Hal Spacejock Omnibus One

by Simon Haynes

  Inside, the President of Cathua was going over his hastily scrawled notes. His speech writer had succumbed to a virus, and while it was off being repaired he'd been forced to come up with his own witty anecdotes and eloquent rhetoric. So far, without much success.

  The President's adviser, Albert Wallis, sat alongside him, ready to assist, while a pair of bodyguards with curly earpieces, body armour, flak helmets and combat rifles sat near the front of the limo and tried to look unobtrusive.

  "How about this?" said the President. "Friends, Jordians, countrymen! Listen up!"

  "You're making it sound like the Jordians aren't our friends."

  The President gestured at the roof. "That racket is not the action of a friend. And did you see the photo?"

  "But the trade talks …"

  "Underhanded bastards, the lot of them. I'd sooner trade with a gang of criminals."

  Wallis frowned at the bodyguards. "You didn't hear that."

  "No sir," said one of them.

  "The President was being humorous."

  "Yes sir," said the other.

  Wallis turned back to the President. "If you don't agree with the trade deal, it's not too late to cancel."

  "We need their robots."

  "But we have our own! Our designs are —"

  "Not that again, Wallis. Our robot designs are wonderful, but once we build the things they're as useful as a wooden spaceship. Short battery life, a will of their own, always breaking down —"

  "You just need to give our people a chance."

  "They've had plenty of chances. We've thrown billions at them, and it's time to give up."

  "But —"

  "Okay, listen. I've changed the speech." The President cleared his throat. "Unaccustomed as I am —"

  "No," said Wallis hurriedly.

  "It gives me great —"

  "No."

  "Seeing you all here today —"

  Wallis shook his head.

  "Damn it all, man. You write the blasted thing!"

  Wallis took the notepad and turned to a fresh page. Then, after a moment or two, he started to write.

  *

  Half an hour later Hal and Clunk turned off the main road and followed a broad tree-lined avenue to the Jordian Exhibition Centre. They crossed an area bordered with neat hedges, then entered a car park the size of a spaceport landing field. The outer reaches were deserted, but as they got closer to the entrance the bays were filled with a range of vehicles, from rental trucks to groundcars to limousines.

  Clunk drove straight up to the entrance, where light poured from a row of ground-floor windows. Through the windows they could see a uniformed guard sitting at a console, and all around were banners advertising the Consumer Robot and Animated Pals Expo.

  They parked the truck in a loading zone and entered the building.

  "Evenin' all!" called Hal, as the doors parted.

  The guard looked up. "Good evening, sir. I'm afraid the facility is closed until this evening's opening ceremony."

  "I've got a delivery."

  The guard spotted Clunk. "You're joking. This is a trade fair, not a museum."

  "The delivery is on the truck," said Clunk icily.

  "You should have said, mate. Had me worried for a moment." The guard gestured at the windows. "Take it down the side to the loading ramp. The lads are waiting, you can't miss it."

  Hal cleared his throat. "You haven't seen Jasmin Ortiz around here, have you?"

  "Who?"

  Back outside, they clambered into the truck. Clunk started the engine then sat for a moment or two, staring through the windscreen. "You know, my plan actually called for subtle questioning."

  "Yeah," said Hal. "Pity he didn't know anything."

  Slowly, the truck moved off. They turned left at the corner of the building and followed the road to a series of loading docks. Clunk reversed up to the nearest, and four men came out and stepped onto the rear of the truck, eyeing the singed crate and knotted straps in disbelief.

  Hal and Clunk got out and watched the men transfer the crate to a trolley. "All yours," said one, and the men turned to leave.

  "Wait a minute," called Hal. "You haven't seen a woman called Jasmin around here, have you?"

  Clunk covered his eyes.

  "Sorry mate, not me." The man gestured at a parking area nearby. "Truck goes there. Show your badges to security on the way in."

  *

  Inside, the guard on the delivery entrance was just about to take a break when two men approached, pushing a crate on a trolley. Actually, one of them was pushing the crate while the second told him how to push it, and as they got closer the guard noticed the recipient of this advice was in fact a robot.

  The guard stepped in front of them and raised his hand. "Passes, gents."

  The human waved his badge. "Ace." He jerked his thumb at the robot, who dug out a similar pass. "An' that's Barry."

  "Wotcher cock," said the robot.

  The guard squinted at the photos on the passes, which looked like they'd been left in the sun for a week and then subjected to repeated acid baths. He tilted them to the light and just picked out the faintest of images on each one: two eyes, a nose and a mouth. "What happened to these?"

  The human snorted. "Barry the brains here only left them on the dashboard, didn't he?"

  "Gutted," said the robot. "Stand on me, squire."

  The guard took in their caps, stained blue overalls and unkempt appearance, and decided they were a pretty good match for all the delivery people he'd encountered. "All right, in you go. You'll find the function hall at the back. Swipe the badges on the way in."

  "We swiped 'em once already," said the robot. "Straight up we did."

  "And now you'll do it again," said the guard, waving them past.

  *

  "You couldn't resist, could you?" demanded Hal, as they left the guard behind. "We swiped them once already? Smart, very smart."

  Clunk grinned. "It's the little things that make life worth living."

  "You won't say that if we don't find Ortiz," said Hal grimly. "And lay off the comic accent, will you?"

  "Right you are guv."

  They passed through an automatic door and entered the exhibition hall proper, where they found a maze of carpeted aisles and rows of booths ranging from little bigger than a cupboard right up to gigantic enclosures packed with elaborate displays. There were robots engaged in every human endeavour, from acrobatics to medicine to zoology, and in every case they did it longer, harder and better. One booth even had a robot in football gear singing a national anthem without stumbling over the words. The sign alongside proclaimed it capable of any sport and any anthem. "Have you ever done that?" asked Hal. "Kicked balls around?"

  Clunk glanced at him. "I've come close once or twice."

  They entered a large area filled with plastic chairs and tables, with a row of fast food stands along one side. All were closed, but there was a steaming coffee machine on a table with mugs, bottles of milk and a barrel full of teaspoons. Abruptly, Hal changed direction.

  "What are you doing?" asked Clunk.

  "What does it look like?"

  "This is no time for a tea break! We have to deliver the crate!"

  Hal stopped, torn between a cup of coffee and forty thousand credits.

  "Think of the Volante, Mr Spacejock!"

  The money won out, but not before Hal had stuffed his pockets with sachets of coffee and a teaspoon or two. A few moments later they found the doors to the main function room, which were hung with "No Admittance" signs. Hal ignored the signs and tried the doors, but they were locked. Then he saw the card scanner alongside. He unclipped his badge and ran it through the slot. There was a beep, and Hal opened the doors so Clunk could wheel the trolley through.

  Inside they discovered a room the size of a town hall, with overhead lights glaring down on tables laden with plates of food and cut glass bowls brimming with punch. There were streamers pinned to the ceiling, bunches of ballo
ons in the corners, and at the far end of the room a line of gleaming new robots stood to attention with their hands by their sides. Someone had laid an expanse of red carpet, and there was a podium to one side with a fresh jug of water.

  "Looks like a reception," said Hal, eyeing the food. "Hey, you don't think our crate's full of fancy grub, do you?"

  "I cannot say."

  "Reckon she'll show up?"

  "I don't know, Mr Spacejock. She might if we wait around."

  "So we do nothing? Well, that's pretty subtle."

  At that moment there was a buzz from Clunk's chest. He opened a compartment, took out Ace's commset and held it to his ear. "'Ello?"

  "I see you've entered the function room," said Jasmin, her voice loud in the quiet room. "You're to open the crate and place the contents in the display. The access code is on the back of your trade fair pass."

  "And where are you going to -?" Clunk lowered the commset. "She rang off."

  Hal nodded. "Doesn't waste words, eh?"

  Clunk turned his badge over and spotted the string of numbers. He crouched next to the crate and entered the digits while Hal crowded him, eager to see what they'd brought all this way. When he'd finished entering numbers the crate opened up and the solid glass inside vanished with a loud WOOF.

  "Something's not right," said Hal, as he eyed the contents.

  "It's her crate," said Clunk. "We'd better do as we're told."

  Slumped at the back of the crate was an elderly robot in a patched-up suit, looking as though it had just been hauled from a dumpster. Hal stared at it, then at the line of sparkling new models nearby. "She wants us to put this with those?"

  "This is an old domestic service model, a PT1 if I remember correctly. Perhaps Ms Ortiz is making a political statement by exposing the unacceptable treatment meted out to vulnerable old robots."

  "Yeah, or perhaps she's a nutter."

  "We have our orders, Mr Spacejock. I suggest we comply."

  They manhandled the robot out of the crate. As soon as it was clear it stood up and fastened a steely gaze on Clunk. "Are you the President of Cathua?"

  "Sure he is," said Hal. "And I'm the ruler of the known universe."

  The decrepit robot struck without warning, grabbing Clunk round the neck and lifting him bodily into the air. It shook him like a doll, squeezing his neck while Clunk scrabbled with grasping fingers at the stern, emotionless face.

  Hal gaped at the struggling robots, taken completely by surprise.

  "Quick, Mr Spacejock!" cried Clunk. "It's trying to take my head off!"

  Hal leapt forward and tried to open the robot's claws, but it was like fighting an industrial press. Looking around in panic, he grabbed a chair and swung it repeatedly at the robot's head, but the chair fell apart in his hands without leaving a mark on the tough metal skin.

  "The off switch!" gasped Clunk, through stiff lips. "There should be an off switch. Round the back!"

  Hal darted behind the robot and tore at its faded dinner jacket, revealing a cover plate. He brought up the chair leg and smashed the panel in, then tore at the buckled flap. Inside there was a bright red switch, but as he reached for it the robot released Clunk and turned on him instead.

  Hal tried to fend off the advancing robot, but it swatted his arms aside and fastened its strong metal hands around his neck. Blood pounded at his temples, and the overhead lights started to dim.

  Splash! A wave of liquid cascaded over the robot's shoulders, drenching it. For a split second nothing happened, and then it began to shake and crackle, with blue sparks arcing between its fingers. It twisted its head from side to side in silent agony as the liquid shorted its circuits, then sank to the floor, jerking uncontrollably.

  Behind the robot, Clunk set the empty punch bowl on the table. "Are you okay, Mr Spacejock?"

  Hal nodded. "You?"

  "A few more dents around the neck, but otherwise fully operational."

  "Quick thinking with the bowl."

  "A real knockout punch, you might say." Clunk knelt alongside the robot to examine it. "I don't understand why it reacted like that. And why did it ask -?"

  "Shh!" Hal stared at the doors. "There's someone coming!"

  "We'd better hide."

  "We can't leave the place like this! This thing's supposed to be in the display. Come on, give me a hand."

  They hauled the stricken robot to a gap in the line and tried to stand it up, but it slumped to the floor. The footsteps got closer, and a babble of voices could be heard outside.

  "Back in the crate!" hissed Clunk.

  They grabbed an arm each and dragged the robot away, concealing it in the empty crate. Hal squeezed in after it, and Clunk was about to follow when Hal stopped him. "They'll notice the gap."

  "You're not suggesting I take its place?"

  Hal gave him a push. "Quick, they're here."

  "But I don't look anything like —"

  Hal gave him a harder push. "If you don't get into that line-up, I will."

  Without a word, Clunk turned and marched to the line of robots. He took his place, raised his chin and struck a pose.

  "And keep your mouth shut!" whispered Hal. He pulled the front of the crate down, leaving the barest of gaps. In the corridor, the voices and footsteps grew louder, and Hal crossed his fingers and willed them past. Instead, they stopped right outside the doors.

  "And now, the moment you've all been waiting for!" said a voice. The doors were thrown open. "Mr President, our very latest models!"

  Chapter 25

  As the group poured into the huge room the President's gaze fell on the laden tables, which groaned under the weight of cold cuts, breads, cheeses and a variety of salads. "Very impressive."

  "The robots are over here," said his guide.

  The President shifted his gaze to the line of gleaming robots, and was just about to compliment the Jordians on their manufacturing prowess when he spotted the battered bronze robot with thick arms crossed in front of its puffed-out chest. A walking scrap heap, decades out of date … what was it doing here?

  There were confused looks amongst the official party too, and a lot of urgent whispering. Clearly they were as surprised as he was.

  The President hadn't reached his lofty position without a knack for overcoming minor setbacks, and so he took to the podium, ignoring the strange robot and the confused looks. He pulled out his hastily scribbled notes and cleared his throat, waiting for the crowd to settle. When they were ready, he began. "First of all, I'd like to thank you for inviting me here today. I know our planets don't always agree, but your hospitality has been first class."

  There was a smattering of applause.

  "Now, having inspected your latest designs, I'm certain we'll be placing a substantial order for your magnificent robots."

  The applause was more enthusiastic.

  "As the President of Cathua, it is my honour to stand here and represent my planet. It would be more fitting, however, if my colleague Albert Wallis were speaking to you in my stead, since he knows more about robots than anyone on Cathua. Alas, he developed a headache, and if I were feeling uncharitable I'd say he'd rather endure a headache than one of my speeches." The President paused for laughter. There wasn't any. He looked back at his speech. "And as President of Cath—"

  The President stopped, distracted by a loud thud. He traced the sound to a large crate sitting on a trolley, and from the way it was moving something inside was eager to get out. "As President—"

  "Are you the President of Cathua?" demanded a muffled voice.

  The President frowned. "Of course I am."

  The crate burst open with a bang and the President stared in amazement as a battered old robot leapt out and ran towards him, hands outstretched and a murderous gleam in its eyes. Behind it, hanging on for dear life, was a human in blue overalls.

  *

  Clunk reacted immediately, knocking the President aside as he dived for the oncoming robot. They collided with a crash of metal,
and Hal went spinning into the crowd.

  Clunk grabbed the rogue robot by one arm and swung it wildly, sending it skating out of control across the room. It slammed into the wall, rebounded, and hurled itself back towards the President, who seemed unsure whether this was an assassination attempt or just an elaborate show for his benefit.

  While the President dithered, the crowd behind him scattered. Timing it to perfection, Clunk jumped in front of the President and drove his fist into the robot's face, catching it mid-stride. There was a crunch as its head caved in, and blue sparks shot up Clunk's arm. Both robots began to shake, and Clunk felt himself being drawn into a spiralling darkness.

  Then Hal flew in, feet-first, his boots slamming into the slender robot's chest and knocking it away from Clunk. Hal thudded to the ground, scattering coffee sachets and teaspoons, while the robot flew towards the laden table and landed amongst the banquet dishes, breaking the table in two and disappearing under a pile of crockery and food.

  There was a babble of shocked voices and the President stepped forward. "What's the meaning of this ruckus?"

  Clunk hurried over to the fallen robot. He pulled open its chest compartment and ripped the power cables from the battery to disable it once and for all. Immediately, he became aware of two things: one, as the cables came free a countdown timer began to tick over, and two, the chest was packed with explosives.

  "What's going on?" puffed Hal, looking over Clunk's shoulder. He spotted the timer, which had fifteen seconds left. Fourteen … thirteen … "Is that what I think it is?"

  Clunk nodded. "There's enough explosive to level this building."

  "What's our chances?"

  Clunk looked around the crowded room, then shook his head. "Mr Spacejock, I'm afraid our luck just ran out."

  *

  Jasmin flicked through endless channels on the Volante's main screen, most of them showing programs about back-stabbing attention-seekers thrown into contrived situations - the education minister reading to a primary school class, the conservation minister drinking a glass of water from a recycling plant, and the transport minister fleeing as Peace Force operatives attempted to breathalyse him. The honourable gentleman was just about to fall under their batons when the screen changed and the flustered announcer appeared. "Bomb plot at Trade Fair?" said the caption across the bottom of the screen, and Jasmin eagerly turned the sound up to listen. She had been instructed to monitor all channels for news from the trade fair, and this had to be why.