by Simon Haynes
A hammer blow nearby made her jump. She looked towards the source of light, and through a gap in the main drives she saw a couple of workmen fixing the generators. As smoothly as possible, she backed towards the wall, away from the exposed area.
She found the cylinder lying on its side, the top discarded nearby. The toolkit had been rifled, the heavy fabric torn and the contents strewn around. The briefcase was under the hyperdrive. Sonya replaced the conduit, keeping a wary eye on the pool of light spilling from the generator alcove. Once the connector was tight, she gathered the remains of her toolkit and pushed them into the cylinder with the briefcase. She added the pressurised tank, jammed the cap on top and glanced around to see if she'd missed anything.
She found the helmet and pushed it down over her throbbing head, stood up and hurried towards the doorway. The passage was deserted, the only sound a vigorous hammering from the generator room behind her - that, and the relentless thudding inside her head. Slipping out of the engine room, she crept to the cargo hold door, which opened silently to her touch.
The hold was almost empty. Three or four cage-like crates were lined up near the exit, and even as she watched one was hoisted out by a heavy crane. Without stopping to think, she ran across the cargo bay and climbed up the side of a crate. There was a lid on top - a pair of hinged metal flaps. Sonya lifted them and pushed her gear in, then slipped inside and stretched out on the layer of plastic-covered rolls.
Twice, the cage jerked towards the back of the hold. Each time Sonya heard the growl of the crane, the clink of the hook going into the ring, the squeal as the crate's metal legs rubbed on the deck plates. Then it was her turn. The hook rattled overhead, the crane roared and the cage groaned as it swung through the air. It thumped down and Sonya raised the flap. She saw the back of the ship towering above, saw Sam and Nat nearby, fighting over an inspection rod. They looked on in amazement as Sonya popped out of the crate, dropped lightly to the ground and strolled towards the equipment shed with the canister slung casually over her shoulder.
Chapter 11
Clunk followed Arlene through the museum, navigating a maze of pale green corridors that brought them to a large, well-lit room overflowing with packing cases, bustling workers and half-assembled exhibits.
"We've managed to collect all these items from your era," said Arlene proudly.
Clunk scanned the room with interest. He spotted an ancient groundcar, microwave toasters, early model vidscreens and several large computers. There were old food tins, drink bottles and newspapers, and even old film posters on the wall - yellowed and curling, they nevertheless evoked long-forgotten memories. "Amazing," said Clunk. He felt a tug and looked down - someone had fastened a tag to his wrist. "Robot, Spacejock" it said, in flowing script.
"Don't lose that," said Arlene. "Otherwise we won't know who you belong to."
"I'd just tell you."
"Sorry, no." Arlene shook her head. "We had four robots at our last exhibition. Three were scavenged from the local tip and one was on loan from a wealthy collector. Afterwards, all four claimed they were the collector's. This time we're using tags."
"What happened to the other three robots?" asked Clunk.
"Back to the tip, of course. Now, come with me. We need to prepare you."
"Prepare?"
"We can't put you on display in that condition. You need to look older."
"But Mr Spacejock told me to polish myself!"
"Your owner may be an excellent pilot, but this is my area of expertise." Arlene waved at a young woman who was spraying mud onto an old bicycle. "Helga! When you're free!" She glanced at Clunk. "Work experience," she said by way of explanation. "Just look at the terrific job she's done on that display."
Clunk followed Arlene's pointed finger and saw a tubby robot with a thick black wig, a white, spangled suit and a pair of dark sunglasses. He frowned and looked closer. "I thought the last of those disappeared years ago."
"You recognise it?"
"Yes, it's a pleasurebot."
"Oh." Arlene took out a coloured leaflet and looked at it carefully. "We identified it as a Pelvisator."
"That's the brand name. They used to go like the clappers, but the off switch was too small. There were several cases of people being pummelled unconscious under the —"
Arlene held up her hand. "That's quite enough." She spotted a young man haphazardly stacking delicate china dishes on a wobbly table. "Oh my goodness. Wait here," she said, hurrying away.
Clunk glanced around, then froze. On the workbench beside him sat a disembodied head that was connected to a box with coloured wire. He bent for a closer look and the eyes blinked open.
"The name's Ed," said the skull. "Who are you?"
"Where's the rest of your body?"
"An unfortunate accident with a road grader," said Ed. "Still, I can't complain."
"It's not right, you being kept like that. We're not designed to operate piecemeal."
"Oh, I don't mind. I keep busy doing odd jobs."
"What sort of jobs can a head do?" asked Clunk, puzzled.
"I was the bookkeeper for a small repair firm. You know … manage the inventory, do the accounts, that sort of thing."
"Sounds like a bundle of fun."
"Mock all you like. I have got an arts degree, you know."
"Really?"
"Yup. External student."
"How did you pay for it?"
"Year after year, I transferred the shop's funds into a high-interest account after close of business. I had to get the money back into the firm's account by morning, of course, but I managed to scalp the difference. Once I'd put enough aside, I began to trade the futures market."
"Did you make much?"
Ed thought for a moment. "Two point seven million credits."
"Two —" Clunk's voice failed. "What are you doing here if you're worth that kind of money?"
"The shop owners found out. Now they're living in luxury and I'm …" Ed blinked. "Well, I'm here."
"You ought to get a position with a financial services company. With your skills they'd get you a whole new body."
"But I'm happy here. I mean, the roof doesn't leak and I'm hooked into the network. What more could I want?" Ed glanced at the window. "Out there I'd only have to deal with petty jealousy and backstabbing humans."
"My owner isn't like that."
"He doesn't resent your superior abilities?"
"He doesn't know they're superior."
"Exactly." Ed's eyes widened. "Ah, I see who you are. You're Clunk."
"Correct."
"Funny name for a robot."
"This, from a talking Ed."
The head sniffed. "At least I'm here voluntarily." He glanced to his right. "Heads up, humans inbound at three o'clock."
Arlene hurried up with the work experience student in tow. "Helga, this is Clunk. I want you to make him look old."
The girl sized Clunk up. "This should not be a problem," she said slowly. "I will place mud on his torso, perhaps an additional dent or two …"
Clunk shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't permit that."
Helga spotted the tag hanging from his wrist. "Sorry, I thought you were one of the junky robots." She shrugged. "No dents. I will just dirty you up."
"Oh no you —"
"She's very artistic," Arlene broke in. "And it's not real dirt, it's a chemical substitute. It'll wash off afterwards."
"But —"
Arlene frowned. "I'm finding you a little uncooperative. I've a good mind to call Captain Spacejock and tell him to collect you."
Clunk opened his mouth to agree, just as Helga slapped a handful of fake mud in his face.
*
"Ullimo Museum," said the old man on the screen.
Hal took his feet off the console. "I need to speak to Arlene."
"She's busy with new arrivals. Can I help?"
"Maybe. Did you see an old bronze robot arrive in a cab?"
"Yes, I did. Arlene met
him at the door and took him to the exhibit."
"Great, thanks for that." Hal cut the connection and toyed with a bank of switches. "Navcom, what are those mechanics doing? They've been ages."
Just then, the lift doors parted and Tom stepped out. "All done, sir. I just need your authorisation for the bill." He fished in his overalls and withdrew a chunky notepad. "Guild number?"
"Bill?" said Hal in surprise. "It's under warranty!"
"I'm afraid not. The cooling pipes were crimped, restricting the flow of lubricant to the armature, which …"
Hal raised his hands. "Leave it with me and I'll get the insurance people onto it."
"I need your authorisation first."
Hal looked at the notepad. "How do I do that?"
"Just enter your Guild number."
"I don't have one."
Tom looked around in surprise. "With a nice ship like this? All right, just press your thumb on the grey area. Yeah, like that. It reads your print and —"
"OW!" yelled Hal.
"- takes a DNA sample at the same time. Doesn't hurt too bad."
Hal studied the drop of blood welling from the end of his thumb. "I bet you're a real hit with the kids."
Tom snorted. "That's nothing, you should see what happens if you don't pay the bill." He beckoned to his assistant. "Come on, lad. The competition."
Danny sighed. "Do I have to?"
"Want a clip round the lug 'ole?"
"Okay, okay. I'm doin' it." The young man reached into his overalls and took out a pen and a dog-eared book of tickets. "Name?"
"Not like that! Do it properly!"
Hal cleared his throat. "Look, I'm kind of busy right now. Why don't you —"
"It's really good," said Tom. "Let him finish."
"I ain't even got started," complained Danny.
"Go on, lad."
Danny squinted at the ticket. "Presenting the Sergeant Electrical Win-a-Robot competition. First prize … a robot!"
Hal shrugged. "I've already got one."
"If you win, you could sell it," said Tom encouragingly.
"How much are the tickets?"
"Nuffink," said Danny sourly, as if the winnings were being deducted from his wages. "Second prize —"
"I'll take a dozen tickets. Now let me show you out."
"One per ship."
"I'll have one, then," said Hal.
"Name?"
Hal told him, and watched impatiently as the young man scribbled it on the booklet.
"What's yer ship?"
"You know that, lad," said Tom. "She's the Volante. Nice one, too."
"And it has a wonderful airlock," said Hal. "Would you like to see it?"
Danny scrawled on the ticket, ripped it off and held it out. "Finishes today. Don't lose it."
"C'mon Danny," said Tom. "We got that Rigel class to strip before tea."
The young man grunted, and together they entered the airlock. Hal closed the outer door on them and returned to the flight deck. "Right, let's get moving. Loading dock twelve."
*
Clunk waited impatiently as his systems booted up. Until they were ready, he could neither see nor hear - all he knew was that something had triggered his external sensors.
"I tell yer it's a jiggler," said a voice.
Clunk glanced around, but the hall was empty. Then he looked down and saw a pair of old ladies standing below his pedestal, heads level with his pelvis, necks craned as they examined him closely. One of them took out a leaflet. "Says here —"
"I don't care what it says," replied the other, pursing her lips. "'E's a jiggler."
"He ain't! He's all 'ard and lumpy!"
Her companion dug her in the ribs. "That's wot jigglers are supposed ter be like."
As the ladies cackled with laughter, Clunk bent down until his face was almost level with theirs. "Good afternoon, ladies."
"It moved!" shrieked one.
"I thought you was all models!" gasped the other.
"On the contrary, I am a fully functioning XG99. I was manufactured in the year —"
"Are you a jiggler or not?" demanded one of the women.
Clunk turned and pointed to the next display, where the pleasurebot had been arranged in a dramatic pose. "Madam, I believe that is the robot you are looking for."
The women hurried over to the display and began to inspect it closely. As their ribald comments drifted across the deserted hall, Clunk looked around. He'd seen most of the exhibits on the way in, and there were no visitors to speak of. He was about to return to standby when he saw a young man in customs uniform push through the main doors. The man looked around, saw Clunk and made straight for him.
"Are you Spacejock's robot?" he asked, his eyes almost hidden under the peaked cap.
"That's me," said Clunk. "Is there a problem?"
"I'm just checking Spacejock kept his side of the bargain."
"What bargain?"
The man grinned. "He didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?" asked Clunk with a sinking feeling.
Phillip explained who he was, then lowered his voice. "Spacejock altered a shipping manifest to cut his import duty, and when I confronted him he offered me a bribe."
Clunk closed his eyes.
"I could have jailed him for either offence," continued Phillip. "But we came to an arrangement. He donated you to the museum."
Clunk's eyes blinked open. "Wait a minute. Donated?"
"Absolutely. And you'll stay here until I tell you otherwise," said Phillip. "Move from this room and I'll have Spacejock arrested. Is that understood?"
Clunk's head dropped, and he barely noticed as Phillip walked away. Donated to a museum! Why hadn't Mr Spacejock said anything? Suddenly, a horrible thought wormed its way into his brain. Was it permanent? What if Hal never came back for him!
*
Rex Curtis studied a navigation chart on his terminal, rotating and zooming the starfield as he sought a particular type of planet. Now and then he marked a possible, only to discard it after a closer look. He'd just selected a new region of space when his intercom buzzed. "Yes?"
"Ms Polarov to see you."
"Send her in."
"And I have Mac on line three."
Curtis pressed a button. "Go ahead."
"Mac here. You know that ship you're watching? The Volante?"
"What about it?"
"It's moved to loading dock twelve."
"Fine. Get rid of the loading bay staff. Give them the day off."
"I can't do that. Ground control shows three ships coming in."
"Send them home or I'll have them all sacked. Understood?"
"I'll see what I can do," said Mac.
"You won't, you'll do exactly as I say." Rex cut him off, and looked up as Sonya walked in. "Excellent work, Ms Polarov," he said, forcing a smile. "You pulled off a daring mission with ease."
Sonya rubbed her head. "His pet damn near killed me, though."
"Pet? What kind of pet?"
"I don't know. All orange fur and claws."
"It attacked you?"
"It startled me, and I tripped over and knocked myself out. And it's got a decent set of teeth. Look at these." Sonya held up her sunglasses, which had a half-chewed arm and a missing lens. "Did the same to the other equipment."
"Spacejock must be starving the thing," said Rex. "Still, you got the data."
Sonya nodded. "So, now I get my permanent job? My employment letter?"
"Almost."
"What do you mean almost? I just —"
The terminal on the desk beeped, and a screenful of dots appeared. Rex took a pair of heavy black glasses from his drawer and put them on. The glasses hummed and crackled, and after adjusting the short antenna, he leant forward to read the coded message. "It's from Dent. He's got the ship's data out of Bobby and he's writing a program which will crock the ship." He peered closer. "Oh - crack." He removed the glasses, which left a pair of angry red circles around his eyes. "What are
you grinning at?"
"Another of Dent's inventions?"
"I don't know what you have against him," said Rex, putting the glasses on his desk. "He's got a brilliant mind."
"That's true. He can run rings around anyone."
"Dent's doing his part in all this." Rex leaned across the desk, and Sonya bit her lip at the looming red circles. "What else did you discover? What about the robot?"
"It's old. Looks like he got it out of a dumpster."
"It could still interfere with my plans. It'll have to be dealt with."
Sonya frowned. "Aren't you going to a lot of trouble? I mean, it's not the end of the world if Spacejock delivers this freight."
"If he completes this job he'll get others. Understand? And it's not just Central Bank: more and more companies will try the privateers, and the more they earn the faster they'll upgrade their ships. Do you know what'll happen then? Curtis Freightlines will go broke, and these bastards will sneak along to the liquidation sale and pick up all my ships for nothing. Am I getting through to you?"
Sonya nodded.
"If I can stop the trickle, the flood might never happen. Discredit Spacejock, and what chance does a privateer in a rust bucket have? I'm telling you, we're going to stop this guy and we're going to stop him good."
"What about a missile?"
"Are you mad?" Rex stared at her. "I'm running a business, not a war."
"Dent has enough weapons in his basement to start a revolution."
Rex made a noise. "That's just a show of strength. We'd never use the stuff."
"Never?"
"When you're locked in delicate negotiations with a competitor, waving a shoulder-launched missile can sometimes free up the situation." Rex shrugged. "We're not negotiating with Spacejock. We only have to delay him, so there's no need for confrontation."
"Can't ground control hold him up?"
Rex shook his head. "Not for long enough. He could hire another ship, or call the bank and tell them he's being delayed. They'd investigate and we'd be in trouble." The terminal beeped, and another screen of dots appeared. Rex donned his glasses and read the message. "Dent's got some information out of the briefcase. Apparently Spacejock donated his robot to a local museum for the day." Rex frowned. "Strange, he doesn't strike me as a public-spirited individual. Still, whatever the reason we've got a few hours to set everything up." Rex removed the glasses, which left even bigger circles around his eyes. "I'll get someone to nobble the robot, and you —"