Hal Spacejock Omnibus One

by Simon Haynes

  A flock of birds burst from the trees, cawing loudly as they whirled in tight circles.

  "Black gulls," said Clunk, watching them.

  Hal smiled. "They fly better than mine ever did." The birds settled, and Hal continued down the ramp, his breath frosting in the crisp air. "I'd rather be out here than inside getting sterilised."

  "Decontaminated," said Clunk.

  "Hey, that was good. You can coach the guys on the landing pad while we wait."

  They were almost at the foot of the ramp when a figure in a hazard suit and reflective mask emerged from a nearby shed, carrying a large cylinder with a sprayer nozzle as big as the Volante's landing jets. Hal stood aside to let the figure past, but it stopped and looked up at him.

  "Hal Spacejock?" said a female voice.

  "That's me."

  The worker patted her cylinder, which was plastered with warning labels. "This stuff disperses in five minutes. Keep out of the ship until then."

  "Is this really necessary?"

  "Our laws are strict. You go to jail if you bring unauthorised organisms to this planet."

  "Don't let us keep you."

  The woman slung the cylinder over her shoulder and strolled up the ramp. Hal watched, admiring her easy gait until Clunk's delicate cough drew his attention.

  "Yeah?"

  "The museum closes at four," said Clunk.

  "How'd you know that?"

  "I looked it up. Did you know they're running a "Life in the Past" exhibit?"

  "Fancy that," said Hal. "Are they really?"

  "They've got some old robot as their chief exhibit." Clunk sighed. "Probably scooped the poor thing's guts out so they could use it as a novelty waste bin."

  "It won't be that bad." Hal looked around. "Come on, let's supervise the unloading."

  They crossed beneath the ship, emerging near the lowered cargo ramp. There was a whirr overhead and a cage full of fabric appeared at the top of the ramp, driven by hydraulics under the decking. It stopped, and a large crane lowered a hook, lifting the crate and swinging it over Hal's head. The crane whined as the boom descended towards a flatbed truck, then fell silent as the heavy cargo made contact.

  "One down, thirty to go," said Clunk.

  Hal yawned. "Okay, let's get a cab."

  "What about supervising the unloading?"

  "They look competent enough."

  "But they have access to the ship!"

  "Only the hold, and the Navcom will keep an eye on them. Come on." Hal led the way across the landing pad to the blast barrier, where he lifted a handset from its cradle. The screen flickered, and a young man appeared.

  "Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?"

  "I need a cab for the local museum."

  "Certainly sir. Which ship?"

  "The Volante."

  The man glanced at his terminal. "Mr Spacejock?"

  Hal nodded.

  "Your cab will be there momentarily. Have a nice day."

  Hal dropped the handset back in the cradle. "Momentarily," he muttered, shaking his head. He looked back at the ship, where the crane was moving another crate onto the waiting truck. "How many's that?"

  "Two," said the robot.

  Hal looked around, trying to spot the cab. There was no sign of it, and his gaze lingered on a row of concession stands nearby, selling everything from sweets and magazines to giftware. One stand caught his eye: much larger than the others, it contained a pair of battered wardrobes and a podium.

  "Where are you going?" asked Clunk, as Hal set off towards the display.

  "I want to know what they're up to."

  "What about the cab?"

  "Don't worry, we'll see it."

  As they approached the stand they noticed the wardrobes were festooned with wires and plastered with circuit boards. At the rear of the display an elderly man was checking connectors and touching various components with a probe, oblivious to passing traffic. Next to him, a young man was sitting on an ordinary kitchen chair, reading a dog-eared paperback. He was well built, and his red skivvy so tight it could have been painted onto his barrel chest.

  The elderly man spotted Hal out the corner of his eye, and he beamed as he looked up from his work. "I spy curiosity!"

  "Just looking," said Hal quickly.

  "Come, come and look closer."

  "I was just wondering what you're doing." Hal gestured at the wardrobes and the wiring. "Is this a sculpture?"

  The man's face twisted. "Sculpture? Nein, not that. It is a revolutionary transportation device, the likes of which have never before been seen."

  "Even in those old vid programs?" asked Clunk innocently.

  The man ignored him. "This, sir, is the most revolutionary idea since Comfort Corporation began putting seams on the outside of their underwear."

  "You mean they used to be on the inside?" Hal looked surprised. "Wasn't that uncomfortable?"

  "In the extreme. Someone got fed up with wearing underpants inside out, and revolutionised the industry."

  "What's that got to do with this old junk?" asked Hal, gesturing at the display.

  "I was pointing out that innovation is everywhere, mein herr." The old man straightened. "And this is not junk. This is my MTD, or Matter Transfer Device."

  "And what does it do?"

  The man frowned. "I just said what it did. It transfers matter."

  "Teleporter," murmured Clunk, tapping his forehead with a finger.

  "Teleporter!" exclaimed Hal.

  "No, this word is not what I said. The word you used does not adequately explain my device."

  "Plus it's trademarked," said the robot.

  "You would perhaps like me to demonstrate?" The man eyed Clunk with distaste. "Perhaps with your robot …"

  "Sorry," said Clunk. "I'm allergic to conmen."

  "Conman! My dear metal friend, this device will be huge. It will be bigger than … than …" Realising he was never going to impress the robot, the scientist addressed Hal instead. "Sir, you look like an intelligent man."

  Clunk coughed.

  "Perhaps you would care to view a demonstration?"

  Hal gazed at the tangled wires and sparking electrical components. "Is it safe?"

  "Oh, yes. Most certainly."

  "Why have you set it up here?"

  "Funding. I cannot get past the small-minded lackeys that stifle the lower levels of government and big business."

  "Why don't you teleport into the upper levels, then?" muttered Clunk.

  "What do you mean, funding?" asked Hal.

  "Sir, I am a scientist. Imagine the value of my invention. Imagine the value of a company which develops it properly. Therefore, I am selling shares in my enterprise, allowing the man in the street to partake of the rewards such a device will surely bring."

  "You want me to give you money?"

  "I would perhaps express it more delicately, but this is the general idea."

  "For that?" Hal gestured at the wardrobes, the wires, the guy in the red skivvy.

  "An experimental model. You will appreciate the way I conserve funds."

  "I can tell." Hal eyed the young man. "What's he doing, anyway?"

  "Hans!" yelled the scientist suddenly. "Demo!"

  The man in the red skivvy folded the corner of his book, put it into his pocket and walked into the left-hand cupboard. The flimsy door rattled as he pulled it to, and there was a loud bang and a flash of green light. The wardrobe on the other side of the display shook and the young man emerged, waving at a cloud of smoke.

  "You see? It works," said the scientist. "How many shares would you like?"

  Hal watched, open-mouthed, as the young man resumed his seat, extracted the paperback and continued reading. "That's amazing," he said. "Incredible. Can you send me across?"

  "Alas, the machine is tuned only for Hans."

  "But you said —"

  "Only Hans. However, with your additional funds …"

  Hal took out a handful of credit tiles. "How m
uch per share?"

  "Fifty credits."

  "How many shares are you selling?" asked Clunk.

  The scientist ignored him.

  "I'll take five," said Hal.

  "Five? Five will not fund a single displacement."

  "All right, six."

  "Sir, the minimum is fifty."

  "Fifty shares! That's —"

  "Two and a half thousand," supplied Clunk. "Come on, Mr Spacejock. We don't want to miss our cab."

  Hal patted his pockets. "Sorry about this. I'm a little short of cash right now."

  "Perhaps my finance plan might be of interest," said the scientist smoothly.

  "Not to Mr Spacejock," said Clunk. "His credit rating is triple-Z negative."

  Hal looked surprised. "I have a credit rating?"

  "You wasted my time? You have no money?" The old man gestured at his assistant. "Hans! Here!"

  "Don't worry, we're leaving," said Clunk, grabbing Hal's arm and hauling him back towards the ship.

  *

  Aboard the Volante, Sonya was moving along the lower deck passageway, spraying clouds of yellow particles that swirled behind her like bonfire smoke. During her conversation with Curtis she'd formed a mental image of Hal - a small, rat-faced individual with dank hair, shifty eyes and a permanent sniff. Someone who would sell their entire family for a round of drinks. Someone who could abandon refugees on a deserted planet. Instead, Hal was a good-looking individual with an honest, open face. Sonya shook her head. She should have known - even a crisp red apple could have a rotten core.

  As she backed along the passageway she found herself admiring the clean, bright walls and neat cabins. She'd been aboard several Curtis Freightlines carriers, and compared to the Volante they were cramped, dirty workhorses with a rotating crew of pilots who were only interested in their next pay packet. She wondered what it would be like to have the freedom of the galaxy, drifting wherever the latest cargo job took you, living aboard a comfortable ship, not having to worry about immigration officials demanding letters of employment …

  Sonya shook her head and returned to the job at hand. Still puffing clouds from the sprayer, she approached the engine room access door and reached for the controls. Immediately, a voice came from the speaker above her head.

  "Access to the engine room prohibited," said the Navcom sternly.

  "You want clearance, I do the whole ship," said Sonya. She eyed the notice on the door: Authorised Personnel Only. "If you don't let me in, I'll come back with a warrant."

  "Very well. But don't touch anything."

  There was a snick and the door slid open. Sonya entered the darkened compartment and touched her gloved hand to the light controls behind the door. Nothing happened. Frowning, she turned on her suit light and angled it around the roof. The fitting had been torn out and was hanging by a thread. She used the light to explore the corners where the walls met the ceiling, until she found the camera. It too was hanging from its mounting, which was odd considering the rest of the ship was in such good shape. "No eyes, no ears… suits me just fine," muttered Sonya, as she strode between the main drives to the hyperspace motor. The gleaming cylinder was about four metres long, mounted on thick, shock-absorbing rubber pads and joined to the ship by a conduit. Sonya leaned closer to inspect the pipe, then stared. "Teeth marks?" she muttered aloud. "What kind of …" She turned and looked behind her, startled by a shuffling noise. The beam of light burned a white tunnel through the darkness, but left deep shadows on either side. She moved the light, but the beam revealed nothing but machinery.

  Turning back to the hyperdrive, she recalled the diagrams she'd studied prior to coming aboard. According to Dent, the drive's connection to the ship's computer was inside the firewall, so all she had to do was remove the plug and wire the briefcase in to collect the information she needed. Stripping off her gloves, she used her bare hands to unscrew the top of the canister she'd collected from the maintenance shed. Inside was a small pressurised tank which she set on the deck. Next, she extracted a heavy roll of fabric fastened with buckles. Then she took out the briefcase computer, whose smiley-face sticker leered at her like a carnival mask in the half-light.

  Undoing the buckles on the roll of fabric, Sonya opened it to reveal a selection of tools. She examined the hyperdrive, chose a spanner and got to work. A minute or two later, the connector was loose. Sonya slid the briefcase closer, plugged the lead in and switched it on.

  "Hey, was I powered off?" exclaimed the computer. "Where did we go today?"

  "Keep your voice down!" hissed Sonya.

  "Would you like to activate my operating system now?"

  "No, and shut up." Sonya unclipped the keyboard and called up an editor, and within seconds she was engrossed.

  Bobby piped up. "It seems you are writing a program. Would you like some help with that?"

  "I said shut up."

  "Are you sure? I can make things easier for you." A window appeared, showing a list of options.

  Sonya stopped typing. "Close the damn window."

  "Okey doke." The window vanished.

  "Now put my text back."

  "Text?"

  "My program."

  "I can't. System error, I'm afraid."

  Sonya closed her eyes. "You lost my work?"

  "Sure did," said Bobby cheerfully. "Shall I demonstrate how to perform a backup?"

  "No, I would not like you to show me how to perform a backup," said Sonya, through gritted teeth. "I would like you to get the hell out of my face and let me work in peace."

  "Can do."

  Sonya's breath hissed as she re-keyed the missing commands. Halfway through, a window began to open. "I mean it," she growled. The window closed instantly. Moments later, the program was ready. Sonya tested it with the interpreter, then ran it live.

  The computer's fans began to whirr, and a flashing icon appeared. "Sonya, I have to point out that the routines you wrote infringe several laws. Do you understand the consequences?"

  "Yep."

  "I need you to okay some clauses."

  "What?"

  "It's just a disclaimer absolving the software company from any liability should legal action arise from the use of your code."

  The screen filled with text and Sonya hit the OK button without bothering to look at it.

  "Uh-uh," said Bobby, putting it back again. "You have to read it."

  "I did."

  "No, you just pressed OK. Try again."

  Sonya paged to the end of the file and stabbed the OK button.

  "I'm sorry Sonya, but I don't think you're reading that file."

  "I did so!" she hissed. "Run my damn program."

  "The average time to read that form is eight minutes. You cannot complete it in five seconds, it's not humanly possible. Here is the file again. Each page should take approximately fifteen seconds. Please do not skip pages, as I will be timing each one."

  Sonya suppressed the urge to bang her head on the floor. Instead, she hunched over the portable computer, teeth clenched, paging through the file one screen at a time. She derived some comfort from the fact that even after hitting OK on the very last page, she still hadn't read a word of the conditions.

  "I am now authorised to run all software, legal or not," said the computer. "Commencing execution."

  "Capital idea," said Sonya under her breath. "Don't stop with the programmers. Go right to the top."

  The fans ran at full speed for several seconds, blasting grit off the engine room floor. Then there was a loud beep. "Data transferred."

  Sonya switched the computer off, unplugged the lead and began to repack her tools. She was just reaching for the spanner when she heard a scrape right behind her. She spun round and saw a pair of hairy orange hands reaching for her out of the darkness. Spooked, Sonya leapt up and backed away, tripped over the briefcase and whacked her head on the hyperdrive's unyielding metal surface. For a split second, an explosion of coloured stars filled her vision.

  Then ev
erything went dark.

  *

  "I'm telling you, he was a conman," said Clunk as they walked towards the ship. "A rip-off merchant."

  "Clunk, you have no respect for battlers. That man could change the future of transportation."

  "The only thing he's teleporting is money. It vanishes from mug punters' accounts and reappears in his own."

  "You're such a cynic."

  "Do you really believe in his teleporter?"

  "Absolutely. And until you can prove otherwise …"

  Clunk sighed. "Okay, you asked for it. Did you notice the book that young man was reading?"

  "Yeah, it was a paperback novel."

  "Correct. Did you notice the title?"

  "No. What's your point?"

  "Well, you know when he came out of the teleporter and sat down to read again?"

  "Yes, Clunk. Although my limited powers of observation in no way match your perfect recall, I do vaguely remember seeing the man come out of the second teleporter. I also remember him sitting down and reading a papery thing with printing on, and yes, now that you've highlighted the fact I do seem to recall it being a book."

  Clunk nodded. "I was hoping you'd noticed."

  "Noticed what?"

  "It wasn't the same book."

  "Eh?"

  "Your teleport scientist has twin sons."

  Hal stared at him. "I'll be —"

  "You nearly were," said Clunk.

  Hal glanced over his shoulder at the concessions. "I ought to duff him up."

  "All three of them?"

  "Well, maybe just the old guy." Hal spotted a sleek black groundcar coming towards them. "Here's the cab at last."

  "And the rain," said Clunk, glancing at the sky. "I really don't understand why you're insisting on this little outing. You've never shown the slightest interest in antiques."

  "I bought you, didn't I?" Hal dug into his pocket and withdrew a couple of credit tiles. "Here, you'll need this for the fare."

  Clunk stared at Hal's outstretched hand. "I'm sorry?"

  "Taxi drivers don't do it for fun, you know."