Hal Spacejock Omnibus One

by Simon Haynes

  The woman turned a blank stare on him. "Yes?"

  "Round again?"

  A look of confusion crossed the woman's pale face and her eyes narrowed as she studied the meter, the shops and the busy street. "Where are we?"

  "The high street."

  "No, which planet?"

  The driver's heart sank. She wasn't just a loony, she was an out-and-out whackjob. "Cathua, love. This is a cab, not a rocket ship."

  "Take the next left."

  The driver obeyed, steering into a narrow street lined with apartment buildings. Alongside him the woman sat motionless, as if she were carved from marble.

  "Stop here."

  As the cab pulled over, the woman opened her purse and took out a handful of credit tiles. Without looking at them, she dropped the lot into the driver's outstretched hands, got out and closed the door. He watched the ghostly white figure move towards the nearest building, her outline wavering and shimmering through the frost-laden windshield. Then she was gone.

  The driver glanced up at the street number and did a double-take. They were back where they'd started! "Total nutjob," he muttered, shaking his head. Then he looked at the money in his hands. There was over a thousand credits in high-denomination tiles.

  *

  Jasmin Ortiz stood in the apartment building's lobby, looking around in confusion. She knew she lived here, but while the surroundings were familiar she couldn't remember which flat was hers. In fact, when she dug deeper she realised she couldn't remember anything before the cab ride. Her memory was completely blank.

  She crossed the lobby to a row of mailboxes near the lifts, expecting to find a clue amongst the name tags, but to her annoyance they only had numbers. She put her fingers into the nearest slot and tried to ease the door open, hoping to find a letter inside addressed to the occupant. Crack! The reinforced plastic splintered like balsa, scattering shards on the marble floor. Stunned, Jasmin examined her hand, clenching and unclenching her fingers, and with every movement her ultra-sensitive ears picked up the faint but distinctive whine of micro-motors. She examined the other hand, then her arms, her elbows … and although her skin was incredibly realistic, she realised with a jolt that all her parts were mechanical. She wasn't human!

  There was a flash inside her head as she relived a sequence of vivid memories. Cold air and bright lights as she emerged from a tank. Masked strangers bending over her, bringing her to life with nutrients and high voltage. Pain, too. Physical and mental, tearing apart her circuits and -

  When Jasmin came to she was lying on the cold marble floor, the red handbag close to her face. She frowned at it, then sat up and wrenched it open. Inside she found more credit tiles, a small metal key and a swipe card. Both the key and the card carried the same number: fifty-two.

  The key fitted a mail box, which contained a wad of advertising flyers. Jasmin stuffed them in her bag, then called the lift and selected the fifth floor. Moments later she stepped into a carpeted hallway with doors at regular intervals. Fifty-two was the first on the right, but as Jasmin readied her keycard the door on the opposite side of the hall opened and an old lady in a faded pink dressing gown peered out.

  "Back already, dear? Did you forget something?"

  Did I ever, thought Jasmin. "Do you know where I was going? Was there anyone with me?"

  "No, dear." The lady looked at her in concern. "Are you feeling all right?"

  "I have to sit down."

  "Good cup of tea, that's what you need."

  "I'll bear that in mind."

  "Did you like your apple pie?"

  Jasmin weighed up the two possible answers and chose the safest. "Yes. Lovely."

  "You didn't see Petey downstairs, did you?"

  "Petey?" Who or what was Petey? Jasmin desperately tried to remember. Husband? Cat? Toy boy? "I don't think so."

  "I sent him out for milk an hour ago and he's not back yet."

  That ruled out a cat, thought Jasmin. "Does he usually get lost?"

  "Oh no. He's as regular as clockwork." The old lady put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, I didn't mean that in a nasty way. I mean, I know robots are sensitive about that sort of thing."

  Jasmin stared. Did this old woman know what she was? Did everyone?

  "Not that Petey is sensitive, of course. Poor dear, it's all he can do to walk properly."

  And that ruled out the toy boy. "Never mind, I'm sure your husband will turn up soon."

  "I hope not. He died twenty years ago."

  "But Petey …"

  The old lady turned pink. "You know Petey's my robot. There is nothing improper in our relationship, and I'll thank you not to spread rumours."

  "Oh no, I didn't mean —" Jasmin stopped, because the old lady had just retreated into her apartment and slammed her door. Turning quickly, she swiped her card and hurried into her own apartment before she could insult the rest of her neighbours. That was the worst part about being a deep cover agent AND a robot … the way they messed with your head after every mission.

  Jasmin froze. Where had that come from? She poked around in her mind, but there was no way to trace the thought. Deep cover agent? Mission?

  Suddenly she realised she was standing in the dark. She gestured at a pickup and soft lighting illuminated the apartment, which consisted of a small lounge flanked by a very small kitchen. At the back of the lounge thick curtains covered the wall, while alongside there was a door to the bedroom. Jasmin looked around, but there was nothing to indicate it was the lair of a master spy. No computer terminals, no consoles with throne-like command chairs from which to direct minions … not even a doomsday machine with a big red button and a digital countdown. With a wry grin, she realised that as far as the chain of command went she was probably at the henchwoman end of the scale. Henchdroid, rather. Lower than low. Dispensable. Cannon fodder.

  Pushing such thoughts from her mind, Jasmin went to inspect the bedroom. The double bed looked as new as the day it was installed and the huge collection of lightweight dresses in the wardrobe only emphasised her immunity to the weather. The bathroom had a toilet, a basin and a shower cubicle, none of them used.

  She tried the kitchen, where a pristine workbench was flanked by a small refrigerator and a cooktop. Brand new cups hung from two rows of hooks, clean and shiny and clearly unused. There were no jars of coffee or sugar, no tea towels, no unwashed plates … no signs of life whatsoever.

  On a whim, Jasmin opened the fridge. The door held two cartons of milk, while the shelves were laden with apple pies. There were at least two dozen of them, ranging from fresh through somewhat furry to completely fossilised. Clearly, pie wasn't her thing. Nothing was, she realised as she closed the fridge, because she didn't have to eat.

  In the cutlery drawer, Jasmin found a length of flex with a glossy black plug on each end. One plug matched the wall socket, but the other was a complex affair that didn't fit anything she could see. Frowning, she replaced the cord and closed the drawer.

  She looked around her apartment once more. As far as she could tell there wasn't the slightest hint as to what she was supposed to be doing. Hadn't she left herself anything? Not even a note? A sudden thought occurred to her. Could her orders be on a time delay? Was a mysterious visitor going to knock on the door and explain everything?

  She glanced at the curtains covering the end wall, then walked over and drew them aside to reveal a glass door leading onto an enclosed balcony. Out on the balcony was a large metal box, two metres tall with a smooth shiny surface that was cold to the touch. There was a narrow control panel near the bottom of the nearest side, with a status display and a keypad. Secure storage, then. Did this box contain her spy kit? Her past?

  "You seem to have found the shipment," said a female voice. "Would you like to proceed with your mission?"

  Jasmin looked around for the speaker, but the apartment was empty. Then she realised the voice had spoken within her, inside her head. "Who are you?"

  "I am your controller. My job is to guid
e you during your mission, and to ensure its successful completion."

  "So who am I?"

  "You are Jasmin Ortiz, and you work for the good of Plessa."

  "What am I doing on Cathua?"

  "Working for the good of Plessa."

  Jasmin frowned. The controller was obviously of limited intelligence. "Yes, but what am I supposed to do?"

  "You must complete your mission."

  "Which is?"

  "You will be told as it nears completion."

  "How can I complete it if I don't know what it is?"

  "The mission will be revealed in stages. At the successful completion of each step, you will be given the next."

  "What if one of these steps goes wrong?"

  "That is not an option."

  "You mean I can't improvise?"

  "Improvising is not an option. You must complete each stage as detailed."

  "You don't need a spy for something like that. You might as well use a mindless robot!"

  "Precisely."

  Jasmin's face took on a stubborn look. "What if I refuse?"

  Immediately, her body was wracked with agonising pain. Jets of fire scorched her skin, which shrivelled and blackened under the intense heat. Then the pain was gone and her skin returned to normal. "That was just a taste," said the controller. "The real punishment lasts forever."

  Jasmin took a ragged breath. Earlier she'd remembered the pain of birth, but this was the fiery agony of death. A protracted, never-ending death.

  "Your first task is to arrange a delivery," said the controller. "The shipping crate on your balcony must arrive on planet Jordia within forty-eight hours."

  Jasmin eyed the crate, which was big enough to contain a body. "What's inside?"

  "That does not concern you at this stage."

  "How do I pay for the freight?"

  "There is a bank account in your name. It contains more than enough funds to complete your mission."

  "Do I get to keep the rest?"

  The controller ignored her. "I am about to unlock a data package held in your main storage area. This knowledge pertains to your mission, including contact details and account numbers. I will also patch your personality."

  Jasmin's vision dimmed, then returned to normal. She felt the same, but now there was more information at her disposal. "What's this about a suitcase?"

  "You'll find it under the bed. It contains items you will need further into your mission."

  Jasmin went into the bedroom and pulled the suitcase out, laying it on the bed. "It's locked."

  "You cannot open it without the correct combination," said the controller. "If you try, it will self destruct."

  Jasmin lifted the case and shook it. It seemed to get heavier and heavier, until she could barely hold it, and then she realised all her movements were slowing.

  "Your energy levels are low," said the controller. "Would you like a recharge?"

  "How?"

  "Insert your finger into your navel."

  "Same to you, you —"

  "That's the opening mechanism," said the controller patiently. "Insert and twist."

  Jasmin did as she was told. There was a hiss as her abdomen parted, and a wrench of torn fabric as the dress split from her neck to the waist. No wonder she had so many spares in the wardrobe, she thought. Bending slightly, she examined her belly and saw tightly packed components joined by thick copper tubes. In the middle was a rounded box, and in the centre of the box there was a power socket. It was a match for the cord in the drawer, and when she returned to the kitchen and plugged it in a row of indicator lights began to pulse. There was a jolt from the feed, and Jasmin felt a heightened perception as the power surged through her. She stood there, absorbing enough electricity to run a sports stadium, and decided that booking a courier for the crate could wait a while.

  Barely had she closed her eyes when there was a knock at the door. "Miss Ortiz, it's me. Mrs Beatty."

  Jasmin checked the time and realised with a shock that it was the middle of the night. She gestured at the door, which opened silently, and saw the old lady from number fifty-one in the corridor, clutching her dressing gown around her skinny frame. "What is it?"

  "Petey's not back yet. I'm really worried."

  Jasmin felt a flash of irritation. "Mrs Beatty, it's two in the morning. I have better things to worry about than your missing robot."

  "But he's so old!"

  "So are you, and you should be in bed."

  "He went out in his old suit, you know. Oh, I do hope they don't mistake him for one of those tramps."Mrs Beatty squinted at Jasmin's chest. "Why, your dress is all torn! Were you attacked, dear?"

  Jasmin pulled the ends together, covering the charge cable. "It's nothing. I caught it on the door handle."

  "Would you like me to fix it? I'm ever so good with a needle."

  "Mrs Beatty, go home."

  Ignoring her, the old lady entered the apartment. "I could mend that in two shakes of —"

  Irritation flared into hot anger. "Leave me alone, you interfering old bat!" roared Jasmin.

  Round-eyed, the old lady stared at her. "B-but, but —"

  "Get lost, and take your lousy apple pies with you!" Jasmin pulled the fridge open and Mrs Beatty vanished just as two pies splashed above the door. Jasmin hauled out two more and threw those, laughing aloud as they stuck to the wall. When she ran out of pies she threw the milk cartons, which exploded with a satisfying squelch, splashing the carpet and armchairs.

  Jasmin kicked the fridge shut, unplugged herself and flopped into the nearest armchair. "Hey, controller! Did I pass another test? Is scaring old ladies another stage in my precious mission?"

  The controller remained silent.

  Chapter 5

  "Good morning, Mr Spacejock," said Clunk brightly, as Hal emerged from the lift.

  "Morning," mumbled Hal, wiping sleep from his eyes. The previous night's events were still a blur, but he distinctly remembered Angry Clunk and Really Angry Clunk. "Everything okay?" he asked, playing it safe.

  "I have some good news for you. I made progress during the night."

  Hal brightened. "Really?"

  "Yes, I've almost completed the repairs."

  "You little ripper! You mean we don't need any parts?"

  Clunk smiled. "Absolutely. When I examined the machine I discovered the thermal overload had kicked in, preventing damage to the thermostat by modulating the —"

  "Excellent. Magic. When can we leave?"

  "Leave?"

  "Yeah. I mean, if you've fixed the thing we don't have to hang around here any more. Right?"

  Clunk frowned. "I don't understand."

  "We're stuck here because the stasis controller needs parts," said Hal patiently. "If you've fixed it without them, we can go."

  "Oh, I wasn't referring to the stasis controller."

  "What did you fix then?"

  Clunk pointed towards the rear of the flight deck. "The coffee machine."

  Hal's face fell. "Oh." Mentally, a small but pertinent fact clicked into place. "Hang on! Who told you about that?"

  "I found an error report in the Navcom's logs."

  "Oh great."

  "Aren't you happy? I mean … coffee!"

  "All right, fire it up then."

  "I haven't run any tests yet," warned Clunk. "It might not work properly."

  Hal passed him the cup. "You promised me a coffee."

  Clunk held the mug under the spout and pressed the button. There was a roar as a jet of blue flame hissed out, knocking the mug from his hands, and when Hal gathered it up he saw a neat hole in the bottom.

  "I can adjust the temperature," said Clunk. "It won't take a moment."

  "I wouldn't bother." Hal put the mug down and sat at the console. "Navcom, give me the news."

  "Lead item. Cathuan President to attend robot trade fair on Jordia."

  "Anything a little more racy?"

  "Cathuan President cancels tax breaks on robot rese
arch."

  "Taxes? Politicians?" Hal shuddered. "Next."

  "Plague of birds on Plessa?"

  Hal shook his head.

  "Supernova in the Carolie quadrant?"

  "Shipping news is boring."

  "You're supposed to be a pilot," said Clunk. "You have to know these things."

  Hal shrugged. "If a supernova went off round here it'd be too late, wouldn't it? We'd all be in little bitty pieces before it made the news."

  "You'd like to know if there was a bird plague on the planet you're heading for, wouldn't you? How else would you know to avoid their meat pies?"

  "You start buying meat pies and I'll start listening to the bird forecast. Next."

  There was a lengthy silence as the Navcom scanned for interesting news. "What about this one? Laboratory staff questioned as experimental robot continues to evade capture."

  Hal snorted. "Enough with the robot stories. Next."

  "Jordian trade embargo stretches into third month."

  Hal sighed. "Don't you have anything better?"

  "Define better."

  "Oh, I don't know. Solid gold asteroids spotted in the vicinity. Free food if your name is Hal. That kind of thing."

  "I do have a store of such items."

  Hal sat up. "Now you're getting warm. Hit me with it."

  "Story mode activated. Once upon a time —"

  "Oh, give me a break," groaned Hal, slumping back in his chair. Suddenly he frowned. "Clunk, why were you fixing the coffee maker? We're grounded because of the stasis controller."

  "I need parts, and the shop doesn't open until eight."

  Hal glanced up at the clock. "It's eight now."

  "Fifteen seconds to." Clunk tilted his head. "And unless I'm mistaken, that's our cab."

  "What cab?" asked Hal, as he heard a faint toot.

  "For the parts centre. I'm going to use off-the-shelf components to replace those damaged in the explosion."

  "Will that work?"

  Clunk gestured at the airlock. "I won't know until I try."

  They left the ship and walked down the ramp to a dilapidated yellow cab. Clunk got aboard, tipping the car dangerously to one side, and then Hal leapt in, balancing the vehicle.