by Simon Haynes
"Two percent of nothing is nothing. Even a computer could work that out."
"Are you saying Clunk has no value?"
"He's not worth anything in a money sense." Hal glanced over his shoulder. Fortunately the flight deck was clear. "Don't tell him I said that. I mean, he might not understand."
"I daresay he wouldn't, what with being a worthless robot."
"That's not what I said!"
"You said he had no value."
"All right, put him down for five hundred credits. Anything else?"
"We have to declare everything of value."
Hal grinned. "Like me, you mean?"
"No, everything of value."
Hal's grin slipped. "Surely I'm worth something?"
"Not unless you learn to navigate."
"All right, I can take a hint." Resigned to the inevitable, Hal settled down to read the flight manual. He'd managed two sentences when the lift doors hissed open.
"Mr Spacejock!"
"Not now, Clunk."
Footsteps approached. "Mr —"
"Wait!" Hal's lips moved as he struggled with the dense text. "What's a clutch?"
"Mr Spacejock, I must speak with you."
Hal sighed and spun his chair around. A battered bronze robot stood before him, its squashy, furrowed face arranged into a look of concern. "All right, what's up?"
The robot opened its mouth to speak, and a split second later the words came out. "I would like to discuss an engineering matter. During my rounds I discovered that the main generator is running warm."
"Can we fix it?"
"No. We'll have to schedule an inspection when we land on Ullimo."
"What's that going to cost?"
"Nothing. It's covered by warranty."
"Good."
"Unless they discover the missed services."
"Eh?"
"I faked the maintenance logs as per your instruction, but an investigation could uncover inconsistencies."
"But —"
"You know, if you hadn't wasted all that money on advertising we wouldn't be experiencing such problems."
"Now wait just a minute. We wouldn't have any work without advertising."
"True. However, your choice of media outlets was somewhat questionable."
"What do you mean? I got a banner ad into twenty thousand ebooks!"
"They were picture books. As a rule, three-year-olds don't move a lot of freight. Still, at least you didn't order any more fridge magnets."
"Now you mention it, I've got four cartons in the hold."
"Really? Why don't you hand them out?"
"They don't work properly," mumbled Hal. "I stuck one on the AutoChef and it zipped off again. Almost took my eye out."
"How odd." Clunk frowned. "Where did you store them?"
"That cupboard in the engine room."
"There are no cupboards in the engine room."
"Sure there are. Big grey things with silver handles."
"Mr Spacejock, are you telling me you put four cartons of magnets inside the gravity generator?"
"If that's the grey cupboard, then yes. There was loads of room once I moved a few wires and things out the way."
Clunk stared at him.
"Okay, so the fridge magnets aren't very attractive. But what about my fast food sponsorship? I got our vouchers on every soft drink container for a month!"
"With a company that only supplies prisons."
"There's no such thing as bad publicity."
"And you're doing your best to prove it." Clunk sighed. "Mr Spacejock, it'll be a miracle if any of your ill-conceived campaigns earn back the money you spent on them. In the meantime, we can't afford to service the ship."
"We have to advertise to get a better class of client. I'm fed up with dodgy businessmen. We need someone who'll give us a bit of prestige."
"Like pre-schoolers and convicts? Anyway, nobody judges you by your clients."
"Oh yeah? Why do spaceports always give us landing spots around the edges?"
"They're afraid you'll destroy the buildings. Now, if you'll excuse me I must tend to the generators, and I have to reseat the manemol flange on the hyperdrive."
After Clunk left, Hal turned to the screen and frowned at the cramped text. "Oh yeah, clutches." He read for a few moments, then shook his head. "I need caffeine." Standing up, he walked to the back of the flight deck and extracted a mug of coffee from a dispenser. As he sipped the brew, he gazed across the flight deck. The text on the screen was too small to read, but the paragraphs made an interesting checkerboard pattern. "Hey, when's the last time we played chess? Do you remember?"
"Only too well," said the computer.
"Let's have a game now." Hal returned to the console with his coffee. "Set the board up. I'll be black."
"According to my logs, you're supposed to be white."
"Yeah, but you know what happens whenever I move first. That upgrade Clunk installed makes every game a joke."
"Nevertheless, it's only fair to swap sides."
"It's not, it's a waste of time."
The Navcom was silent.
"Oh, quit sulking," growled Hal. "You can play black if you want to."
A chessboard appeared in mid-air, rotated so that the rows of white chess pieces were nearest to Hal. He indicated one of the pawns, then tapped the square two spots ahead of it. The pawn darted across the board and stopped.
"I resign," said the Navcom.
Hal groaned. "Come on, make a game of it."
"It's pointless. You will beat me in fifteen moves."
"I won't!"
"You will. I have already calculated the sequence of moves leading to your victory."
"That's amazing, because I haven't." Hal replaced the pawn and moved another. "What if I start like that?"
"Sixteen moves," said the Navcom. "You have me in a hopeless situation."
Hal replaced the pawn and moved a knight.
"A very cunning start. Checkmate in fourteen moves."
"Where's your competitive spirit?" demanded Hal.
"Fighting lost causes is a waste of energy."
"You don't see me quitting when I'm behind, do you? I don't chuck it all in when the going gets tough."
"No, you always fight to the bitter end," conceded the Navcom.
"Thank you," said Hal.
"It wasn't a compliment," said the computer. "I was just stating facts."
Hal sighed. "Do you have anything else we can try? Something where you don't quit after two seconds?"
"My library of games is somewhat limited, although I do have one involving mines."
"Really? What does it do?"
"You select squares until you pick the wrong one, at which point the game ends."
"And that's entertainment, is it?" Hal sighed. "Stick the flight manual back up. Even that's better than this rubbish."
*
Clunk limped along the lower deck corridor, lost in thought as he made his way to the engine room. He wasn't overly concerned about the generator, since modern ships issued warnings for the most trivial temperature variations. No, he was worried about all the regular services they'd skipped. Should anything serious go wrong with the Volante, the manufacturer would discover the faked service records and refuse to fix it under warranty. Mr Spacejock, not having any money, would be forced to sell his ship. And Clunk, with nowhere else to go, would be consigned to the scrap heap.
So, trivial variation or not, he resolved to keep an eye on the generators until they landed.
Clunk navigated a narrow staircase just inside the cargo hold, and once at the top he opened the heavy access door to the engine compartment. The bulk of the drives lay behind the shielding, leaving a narrow service tunnel which led to the generator compartment at the rear. Clunk squeezed between the roaring engines and opened a small door, revealing a cramped, stuffy alcove where two bulging cylinders whined in tandem, sucking fuel and cooling fluid through thin metal pipes and feeding the ship's el
ectrical circuits through thick insulated cables. Above the neat tubing, a screen displayed half a dozen gauges and a page full of scrolling text.
Stepping over a patch of grease, Clunk approached the nearest cylinder to begin his inspection. Modern robots carry a range of testing equipment which allows them to download log files and parse error reports while simultaneously engaging the bridge crew in witty repartee. Unfortunately Clunk wasn't a modern robot, so he pressed the side of his head to the generator and rapped the curved metal with his knuckles. Satisfied, he repeated the process with the second whining cylinder. Inspection complete, he peered at the gauges. All of them were in the green, although one was flickering slightly.
Clunk reached out to tap the screen, slipped on the patch of grease and fell head first into the cooling pipes, which groaned and creaked as they supported his weight. He lay motionless for a second or two while his internal diagnostics verified he was okay, then extracted himself from the tubes and stood up.
Immediately, he became aware of two rather worrying developments: The alcove was much hotter, and the cylinder beside him was making a strange growling sound.
Clunk stared at the status panel. He didn't have a swallowing reflex, but he did his best. Half the needles were in the red, and the rest were dancing like heartbeat monitors. He was just bending to examine the pipes when Hal's voice burst from the intercom.
"Clunk, I've got red lights all over the console. Temperature warnings, lubrication alerts, pressure indicators - you name it, it's flashing. And what's that funny rumbling noise?"
"I'm just carrying out a minor repair," shouted Clunk, raising his voice over the growling generator. He reached for the panel and yanked a handful of fuses, blanking out the gauges.
"Ah, that fixed it," said Hal. "For a minute there I thought you'd broken something."
"Over and out," said Clunk, hurriedly cutting the connection. He set the fuses aside and inspected the damage to the cooling pipes, wincing as he saw the twists and kinks. Using his fingers like pliers, he worked the flattened metal into its original shape. The growling ceased as the coolant flowed, and before long his sensors told him the air temperature was dropping.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he grabbed a rag and wiped the patch of grease from the floor. Once it was clean, he hung the rag over the damaged pipes and sniffed the air. Thank goodness - it was back to normal.
Clunk was just about to leave when a horrible thought struck him. What if a repair team noticed the buckled cooling pipes when they examined the generators? If they questioned him about it, he would have to tell the truth: that he'd damaged the tubes himself. They'd blame him for everything, including the original temperature variation, and Mr Spacejock would lose his ship!
If only he could lie like a human! Unfortunately, he wasn't programmed for it. All he could do was report events exactly as they were stored in his memory banks. If he refused they'd connect him to a computer and force it out of him.
Clunk left the generator room deep in thought. What if the memories weren't there in the first place? All robots lost data from time to time - particularly when their operating systems crashed. As he left the engine room, Clunk paged through his short-term memory until he found the spot where he'd slipped on the grease. Moving forwards, he found the segment where he'd mopped the grease up. Next, he snipped everything in between, entered a file error into his log and rebooted.
There was a moment of darkness, and when he recovered he was facing the lift in the Volante's lower deck corridor. He shook his head, annoyed at the waste of time. The generator fault had been nothing but a false alarm!
Chapter 2
Hal was sitting at the console with a fresh cup of coffee, doggedly working his way through the Volante's flight manual. There was a tin of biscuits at his elbow, and after struggling through a particularly dull passage on rocket fuel he selected one and took a large bite. "Who wrote this junk, anyway? It's terrible!"
"They don't have to write well," said the Navcom. "They just have to impart knowledge."
"I bet it was written by a robot," said Hal, his voice muffled by the biscuit.
"I resent that."
"Name one great work of literature written by a computer."
"Name one spaceship designed by a human."
"That explains a lot." Hal took another bite. "This is stale."
"It was cheap."
"If I wanted cheap I'd dunk toilet paper." Hal inspected the biscuit suspiciously. "Unless I already am."
"No, it's definitely not toilet paper."
"How can you be sure?"
"The organic material in that biscuit is entirely insect in origin."
"Ugh!" Hal peered into the tin. "I thought those were raisins!"
Buzz!
"Incoming call," said the Navcom.
"Who is it?"
"Central Bank. They have a freight job for you."
"Central, eh? Now that's the sort of customer we need." Hal brushed the crumbs off his flight suit and ran his fingers through his hair. "Okay, put them on."
There was a crackle from the speaker and a short, balding man appeared on the viewscreen. He was wearing a dark suit, and in the subdued lighting his pale face seemed to float in mid-air. "Are you Hal Spacejock?"
"Sure am," said Hal. "How can I help you?"
"My name is Cecil Fish. I am the Services Procurement Officer for Central Bank."
"Really?" Hal looked impressed. "What does one of those do?"
Fish ignored the question. "I understand you're en route to planet Ullimo. Correct?"
"We're some way out, but my computer will get us there eventually." Hal wiped his forehead. The air in the flight deck was normally kept at a steady twenty degrees, but for some reason it felt much hotter.
"I'm glad to hear it," said Fish, oblivious to Hal's discomfort. "I have some important files which must be taken to our branch on Ackexa. I would like to employ your services."
"Files? Can't you upload them?"
"At Central Bank we do not entrust valuable documents to electronic media," said Fish primly. "In any case, every page is signed and witnessed."
"You're paying the bill," said Hal with a shrug. "If it was me, I'd post the things."
"Which is why you're not running a bank," said Fish. "Now, the consignment consists of thirty-six pallets. Estimated weight is seventy-two thousand kilograms, allowing for a moisture content of five percent."
Hal pursed his lips. "That much?"
"Five percent isn't high."
"No, I mean thirty-six pallets. That's a lot of freight. It could be expensive."
Fish held up a wrinkled paper cup. "According to this voucher you are seven point five percent cheaper than the opposition."
"Hey, that's my prison drinks advert! Where'd you get hold of it?"
"I was visiting my accountant." Fish regarded Hal with pale eyes. "Is this voucher not good?"
"That offer was some time ago. Fuel is more expensive now." Hal wiped his sleeve across his forehead. "You know how it is."
Fish crumpled the cup. "Very well, I shall contact Curtis Freightlines. They have a modern fleet and their prices are —"
"No, don't!" said Hal hurriedly. "I'll take the job. And this isn't some bucket of bolts, either. The Volante is brand new."
"Most encouraging. Very well, the cargo is yours. Oh, one final thing. It must be delivered by close of business tomorrow."
"On time every time, that's us. As long as there aren't any hold-ups, of course."
"You'll be on time, hold-ups or not. We have severe penalties for late delivery." Fish gestured at the screen, cutting the call.
Hal brushed away a bead of sweat. "Navcom, what's happening to the air?"
"Nothing."
"It's hot."
"No it isn't."
"You could've fooled me." Hal squinted at the small white dot on the viewscreen. "How long now?"
"ETA about twenty minutes."
"What do you mean, 'about'? Is every
thing okay?"
"I am completely operational and …"
"A simple yes will do," interrupted Hal.
"Fine," said the computer, sounding miffed. The screen changed to display chapter three of the flight manual. "Don't forget your reading."
"It's upside down. And what was the 'about' about?"
"Nothing, nothing," said the Navcom promptly. "I am comple—"
"Navcom, it's like an oven in here. Stop telling me everything's all right." At that moment the lift arrived, and the normally silent doors opened with a loud grinding noise. "Clunk, how much do we make with this seven percent discount lark?"
"It's seven and a half, and we don't make anything," said the robot. "If you recall, I advised against it."
"You advise against everything. Lucky I never listen, because Central Bank just hired us."
"Central Bank?" exclaimed Clunk.
"Yes. They want us to take some paperwork to their branch on Ackexa. Not to rub it in, but they saw my voucher on a soft drink cup."
"Ackexa, did you say?" Clunk looked thoughtful. "Mr Spacejock, what do you know about Outsider planets?"
"They're outside Union space?"
"A fairly safe deduction. Watch this." Clunk brought up a navigation chart and zoomed in on a sparsely populated area. "You can see the division between Union and Outsider space," he said, pointing to a thin red line. "Beyond that line you're at the mercy of a legal system with a perfect record."
"What's so bad about that?"
"To achieve that perfect record they jail all suspects without trial. Some areas are worse than others, of course. In the outer reaches they shoot first and incarcerate your remains."
"You mean incinerate."
"I know what I meant."
Hal mopped his forehead. "So where are the dangerous bits?"
"This planet is the worst," said Clunk, pointing to a blue dot.
"No sweat. We'll just stay clear of that one."
"Oh yes?" Clunk zoomed in until the dot was a fat blue planet. "That's Ackexa, our destination. Overcrowded, polluted and completely lawless."
*
Hal eyed the screen, shaking his head. "You're exaggerating."
"I am?"
"Sure you are. You're just annoyed because I got this job."