting me at the Orbiter to collect the cargo!"
"Is this some kind of joke? You deliver that cargo to my factory, you hear?"
Hal's insides turned cold. "But … but Farrell met me at the Orbiter with his ship. He took the crates!"