Hal Spacejock Omnibus One

by Simon Haynes

  The cabbie glanced over his shoulder. "Parts centre?"

  "Correct," said Clunk.

  The driver slammed his foot down, hurling them forward in a cloud of dust. The car gathered speed rapidly and shot across the apron, skimming potholes and leaving vaporised puddles in its wake. The terminal buildings loomed ahead, until it seemed they were going to ram them. Just as Hal was leaning forward to alert the driver to their impending doom, the car shot down a ramp and entered a dark tunnel. Their passage was illuminated by the odd flash from the car's exhaust and the occasional dirty skylight overhead, and these flashes showed ragged, grimy brickwork and rusty pipes hemming the car in from both sides.

  Hal saw a spot of light in the distance, which grew larger until they were back outside, hurtling down a narrow lane lined with boarded windows. The cab sped through a pair of gates and turned left, accelerating rapidly and leaving the spaceport behind.

  A few minutes later they turned into a car park, stopping in front of a navy-blue building. "Parts centre," said the driver. "That'll be ten credits."

  "Can you wait?" asked Hal. "We'll only be a moment."

  The cabbie glanced in the mirror, eyeing Hal's well-worn flight suit. "I'll hang around, but you got to settle up first."

  "You think we're going to do a runner?"

  The driver took in Clunk's battered appearance. "Not run, exactly."

  "So wait here, then."

  "Only if you pay first," said the driver stubbornly.

  "Oh, don't bother," growled Hal, tossing a credit chip into the cab. "Go on, get lost."

  "Hey, what about a tip?"

  "Brush up on customer service."

  The driver departed at speed, and they hurried into the parts centre to avoid the choking cloud of dust. Inside they found a large room festooned with thousands of spares in bubble-packs, shelf upon shelf of battered cardboard boxes with cryptic labels, and floor displays containing lengths of plastic piping, angle iron and metal rods. A track worn into the green carpet tiles led to a counter squashed between a scale cutaway of a jet engine and a huge barrel overflowing with rubber grommets.

  As they approached the counter Hal pointed out a display of oil cans. "You could use one of those."

  "What for? I'm a sealed unit."

  "I was thinking about the ship," said Hal. "You could give my chair a squirt for a start."

  "Is that so," said Clunk flatly.

  "Yeah, it's got a squeak. And the cargo hold door's a little stiff."

  "I'll tell you what else we can do with an oil can," said Clunk, reaching for the biggest model. "If you'll just —"

  Hal raced him to the counter, where he leaned on the button recessed into the scarred plastic surface.

  Nothing happened.

  Hal pressed the button again, straining for the slightest sign that his action was having an equal and opposite reaction.

  No dice.

  He was just about to apply himself to the button for the third time when the door burst open, admitting a sturdy young man in faded green overalls.

  "Watcher keep pressing it for?" demanded the man, settling on the stool.

  "I tried rubbing it but nothing happened," said Hal. Behind him, Clunk snorted.

  "Watcher want, anyway?"

  Hal motioned Clunk forward. "This is where you take over."

  "Ready?" said the robot.

  The youth held his pen over a pad and nodded.

  "That's one 6E board, three FN D8s, one L4-2 with an OG controller and one BF-36."

  The attendant looked each item up in a bound catalogue and wrote down the details. "Be right back," he said, grabbing a cardboard box and vanishing through the door.

  "I'd better check the parts before we leave," remarked Clunk. "I want to make sure they're of a suitable quality."

  "They'll be all right." Hal pointed to a sign on the wall: This company is acredited.

  "Accredited has two c's, Mr Spacejock."

  The door opened and the attendant came back with the box.

  "These aren't official parts," said Clunk, as he inspected the bubble-packs.

  The attendant shrugged. "Made in the same factory."

  "But not to the same standard." Clunk took the last item out of the box and peered inside. "Where's the BF-36?"

  "We don't have any."

  "How long will it take to get one?"

  The youth reached for a desk planner, which was still set to the previous month. He flipped two pages, and scanned the print. "Next delivery is Tuesday week."

  Hal stared at him. "You're joking!"

  "Has to come from Plessa. There's an embargo, but this guy slips 'em through for me."

  "Tuesday week!" said Hal incredulously. "I'm not waiting until then! My cargo will be ruined!"

  "Go and get it yourself then," said the attendant, shutting the desk planner. He summed up the total and held out the slip. "That'll be two hundred and ninety-five credits."

  Hal paid for the parts and they went outside. "There has to be a way to get one of these BF things."

  "Of course there is. We can fetch it from Plessa ourselves."

  "You want to take a 200-ton freighter on a round trip for a crummy little spare part? Have you any idea how much that's going to cost in fuel? Not to mention the landing fees and all those taxes."

  "We could take a passenger liner."

  "Oh yes, and we'd better go first class. They serve the booze in real glasses."

  "We don't have to travel first class. Third is much cheaper."

  "How much?"

  Clunk paused to retrieve the info. "Fares to Plessa - three thousand credits each."

  "Well that's out, then." Hal looked around for inspiration, and his eyes narrowed as he spotted a flickering neon sign above a narrow doorway. "What about the pub? I'm bound to get help if I hit the space bar."

  "Don't bet on it," said Clunk.

  "Why not? I could offer to navigate in exchange for a ride."

  "I wouldn't emphasise that particular skill."

  "What would you suggest? Toilet cleaning?"

  "Do you know how?"

  "No, but you could come with me."

  Clunk shook his head. "I'm going back to the ship to fit these parts to the controller."

  "What for? We're stuck without the BF thingo."

  "I've got an idea, although the probability of success isn't very high."

  "What idea?"

  Clunk shook his head. "It's probably nothing. You'll have better luck in the bar."

  "Will do." Hal rubbed his chin. "If I don't get a lift, at least I can get plastered."

  "No alcohol," warned Clunk. "You're not allowed to fly under the influence."

  "Fly?" Hal snorted. "Fly where?"

  *

  The bar was small, with thick hangings covering the windows and deep carpet on the floor. Around the walls, fake candles shimmered and flickered, casting pulsating pools of light on the dark, chunky furniture. The only bright spot was behind the bar, a thick slab of plastic running across the full width of the room. Here, assorted drink logos shone amongst back-lit bottles and racks of snacks.

  Hal eyed the shadowy figures engaged in deep conversations and furtive deal-making, taking in the weathered clothing, ragged self-inflicted haircuts and the distant stares of those more used to deep space than candlelit tables. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising at the sight of free enterprise in action. Spaceport bars were the nerve centre of galactic civilisation, places where the real business of space was thrashed out, and Hal decided he would frequent them more often, no matter what Clunk thought.

  He approached the bar and took a stool next to a man with a sculpted goatee and a tailored mane of straw-coloured hair. As Hal sat down the man raised his drink and watched him over the rim, sizing him up with bloodshot eyes. Hal looked away and attracted the serving droid with a snap of his fingers. "How much is the orange juice?"

  "Nine credits, sir."

  "I'll have one, thanks."

/>   While the robot whirred off to assemble his drink, Hal felt in his pocket for change.

  Alongside him, the elegant customer cleared his throat. "Broke, huh?"

  "Are you talking to me?" asked Hal evenly, keeping his eyes on the robot.

  "I was just like you once. Hauling worthless junk from one end of the galaxy to the other, struggling to pay the bills."

  "Worthless junk?" Hal turned to face the man. "For your information, my ship is carrying half a million credits worth of cargo."

  Across the bar, a dozen conversations were cut off mid-sentence. The man leaned forward eagerly, his voice loud in the sudden silence. "Precious metals? Gemstones?"

  Hal shook his head. "Fresh food."

  The bar erupted with laughter.

  "It's organic!" shouted Hal over the uproar. "Beef from hand-seeded cows!"

  The laughter got even louder, and Hal turned his back on them and hunched over his drink, his ears burning. "Better than hanging around in bars for a living," he muttered, just loud enough for the man sitting alongside to hear.

  The man frowned. "I don't know what you mean."

  "Oh yeah? Waiting for customers, are we?"

  "I'm a pilot, first class." The man tapped his chest. "Kent Spearman of the Luna Rose."

  "Hal Spacejock, Volante."

  "Freelance?"

  Hal nodded.

  "Figures. I've yet to meet one of your kind who wasn't surviving on frozen food while lurching from one repair to the next."

  "It's not like that," snapped Hal.

  "Oh, so you're not here to cadge a ride? Pick up spare parts on the cheap? Borrow some fuel?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  The serving droid rolled up to the counter and delivered a glass of clear liquid. "Your drink, sir."

  "What's that?" demanded Hal.

  "Nine credits."

  "No, I mean what the hell is it? It looks like water."

  "It's your orange juice, sir."

  "But it's not orange."

  "It is," said the droid, nodding vigorously.

  "It can't be. It's clear."

  "All our drinks are filtered and purified, sir. Best quality guaranteed."

  Hal glanced along the bar. All the bottles held transparent liquid.

  "That's nine credits," prompted the droid.

  Hal withdrew a bunch of tiles and slid a couple across the counter. "Keep the change."

  The droid tilted its head. "Thank you, sir."

  "Fifty-credit tips?" said Kent, who was looking at Hal with respect. "Boy, did I get you wrong."

  With a shock, Hal realised he'd handed over the wrong tiles, but with his pride at stake he could only watch the drinks robot vanishing with the bulk of his cash. "Fifty?" he said, forcing a smile. "I usually bung them five hundred."

  "It's only money, eh? Course, I've been known to throw the cash around myself. Back home they call me the Big Tip."

  Hal raised his glass and was just about to gulp the drink down when he noticed the smell of alcohol. He took a sip and almost choked on the fumes.

  "Problem with your drink?" asked Kent as Hal coughed and spluttered.

  "I wanted orange juice, not rocket fuel."

  "You mean real juice?" Kent grinned. "That's a first around here."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Pilots aren't allowed alcohol before flying, right?"

  Hal nodded. "That's why I'm drinking juice."

  "Yes, but ships fly themselves these days. The old rules don't make sense."

  "So?"

  "So we have an arrangement." Kent tapped his mug. "I order milk, I get beer. A can of cola is wine. Order orange juice and you get neat gin."

  "Are you telling me you fly under the influence?"

  "My computer does everything. All that hands-on flying is for old farts." Kent drained his glass and tapped the counter for another. "You should try a real ship one day. Push a button to take off and another to land. Minimal interaction."

  "Buttons?" scoffed Hal. "I haven't seen buttons on a ship for years."

  "Of course, when I say buttons I mean motion sensors." Kent took a fresh drink from the robot and tipped it back. "The President was most impressed. Nice bloke once you get to know him."

  "President?"

  "He runs this planet."

  "Oh, a politician. I thought you meant someone important."

  "He's slightly more important than a cargo of food." Kent turned his glass slowly on the counter. "What are you doing here, anyway? You've got a ship, you've got a cargo and you obviously don't drink. Are you looking for something?"

  "Not me," said Hal, shaking his head. "Just a bit of R&R."

  "Only I've got a couple of positions to fill aboard ship. Menial work, but if you're after a ride to Plessa —"

  "Why don't you use robots?"

  "Got four of those doing the engines." Kent glanced around then lowered his voice. "Want to hear about a neat money maker?"

  "Sure."

  "Robots are trusting, right? I take 'em on and promise them freedom after a couple of years. Instead of wages, that is."

  "Sounds fair to me."

  "You think like a robot," laughed Kent. "After three or four years they start getting antsy, and that's when I ask them to polish the airlock doors. Whoosh! Time for another robot."

  Hal looked shocked. "You space them?"

  Kent shrugged. "They're old anyway. And like I said, they're getting freedom."

  "Don't the rest object?"

  "I don't tell 'em." Kent glanced at him. "So, do you want the job?"

  "I'm not looking for work," snapped Hal.

  Kent shrugged. "It's your funeral." There was a buzz from his jacket, and he pulled out a miniature commset and held it to his ear. "Yeah? What, both of them? Excellent. Sign them on, get 'em some uniforms and make sure they sign the disclaimers. Catch you soon." Kent stuffed the commset back in his pocket and patted it. "Don't need you after all."

  "Crew?"

  Kent nodded. "Pair of desperate no-hopers most like, but even these clueless morons can make up the numbers. Can't fly without a full complement, you know. Regulations."

  "Speaking of flying, I'd better check with my ship." Hal took out his new commset and dialled the Volante. "My co-pilot is smart but he needs watching."

  "Don't they all?" muttered Kent.

  Through the static, Hal just picked out Clunk's voice. "Captain Spacejock to the Volante," he said crisply. "How's it going?"

  "What did you say, Mr Spacejock?"

  "How's it going?" repeated Hal, louder.

  "Are you well? Your voice sounds funny."

  "Excellent. Is everything ready for departure?"

  "Of course not. I'm still deciphering the misprinted instructions on these parts, I've stripped a thread on the cover plate and we're still missing the —"

  "I don't care what the Emperor said, we're doing it my way." Hal rolled his eyes at Kent, who was obviously impressed but doing his best not to show it. "He'll pay the full rate or he can ship his grub with a common courier."

  "Are you listening? I said —"

  "See you later, Clunk." Hal disconnected, and was about to put the commset away when Kent held his hand out.

  "Can I see it?"

  "Why?"

  "They're quite good for cheap knock-offs. Work like crap but look the same as the real thing."

  Reluctantly, Hal passed over the button-sized commset.

  "Ah, yes," said Kent, peering at it closely. "One of those cheap fakes." He patted his pocket. "Mine cost me three grand. Guy called Jimmy Bent fixed me up."

  Hal laughed. "He sure did."

  "I can call the Luna Rose from here," said Kent defensively.

  "I just spoke to the Volante."

  "Yeah, but the Rose is in orbit." Kent slid Hal's commset along the bar and stepped down from the stool. "I gotta get things shape-shipped. Oh, and give the Emperor my regards. We go way back, him and me."

  Hal watched him le
ave, then finished his drink and set the glass on the counter. Not bad going, he thought. Not only had he blown fifty credits on a lousy orange juice, he'd also turned down a ride to Plessa. How was he going to explain to Clunk?

  Chapter 6

  Jasmin ran full tilt through dense woods, ducking branches and leaping over tangled undergrowth as she tried desperately to stay ahead of her pursuers. They'd cornered her several times already, but when they opened fire their weapons had turned into torches, blinding her with beams of light instead of blowing her apart. Each time this happened Jasmin stumbled away, crashing through bushes and tripping over roots while her internal compass spun crazily.

  KNOCK KNOCK.

  Jasmin stopped dead. People were calling out, branches were cracking underfoot and she could hear the sound of torches being reloaded, but that last had sounded distinctly like someone tapping on a door.

  KNOCK KNOCK. "Hello? Anyone home?"

  Jasmin's eyes flickered open. She was sitting in her lounge room, without a leaf or a blade of grass in sight. A dream? She remembered the guns and the way they morphed into torches. No, it had been a nightmare. She had a splitting headache, fuzzy vision and a metallic taste in her mouth. Apart from the taste, which was to be expected, the others were new experiences and not ones she was keen to repeat.

  KNOCK KNOCK!

  With a start, Jasmin realised it was a repeat of the noise which had woken her. She stood, gathering the torn edges of her dress as she walked to the door. Her feet slipped on the puddles of milk and the remains of the apple pies, and her balance compensator worked overtime to keep her upright.

  The apartment lacked a door camera, spy hole or intercom, so she put her mouth to the frame and shouted. "Who is it?"

  "Courier. I'm here for a shipping crate."

  Jasmin glanced at the mess. "Wait there, I'll bring it out." She hurried to the balcony, put her arms around the crate and lifted it easily, reversing up to the front door with the dead weight in her arms. The door swept open and she put the crate down and tilted it so the courier waiting outside could get his trolley underneath.

  "Thanks, miss. Going to the spaceport?"

  "Yes, the cargo depot. I'll call through the name of the vessel when I have it."

  "I'll let 'em know," said the courier, pulling on the trolley. It didn't budge so he tried again, and his face turned red as the crate lifted a couple of millimetres, the trolley's wheels splaying under the enormous weight. Puffing with the strain, he staggered down the hallway towards the lifts.