by Simon Haynes
Chapter 3
In the cafe, Hal was on his fourth cup of coffee and Walsh was demolishing a ham sandwich. ‘Food’s lousy near the office,’ she said through a mouthful. ‘Always better at the spaceport.’
‘Do you come here often?’
‘Not enough.’ Walsh sighed. ‘I spent hours hanging around this place as a kid. I used to dream about sneaking onto a freighter and hitchhiking the galaxy. Visiting new planets, experiencing different cultures.’
‘You’ve never left Dismolle?’
‘Do you know what a fare costs? Wait, of course you do.’
The germ of an idea tickled Hal’s brain, but he pushed it aside. Deal with the evening first. ‘What sort of gear will I need tonight?’
‘Do you have a dress uniform? Something with medals?’
Hal almost choked on his coffee. ‘Not exactly, no.’
‘Pity. Never mind, black tie will do.’
‘I guess it will,’ muttered Hal, whose entire wardrobe consisted of two flight suits: the one he was wearing and a spare, which was identical only with bigger stains. Still, Clunk was pretty resourceful, and with a bit of luck he’d have a bit of tailoring software, a sewing machine and a bolt of charcoal grey fabric tucked away somewhere. After all, it wasn’t every day someone asked him out, so it was only right Clunk should do his bit to help. ‘And what about you? Dress or uniform? I mean, I’m sure you look great in uniform, but you’d look pretty special out of it too.’
‘You might find out later.’
Hal blinked at this, unsure whether he’d heard right.
Oblivious to his reaction, Walsh glanced over Hal’s shoulder. ‘Does your robot always look angry?’
‘He’s about as cheerful as a boat salesman on a desert planet. Why do you ask?’
Walsh nodded towards the door, and Hal turned to see Clunk hurrying towards them. He groaned as he saw the robot’s expression. Angry didn’t begin to cover it - his yellow eyes had a nasty red tinge, and his ears shimmered behind a heat haze. Clunk stopped at their table, spared Walsh a curt nod, then turned his attention to Hal. ‘I thought you’d like to know I just found the perfect cargo job. Nearby planet and completely above board.’
‘Great. So what are you doing here?’
‘When I tried to book it I discovered I was supposed to run all over the spaceport to obtain your approval. I’ve been searching cafes, restaurants, coffee shops —’
‘You should’ve let me keep that commset, shouldn’t you?’
‘With the price of galactic roaming? If you think —’
Walsh cleared her throat. ‘I’d better be off, Hal. I’ll pick you up just before seven.’
Hal stood, then realised he didn’t know whether to shake hands, peck her on the cheek or dither around like a teenager at a school ball. In the end, he dithered. ‘I’ll see you later, then.’
He waited until Walsh was out of earshot, then turned to Clunk. ‘Okay, you found me. Tell me about the job.’
‘What’s happening at seven?’
‘Nothing. Come on, what’s the job?’
‘Morgan Renovations are fitting out a mansion for a wealthy client. They’ve ordered an entire container of decorating supplies from Forzen.’
‘We’re talking paint and stuff?’
‘Correct.’
‘Fragile? Flammable? Bent?’
‘I assure you, everything is above board. Now if you’d just let me —’
‘What are they paying? Fifty credits and a book voucher?’
‘No, twenty thousand credits.’
Hal’s jaw dropped. ‘And you’re standing there talking about it? Bloody hell, Clunk. Grab it!’
‘I thought you wanted to check the fine print personally?’
‘We’ll do that after we’ve signed up. Go on, book it in.’
‘Let me call the Navcom.’ Clunk concentrated for a moment, and then his face fell. ‘Oh dear.’
‘What?’
‘The job has been allocated to someone else.’
‘Who the hell to? You said there was no competition!’
‘I don’t know.’ Clunk frowned. ‘Obviously someone who didn’t need approval in triplicate.’
‘Dammit, Clunk!’ Hal thumped his fist on the table, making the coffee cups rattle.
‘Don’t blame me! It was your —’
‘Never mind that. Get onto the booking people and explain that we’ve taken the job. Tell them it was a computer error.’
‘Once a booking is made they won’t change it. Only the parties involved can do that, and we don’t know who this other carrier is.’
‘What if we threatened —’ began Hal, then remembered he’d just shared a coffee with an officer of the law. ‘I mean, what if we offer a better price? Tell them we’ll do it for eighteen … No, scratch that. We’ll go and see them in person. They’re sure to hire us once they realise we’re the right people for the job.’
Clunk glanced at Hal’s flight suit, then looked down at his own battered form. His face had only a limited range of expressions, but his doubt was plain to see. ‘You don’t think we should call them instead?’
‘You’re right. Much quicker.’ Hal drained his mug and set it on the table. On the way out he remembered his date with Walsh. ‘Tell me, do you know how to put a suit together?’
* * *
Back aboard the Volante, Clunk placed an urgent call to Morgan Renovations. The company’s intricate logo rotated slowly on the viewscreen before the owner, Miranda Morgan, appeared. She was thirty-ish, with immaculate make-up and dark hair swept back off her face, and she wore a red jacket over a white linen blouse. ‘No, don’t tell me,’ she said, as her cool gaze took in first Clunk and then Hal. ‘You’re collecting for the space vagabonds benefit fund.’
‘No, this is about the job,’ said Hal.
‘I have a couple of dozen renovations on the books. Can you be a little more specific, or do you want me to start guessing?’
‘The cargo job. Decorating stuff from Forzen.’
‘Stuff?’ Morgan’s lip curled. ‘Hand-glazed porcelain, environmentally neutral paint, platinum-plated mixer taps and lead crystal shower glass - that’s just stuff to you?’
‘Paint and taps and stuff,’ amended Hal. ‘The thing is —’
‘Perhaps I can explain,’ said Clunk. ‘I was about to book the transportation of your valuable cargo when I was forced into a rather pointless tour of the spaceport coffee shops. By the time I returned the job had been allocated elsewhere.’
‘It was ours, though,’ said Hal. ‘We still want to do it.’
Morgan shrugged. ‘Your clockwork clod should have moved a bit quicker, then.’
Clunk straightened, a furious expression on his face. ‘What do you —’
‘Navcom, mute!’ said Hal quickly. He turned to the robot and lowered his voice. ‘Clunk, I want you to leave this to me. Go and organise my free wash and wax.’
Clunk frowned at the screen, where Morgan was doing an excellent impression of someone rapidly losing their patience. ‘I don’t like that woman.’
‘Don’t worry about her,’ said Hal. ‘I’ll drop the price and we’ll get the job. You’ll see.’
‘Very well. I shall return shortly.’
As soon as the outer door thumped to, Hal reactivated the volume. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said to Morgan. ‘This is all his fault, and he’s feeling guilty. He doesn’t believe you’ll give us the job back.’
‘He’s absolutely right. Once I give my word it’s completely unbreakable. My customers respect that, and I expect my suppliers to do the same.’
‘We’ll do the job for less.’
‘How much less?’
‘Twenty-five percent off.’
Morgan hesitated. ‘No, I have to stand by my word.’
‘But —’
‘Mr Spacejock, it’s a matter of trust. For example, only yesterday I employed someone to tend the buffet at a very important function this evening, and this m
orning he called to say he’d been offered more money elsewhere. Do you see where that leaves me?’
‘Carving roasts, from the sound of it.’
Morgan frowned. ‘Do you think making jokes at my expense is going to help your case?’
‘Wait a minute. I think we can resolve this.’
‘There’s nothing to resolve.’
‘What about your little staffing problem? If I sort that out, will you give me the cargo job?’
‘Surely you’re not offering your services?’
‘No, but I can get you someone almost as good.’
A few moments later Hal disconnected, pleased with the way things had turned out. Clunk would understand: the cargo job was as good as theirs if he played along. Then he turned to the console and called up a Dismolle business directory. His date with Walsh was coming up, and he still needed something to wear.
* * *
Walsh drove back to headquarters in high spirits. She’d been dreading Miranda’s party, but now she was really looking forward to it. Somehow she had an idea it was going to be a night to remember.
She was still smiling when the Dismolle Peace Force Station came into view. It was a large square building with thick bars on the doors and windows, which were treble-glazed and protected by force fields. It had all the charm of a concrete bunker, and next to the shops and houses it stood out like a wart on a beauty queen’s forehead.
Walsh turned off the road and drove straight towards a section of wall, which rose to let the vehicle into the building. After a moment of darkness, harsh lights came on, revealing a concrete-lined garage with security cameras mounted high on the walls. As Walsh got out the lenses tracked her, their lidless eyes scanning, evaluating, matching.
‘Welcome back, Trainee Walsh,’ said a metallic voice. ‘You may proceed.’
A door slid open and Walsh entered a large room with a dozen desks, each with a screen and chair. The desks were tidy, the chairs were new and none of the terminals were on.
The entrance door closed behind her, and the heavy bolts shot home. ‘Bernie? Are you around?’ Walsh walked to her desk at the far end of the room, wincing at the mess. The surface was hidden under discarded newspapers and dog-eared crossword books, the waste basket overflowed with empty takeaway cartons, and the edge of the terminal was rimmed with little orange tags bearing scrawled memos and contact numbers. With a sinking feeling, Walsh realised her coffee mug was missing. Praying she wasn’t too late, she hurried for the kitchen.
Sure enough, Bernie was hulking over the coffee maker, carefully pouring a bag of sugar into a mug of brown sludge. The robot’s huge fist engulfed the bag, which looked like it had been ripped open with armoured teeth, and the floor and benches were dusted with sugar.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ said Walsh. ‘Honestly, I can make my own.’
Slowly, the robot turned its massive head. ‘I think I have the right ingredients this time,’ she said, in a warm female voice. ‘I don’t know why you put the coffee at the back of the cupboard, though.’
Walsh knew exactly why she’d hidden it. Ruefully, she glanced in the rubbish bin, where the battered container lay empty. ‘Did you put the rest away?’ she asked hopefully.
‘There wasn’t any left.’ Bernie held out the mug, streaked brown where the contents had spilled over. ‘It’s all in here.’
Walsh took the mug gingerly, trying not to get any on her exposed skin.
‘Cheers,’ said Bernie, with an expectant look.
‘You know, I’d love to try it but I’ve given up sugar.’
‘Oh.’ Bernie’s face fell. ‘I didn’t realise. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ Walsh put the cup down. ‘So, did anything happen while I was out?’
Bernie thought for a moment. ‘According to protocol, the duty officer is supposed to update the relief officer at her desk.’
‘I know, but we’re both here now.’
‘Very well. Just this once.’ With exaggerated care, the robot opened a chest compartment and took out a plus-size notebook with reinforced covers. She then pretended to lick her thumb, and carefully opened the notebook to the first page. Walsh suppressed a sigh. Designed to set the public at ease, the BNE-II was both large and slow. Plodding was one adjective people used. Irritating and useless were others commonly directed at the model.
But the BNE-II wasn’t supposed to chase criminals on foot. No, the robot’s true powers were those of careful and reasoned deduction. Its large and complicated brain was designed to process vast amounts of trivial information in order to pinpoint the perpetrators of crime almost before they’d thought about committing it. Unfortunately, such massive processing capability required equally massive batteries to power it, which explained the robot’s huge size. When Bernie took on a charge, street lights in a three block radius went dim.
And that wasn’t the only problem. Thanks to budget cutbacks the original brain’s costly design had been shelved, and the replacement barely had the power to enable the robot to walk and speak at the same time. In summary, the BNE-II was a complete failure: impractical, over-engineered and as slow as a flat battery.
Bernie finally arrived at the right page, and after a theatrical throat clearing, began. ‘During a routine inspection of the security cameras, I detected a case of extortion not two hundred metres from our present location. At oh-nine hundred hours I observed the suspects, henceforth labelled S1 and S2, proceeding in a westerly direction. They approached V1, their intended victim, and S2 blocked the escape route while S1 menaced V1 with the intent of extracting money and/or valuables. Both suspects then escaped on foot.’
‘They ran away?’
‘Not exactly. More of a fast amble.’
‘Was one of your suspects Edna Tibbs, by any chance?’
Bernie gaped. ‘How did you deduce that from the scant evidence I presented?’
‘Because I saw her and Martha Cowes collecting for charity on my way out.’
‘You mean they’re using the charity collection as a mask for their illegal behaviour?’
‘No, I mean they were collecting for charity. How much did this V1 cough up?’
Bernie turned a page in her notebook. ‘She gave two credits.’
‘Mean old bat,’ muttered Walsh. ‘Someone should stick her up.’
‘Promoting or condoning illegal activities contravenes rule fifty-six of the Peace Force Code,’ said Bernie. ‘You should not make such statements, even in jest.’
‘You’re right. We should be out there arresting people for doing charity work instead.’
‘I thought that particular situation warranted further investigation,’ said Bernie stiffly. ‘We must be vigilant at all times. It says so right there in the Code.’
‘What does it say about false arrest? Interrogating innocent people under duress?’
‘Nothing at all.’ Bernie turned the page. ‘I took a call about a gathering scheduled for nineteen hundred hours. They wanted to confirm your presence, and I answered in the negative.’ Bernie glanced at her. ‘I hope that was correct? I recall you saying you’d sooner attend your own funeral.’
‘I’ve changed my mind about that,’ said Walsh. ‘Can you tell them I’ll be going?’ She saw the robot’s look of confusion. ‘Never mind, I’ll do it. Anything else?’
‘I have some fresh crime figures.’
‘Wonderful. Anything else?’ Walsh saw Bernie’s hurt expression and relented. The robot lived for statistics. ‘Okay, okay. Update me.’
Bernie turned the page, almost destroying it with her thick fingers. ‘Murders are well down this month, while instances of burglary —’
‘Wait a minute. Down from what? We’ve never had a murder.’
‘Last month’s baseline figure was zero,’ admitted Bernie. ‘However, this month someone confessed to an uncommitted crime, so technically the count stands at minus one.’
Walsh sighed. ‘And the burglaries?’
‘Two purse thefts
from the beach.’
‘Really? In broad daylight?’
‘Late evening, just after high tide. The following morning both purses were returned untouched, although a trifle damp.
Walsh suppressed a smile. ‘Anything else missing?’
‘Two towels.’ Bernie checked her notes. ‘And a paperback book.’
‘All of which turned up sopping wet the following morning?’
‘They’ve yet to find the book.’
‘Was it a bestseller?’
‘Is that relevant?’
‘Sure. The rest usually sink without a trace.’ Walsh glanced at her watch. ‘If you’ve finished your report, I really need to call someone.’
‘By all means.’ Bernie turned to leave, then hesitated. ‘May I recharge now? Assembling your coffee severely drained my batteries.’
‘Sure, go for it. I’ll call if I need you.’ After Bernie left Walsh tipped the thick sludge down the sink and gave her cup a thorough cleaning, all the while wondering whether the local motel would sell her a caterer’s pack of instant coffee sachets. She grinned as she imagined Bernie trying to use them like teabags.
Returning to her desk, she dug amongst the litter for her commset, found a number on one of the orange tags and put the call through.
No connection.
Sighing, Walsh got up and looked at the back of the terminal. Sure enough the wire was loose again, and she reconnected it with a practiced twist of her fingers. She’d asked Bernie about a replacement any number of times, but the robot didn’t seem to understand that good connections were a vital part of Peace Force routine.
Fingers crossed, Walsh tried the number again.
‘Morgan Renovations,’ said a voice. ‘Miranda speaking.’
‘Miranda, it’s Harriet.’
‘Oh my dear, I’m so sorry you can’t make it this evening.’
‘Actually —’
‘I know, I know. It must be such a bore to be on your own all the time. Still, at least you have your work.’
Walsh smiled to herself. ‘Actually, Bernie got it wrong. Seven o’clock, right?’
‘You’re coming?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Don’t forget it’s formal. Oh, and er … you’re welcome to bring a date.’