by Simon Haynes
‘Ha, serve him right!’ said Hal, emerging from hiding. ‘Thought he’d stroll into the cargo business and make his fortune, did he?’
‘I thought you were doing Morgan’s job?’
‘I was supposed to but, er …’ Hal looked away. ‘Well, you needed a lift.’
Walsh felt a stab of guilt. ‘You gave up the job for me? That must have cost you thousands!’
‘I said I’d get you to Forzen.’
‘Yes, but …’ Walsh smiled. ‘Hal, that was really generous of you. I’m in your debt.’
‘It was nothing,’ said Hal with a shrug. But he felt pleased all the same. At that moment the terminal chimed again, and he darted back into the shower.
It was Spearman, and he looked resigned. ‘Miss Walsh, I have to leave the ship. I’ll turn off the detectors so you don’t trigger the alarm, but perhaps you could close the door on your way out?’
‘Sure thing.’
Spearman nodded, then cut the connection.
‘Enjoy the drive,’ called Hal from the shower.
Walsh glanced at her watch. ‘Bernie said someone would meet me at one, but it’s a bit early yet. Can I buy you lunch?’
‘No need. I know just the place.’
* * *
The lift opened on to the third deck and Hal led Walsh towards a plush sofa in the Tiger’s entertainment room. The side tables were littered with snack bowls from the night before, containing stale chips, a couple of peanuts and a few tired-looking olives.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ said Hal. ‘The owner’s a bit of a slob.’
‘Hal, are you sure about this? I mean —’
‘Spearman offered you lunch, didn’t he?’
‘Well yes, but —’
‘Take a seat, then.’ Hal waited until Walsh was comfortable, then went to inspect the bar. There was a kitchenette filled with modern appliances, including a large coffee maker, a toaster oven and even a miniature hotplate. A small fridge contained fresh eggs and bacon rashers, and a pull-out drawer held an apron and a selection of cooking implements.
Hal donned the apron to protect his freshly dried flight suit, selected a spatula, then took the eggs and bacon from the fridge. The hotplate controls were simple: a single knob marked with graduations from one to ten. Underneath, a warning sticker advised users to read the instructions carefully before use.
Hal turned the knob to ten and threw a couple of rashers onto the hotplate. They sat there for a fraction of a second before vaporising, the loud bang almost blowing his eardrums out. He staggered back in shock, and lumps of carbonised bacon crunched underfoot.
‘Hal, you don’t think —’ began Walsh.
‘Relax. It’s just a faulty switch.’ Hal turned the dial down to four and tested the hotplate with a splash of water. Within five minutes half a dozen rashers and eggs were sizzling away, and while they were cooking Hal searched the cupboards for plates and cutlery. By the time he’d gathered up what he needed, all cooking sounds had ceased, and the eggs and bacon were lying inert and limp on the hotplate. Frowning, he waved his hand over the cooker. It was stone cold.
Hal reached for the dial, then hesitated. His ears were still ringing from the last explosion, and if the controls really were faulty … He eyed the half-cooked eggs. A little bit more, that’s all they needed. Try five.
BANG! Hal threw himself backwards as lunch exploded with a vivid white flash. He flapped at the thick, choking smoke, then retreated as flames shot up from the mess on the hotplate.
Fighting panic, he cast around for a fire extinguisher, hauling open cupboards and drawers as the crackling flames threatened to spread. His hands closed on an aerosol, and he gave it a good shake before directing the nozzle at the fire. A streamer of whipped cream sprayed out, popping and breaking into solid chunks as it met the raging fire on the hotplate.
Hal tossed the can aside and resumed his search, and was still frantically opening doors when the overhead sprinklers came on. Walsh called for him through the smoke, and he ducked his head and ran for the exit, blinded by torrents of water.
The sprinklers cut out by the time he joined Walsh in the lift, but the air was still thick with acrid smoke and he was forced to locate the control buttons by touch. The doors closed and the lift carried them upwards, opening onto the Tiger’s flight deck. Immediately, smoke began to seep in, filling the ship with a choking haze.
Walsh was bent double, gasping, and Hal guided her into the airlock. He was about to join her and close the inner door on the smoke when he remembered the locker with Spearman’s crisp white flight suits. He grabbed a couple and darted into the airlock, sealing the door behind him.
Walsh’s face was red, tears were streaming down her cheeks and she seemed to be having trouble breathing. She took one look at his bacon and egg facial and doubled up again, coughing and choking, while Hal patted her gently on the back until she recovered.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, when her breathing had returned to normal.
Walsh wiped her eyes. ‘Y-yes. Just f-fine.’
‘I’m sorry about that. The bacon exploded and —’ Hal saw Walsh shaking, and held out a flight suit. ‘It might be a bit baggy, but it’s warm.’
Walsh held it up, then glanced around the airlock.
‘It’s all right. I won’t look.’ Hal turned to face the inner door and stripped off his sopping wet flight suit. While he was donning the new one he just happened to accidentally look at the airlock’s reflection in the porthole. In it, he saw Walsh putting on her own flight suit, and he was just admiring her figure when she glanced over her shoulder to check him out.
Hal looked away and concentrated on doing up his suit. ‘All set?’
‘Yup.’
Hal turned around, and his jaw dropped. There was colour in Walsh’s cheeks, her blue eyes sparkled and her golden hair tumbled over the snowy white fabric. Even with rolled-up sleeves, the flight suit seemed to belong, as though she were born to wear it. ‘Wow, you look stunning.’
‘Thanks!’ Walsh looked down at herself. ‘It’s quite comfortable, isn’t it?’
‘I’ll say.’
Walsh stashed the wet uniform in her rucksack. ‘What about yours?’
‘Nah, Spearman can have it.’
‘Do you think he’ll mind us borrowing these?’
‘No, he’s all right. It’s just like taking bathrobes from a hotel.’
‘I don’t think you’re supposed to do that either.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort him out later.’ Hal nodded towards the outer door. ‘It’ll be cold out there. Do you have a coat?’
Walsh shook her head. ‘I never needed one on Dismolle.’
‘You will here.’ Hal remembered the lockers in the Volante, where Clunk stashed all sorts of useful gear. Surely the Tiger would have the same? He inspected the airlock wall, and sure enough the panels were inset with handles. The first two concealed bulky spacesuits, but the next was more promising, with boots, thick gloves and padded jackets with fur-lined hoods.
While Walsh donned a coat and gloves, Hal glanced through the porthole. A curved boarding tunnel led away from the ship, but it was deserted. ‘Ready?’
Walsh nodded.
‘Come on then. Let’s meet this contact of yours.’
Chapter 14
Clunk stood at a workbench, his hands sticky with hydraulic fluid. He’d given the robot a thorough inspection, and as far as he was concerned the chances of repair were something approaching zero. There was nothing for it - he’d have to contact Mr Spacejock and together they’d have to raise the money for a specialist.
Which begged the question: Where was Mr Spacejock?
Clunk sighed. How long would it take to search the terminal, the landing field, and the surroundings? Then he remembered the PDA containing the Navcom. The two sets should be able to communicate with each other. Finding Hal would be a snip. Eagerly, he took it out and started exploring the menus.
‘Do you mind?’ said the
Navcom. ‘I was just having a nap.’
‘This is important. I have to find Mr Spacejock.’
‘And?’
‘Can you contact your twin?’
‘No.’
‘Please. It’s urgent.’
‘I mean no I can’t, not no I won’t. It’s out of range.’
‘How far can you see?’
‘The entire planet,’ said the Navcom. ‘Every nook and cranny.’
Clunk stared at the PDA in shock. ‘You’re not suggesting Mr Spacejock has left Dismolle?’
‘Maybe not, but the other me certainly did.’
‘That’s impossible! He would never —’ Then Clunk remembered Hal’s comment about hijacking the Tiger, and a cold wave washed through his circuits. Surely he hadn’t … he wouldn’t …
‘Why do you need Mr Spacejock?’ asked the Navcom.
Still troubled by the thought of Deep Space piracy, Clunk briefly explained about the protocol codes.
The Navcom thought for a moment. ‘So, you’re trying to switch on the robot to access its data.’
‘Correct.’
‘And the reason you’re not reading the data directly is …?’
Clunk looked down at the robot. ‘I was hoping to fix it and obtain the data legitimately. However, in view of the time constraints you’re probably right.’ He pocketed the Navcom, ignoring her annoyed squawk, and delved into the robot’s innards, reaching further and further into its chest until his fingers closed on a plastic box. After a muttered apology he tore the box free, ripping it clear of the wiring. The lid came off in his hands, revealing a milky white cube which Clunk plugged into his own reader. His system immediately flashed up a message: ENCRYPTED DATA.
Undeterred, Clunk ran a decryption routine on the chip, and his fans whizzed as his processors cranked up to one hundred percent. It could take hours to access the data, but what alternative did he have?
* * *
Once they were clear of the ship Walsh took the lead, striding along the gleaming white boarding tunnel with Hal hurrying behind. The air was cold, and when she glanced through a window she realised why: a blizzard was raging outside and the landing field was blanketed in snow.
‘Nice place for a holiday,’ remarked Hal.
Walsh nodded and drew her coat around her. Spearman’s coat, she amended. She’d have to return it, of course, and what was Bernie going to say when she saw the cleaning bill for the Tiger’s entertainment room? She turned from the window and continued along the tunnel. On the way she ran her fingers through her hair, grimacing at the tangles.
The tunnel turned a corner and extended another fifty metres before joining the spaceport proper. Here a polished chrome robot with a rounded head was waiting for them, its single eye tracking their progress. ‘Welcome to Forzen,’ said the droid, activated by their approach. ‘Are you Kent Spearman of the Tiger?’
‘No I’m not,’ said Walsh.
‘Are you Harriet Walsh of the Tiger?’
‘Yes.’
‘Excellent. I have a message for you.’
‘Shoot.’
‘I cannot shoot. I’m unarmed.’
Walsh revised her already low opinion of the droid’s mental facilities. Slow and clear was the name of the game. ‘Please give me the message.’
‘I cannot give you the message. It’s verbal.’
‘All right, please repeat the message.’
‘I have yet to state the message. Repeating it is therefore impossible.’
‘State the message,’ said Walsh slowly.
A green light flashed and a different voice came through the speakers. ‘Miss Walsh, if your flight is on time I’ll meet you at the spaceport entrance. Otherwise I’ll see you in the coffee shop.’
‘Do you know who left the message?’
‘Yes,’ said the droid.
Walsh sighed. It was like speaking to an answering service. ‘Tell me who left the message.’
‘Mr Bigan of the Forzen Residents Association.’
‘Excellent. Can you tell me where the main entrance is?’
‘Yes.’
Walsh gritted her teeth. ‘Where is the main entrance?’
‘Descend sixteen metres from your current position, then turn forty-five degrees to the right and proceed for ninety metres in a straight line.’
Walsh gave up and went with Hal to find the stairs.
* * *
They checked the spaceport entrance first, though Hal was all for the coffee shop.
‘We were on time,’ said Walsh firmly. ‘I’m sorry if you’re hungry, but you should have been more careful with lunch.’
‘It’s not my fault the hotplate had a hair-trigger. I could have killed myself with that thing!’
‘What, with a trusty can of whipped cream by your side?’
Hal shot her a suspicious glance, but Walsh kept a straight face.
‘Miss Walsh? Welcome to Forzen!’
Walsh turned, half-expecting another limited intelligence droid. Instead, she saw a familiar face. ‘Mr Bigan.’
‘I’m so glad to see you.’ Bigan nodded at Hal. ‘It’s all right, my man. I’ll take the bag from here.’
Walsh suppressed a grin. ‘This is my deputy, Hal Spacejock.’
‘Good to meet you,’ said Hal, sticking his hand out.
‘I’m s-sorry. I had no idea,’ said Bigan, as they shook hands. ‘I thought …’
‘I decided to bring backup,’ said Walsh. ‘I’m sure you’re aware of Peace Force regulation ninety-two sub-para three? An officer on active duty may second members of the public to aid in an investigation, temporarily conferring powers of arrest.’
‘Excellent. Most impressive.’ Bigan inspected his hand. ‘Super stuff.’
‘Actually, it’s whipped cream,’ said Hal. ‘We had a bit of fun on the way over.’
‘Now, I take it your car is waiting outside?’ said Walsh.
‘Certainly. Er, may I?’ Bigan took Walsh’s bag from Hal and led them to the main doors, where Hal and Walsh waited in the driving snow while he fetched the car. Walsh was expecting a modern vehicle, and was taken aback when a boxy groundcar on wheels drove up to the loading zone. Bigan got out, smiling at her expression. ‘I suppose it does look like a museum piece.’
‘It does?’
‘Never seen one before?’ Bigan put her bag in the back seat, motioned for Hal to get in, then held the front door open for Walsh. ‘Locally built, this is. Cheap, but reliable.’ He tightened his seat belt. ‘Are we all set?’
Walsh nodded and the car shuddered away from the kerb. Wind and snow pelted the vehicle as they left the shelter of the spaceport entrance, and Bigan lapsed into silence as he concentrated on the road.
Beyond the spaceport they turned onto a highway, where traffic had left dark tramlines in the slush. Once they were up to speed Bigan seemed to relax, and Walsh asked him about the missing woman. ‘You haven’t given me a lot to go on,’ she said. ‘Is there anything more you can tell me?’
‘Margaret Cooper? She’s semi-retired. One of those people who commutes with nature.’
‘Communes,’ said Walsh.
‘That too. She’s got a place outside town. Lives alone with the trees and wildlife.’ Bigan adjusted the heater, and warm air filled the car. ‘She was missing a week before anyone noticed. No family, no close friends.’
‘Did you search for her?’
‘Oh yes. Several teams combed the woods around her house, and we got some satellite pictures of the area. Unfortunately, if she fell in the snow and froze there’d be no heat signature.’
‘You won’t find her remains until summer.’
Bigan sighed. ‘This is summer.’
Walsh stared out the window. ‘Could she have left the planet?’
‘I thought she’d gone to Dismolle, but you checked that already. And there’s no record of any other trips. We examined passenger lists at the spaceport, but to no avail. Of course, she may have stowed away aboard a car
go vessel, but what’s the likelihood of that?’
Hal and Walsh exchanged a glance.
‘Now, about your accommodation,’ said Bigan. ‘We intended to book you into a hotel, but our funds are rather limited and —’
‘We don’t need anything fancy,’ said Walsh quickly.
‘Good, because you’re staying at the old Peace Force office. It’s a bit run down, but we’ve put in a camp bed and stocked the fridge up.’ Bigan glanced at Hal. ‘Of course, we were only expecting one of you.’
‘I’m sure we’ll manage,’ said Walsh, keeping her eyes on the road.
Chapter 15
‘Here we are,’ said Bigan, as they turned into a busy street lined with shops. The snow had been swept away, and behind the dainty leadlight windows Walsh could see everything from home maintenance robots to luxury chocolates and white goods. Nestled between the shops were staid offices: merchant banks, investment advisors and solicitors. There was evidence of prosperity everywhere she looked, and although Dismolle was a wealthy enough planet, it wasn’t on display like this. ‘You do all right for yourselves, don’t you?’
Bigan sniffed. ‘The mine brings in a lot of money. They’re the only source for a number of vital minerals, which makes them valuable to electronics manufacturers in this sector.’
‘Precious metals?’ said Hal. ‘Gemstones?’
‘Nothing that interesting, I’m afraid. I think tantalum is one, but I forget the others. If you ask, I’m sure they’ll give you a nice glossy brochure.’
‘You don’t approve of the mine?’ said Walsh.
‘As long as they dominate Forzen we’re at their mercy. It’s not healthy, and diversity is essential in the long term.’ Bigan pointed up the road. ‘There’s your office.’
Walsh spotted a Peace Force shield hanging above a narrow green door. As they got closer she noticed the shield was bright and new, and the door looked as if it had just been painted. ‘I thought you said it was run down?’
‘Oh, the Council would never let the front get tatty. It would lower the tone of the neighbourhood.’
‘Council? I thought you were the Residents Association?’