by Simon Haynes
‘What’s up?’ asked Hal, noticing her puzzled look.
‘There’s nothing here.’ Walsh closed the word processor and two card games which had sprung up behind it. Only the accounting software remained, but when she accessed it a message popped up telling her the data files were missing. There was an option to restore the latest backup, but when she selected it a new message asked her to insert the relevant media.
Walsh sat back in her chair, frustrated. ‘Either Cooper had no clients to speak of, or someone deliberately erased all the good stuff.’
‘Why don’t you ask Newman?’
‘Good idea.’ Walsh reached for the commset, then hissed with annoyance as an automated voice mail system answered her call. After waiting through the greeting message she spoke into the handset. ‘Newman, this data is useless. I need access to the original computer as soon as possible. Call me back.’
‘You don’t think …’ began Hal.
Walsh replaced the handset. ‘What?’
‘What if Newman’s behind it? He’s the IT expert, and he gave you the chip.’
‘You think he bumped her off? Fed her to the fishes?’ Walsh snorted. ‘I know you don’t like him, but if being unpleasant was grounds for arrest we’d have to arrest half the population.’
‘All right, what about blackmail? She might have uncovered something he was up to and threatened to reveal it.’
‘It’s more likely to be a flaky operating system.’ Walsh smiled. ‘I mean, can you picture a bunch of organised crime figures combing through her chain letters and spam?’
‘Why not? She’s missing, isn’t she?’
‘I have to look at the evidence, not leap to conclusions.’ Walsh glanced at her watch, wondering how long it would be before Newman called back. She would have driven out to Cooper’s house and grabbed the computer, except she didn’t have the address. Then she remembered the poetry. Each had been laid out in submission format with a return address at the top.
Walsh opened the word processor and selected a recent file from the poems folder. There was no return address though, and she was about to close it again when she realised it wasn’t actually a poem. It was a letter, and as she read it her eyes narrowed. ‘Hey, look at this!’
‘What is it?’ asked Hal.
‘Three weeks ago Cooper accepted a job auditing the accounts at Panther Mines.’
‘How come Newman didn’t mention that?’
‘I don’t know.’
Hal thumped a fist into his open hand. ‘Let’s beat the truth out of him.’
‘No, we’ll go higher up.’ Walsh wrote down the Panther Mines address from the top of the letter. ‘Will you be all right here?’
‘Oh no you don’t. I’m coming with you.’
‘This is my job, Hal. Official business.’
‘And I’m your deputy.’
‘That was just to keep you out of trouble.’
Hal crossed his arms. ‘How many crooks have you met?’
‘I’ve studied hundreds of case files!’
‘Answer the question. Honestly.’
‘None,’ admitted Walsh.
‘Right. Whereas I can smell a dodgy operator half a planet away.’
‘All right, you can drive me around. But when I’m interviewing you stay absolutely quiet. Understood?’
‘Sure.’
‘Now go and find the car Bigan left us while I change into my uniform.’
* * *
Inside the workshop, Clunk was sweltering. His processors had been running at full capacity as he attempted to decode the data chip, and his cooling systems were struggling to cope. So far he’d barely dented the first layer of encryption, and he was certain a lot more lurked underneath.
His original estimate now seemed laughable. It wasn’t going to take a few hours to break the code, it could take days … or even weeks.
He jumped as the workshop door started to open, then stared as a massive robot looked in. It was a hulking brute of a droid, with a heavy face, huge fists and arms that looked like they could encircle a spaceship hull … and crush it in two.
‘Are you Clunk?’ demanded the robot, in a deep female voice.
‘Yes. Can I help you?’
‘My name is Bernie, and I have an urgent message from Hal Spacejock.’
* * *
The mining company’s head office was nestled in the woods on the outskirts of town, surrounded by an impressive fence with a huge pair of gates. Hal stopped the car at the gatehouse, which was half buried in a snow drift, and Walsh leaned across him to speak into the grille. Her hair tumbled across his chest, and without realising what he was doing, Hal bent his neck to breathe in her scent. Unfortunately, at that moment she finished speaking and straightened up, flattening his nose with the back of her head.
‘Thit, by dose!’ cried Hal, as waves of pain brought tears to his eyes.
‘What were you doing?’
‘I led forward and you hid me!’
Trying not to laugh, Walsh dug in her bag for a tissue. Hal pressed it to his nose, and as the gates opened he drove through one-handed, squinting through tear-filled eyes. They followed a lengthy drive which meandered through the snow-covered trees, eventually leading to a small car park in front of a nondescript office block. Hal stopped the car, then felt his nose gingerly.
‘It’s not broken,’ said Walsh.
‘How can you tell?’
‘It’s still pointing in the right direction.’ Walsh opened her door. ‘Ready to sniff out some crooks?’
‘Oh, very funny.’ Hal got out of the car, crumpling the tissue into a ball. On the plus side he hadn’t bled to death, although having a nose swollen to double its normal size was bad enough. ‘A little sympathy wouldn’t go astray.’
Walsh smiled at him across the roof of the car, and the pain eased. Then she led Hal through the snow to the office, where they found a receptionist sitting behind a plain wooden desk. There was a passageway lined with opposing doors, and a couple of armchairs and a coffee table with a stack of trade magazines completed the fit out.
The woman continued to work on her computer, but eventually she was forced to acknowledge their presence. ‘Yes?’
‘Peace Force Operative Harriet Walsh. Who’s in charge around here?’
The woman blinked. ‘Peace Force?’
‘We don’t just enforce the law, we are the law. A happy criminal hasn’t been caught yet. You must have seen the ads.’
‘But —’
‘Who’s in charge around here?’ shouted Hal, leaning across the desk. ‘Quick! Before I get the instruments out!’
The receptionist recoiled from his reddened nose. ‘Mr Rod Herringen, s-sir.’
‘Well you tell Herringuts to get his backside out here before I —’ Hal saw Walsh’s narrowed eyes. ‘Sorry, officer. Your witness.’
Walsh turned to the receptionist, but at that moment a portly, balding man emerged from the corridor with an expression of annoyance on his round face. ‘Miss Giverns, what’s all the shouting about? Who are these people?’
Walsh intervened before Hal could put the man in a headlock. ‘Mr Herringen, I’m Harriet Walsh of the Dismolle Peace Force. I’m investigating the disappearance of Margaret Cooper.’
‘Oh yes, the accountant. Hasn’t she turned up yet?’
Hal snorted and Herringen glanced at him. ‘Are you all right, young man?’
‘It’s just his nose,’ said Walsh quickly. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
‘Yes, of course. Come into my office.’ Herringen turned to the receptionist. ‘Would you hold my calls, dear?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Herringen led the way to his office, where an expanse of plush carpet surrounded a huge lacquered desk. There was a sleek terminal sitting on the desk, alongside trays filled with papers. A filing cabinet stood against the wall, and a couple of armchairs were arranged around a low table.
‘Won’t you take a seat? And can I get you a
coffee?’
Hal nodded but Walsh shook her head. ‘I’d like to get started right away, if that’s all right. My deputy will take notes.’
‘That sounds very official,’ said Herringen mildly.
‘Just routine.’
Meanwhile, Hal searched his pockets for something to write on. ‘May I?’ he said, taking a notepad off Herringen’s desk. There was a delay as he found a suitable page, and then a longer one as he searched his pockets for something to write with. In the end, Herringen passed him a chunky silver pen.
Once Hal was ready, Walsh began. ‘Mr Herringen, did you know Margaret Cooper personally?’
‘We met once or twice. Not socially, of course.’
‘This audit she was doing. Was it completed?’
Herringen stared at her. ‘What audit was that?’
‘I’ll ask the questions if you don’t mind.’
‘Yes, of course. Please go on.’
‘Did she complete the audit?’
‘No, but —’
‘I understand your mine provides most of the income for the local town.’
‘Not just the town, the entire planet!’ said Herringen proudly. ‘Of course, the mine doesn’t belong to me. The Council appointed me to this position.’
‘Yes, I wanted to ask about that. Who’s on this Council of yours?’
‘How do you spell Herringen?’ asked Hal.
‘What?’
‘I need his name for the report.’
‘Just put H,’ said Walsh.
‘No, that’s me.’ Hal looked at the pad. ‘Damn, it’s all of us.’
‘What about R for Rod?’
‘Why, doesn’t he have a whole one?’ asked Hal.
Walsh and Herringen regarded him stonily.
‘All right, R it is.’ Hal wrote on the pad. ‘I’ve made you W. Is that okay?’
‘It really doesn’t matter.’ Walsh turned her attention to Herringen. ‘The Council. Who’s on it?’
‘Local business people. You wouldn’t know them.’
‘I’d like their names, Mr Herringen.’
‘I’ll have my secretary send them out to you.’
‘You don’t know who they are?’
‘Certainly, but if I list them your deputy is going to spend the next twenty minutes coming up with initials for his report.’
Hal opened his mouth to protest but Walsh put a warning hand on his leg, so he retaliated by writing ‘R = major suspect’ on the pad, underlining it twice.
‘A list will be fine,’ said Walsh. ‘Now, what can you tell me about the mine?’
‘Is this really necessary? You’re looking for a missing woman, not writing an encyclopaedia entry on the life and times of my planet.’
‘Mr Herringen, I will conduct this investigation in my own way. Is that clear?’
Herringen raised his hands. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I was just surprised to find myself the subject of an interrogation.’
‘If you think this is an interrogation, you’ve never been near a Peace station,’ said Walsh dryly.
Hal wrote ‘Hah!’
‘Now, about the mine,’ continued Walsh. ‘How many workers here?’
‘Three.’
‘Three? What about the miners?’
‘Miners?’
‘Don’t tell me you dig the stuff up yourself?’
Hal wrote ‘Digs himself’ and added two question marks.
‘We have a fully automated system,’ said Herringen. ‘Artificial intelligence coupled with autonomous behavioural patterns and mobility in three dimensions. They’re self-repairing too.’
Walsh looked blank, while Hal’s pen hovered over the page. Finally, he wrote ‘Technical BS’.
‘You know, it might be easier if I showed you the workings. I mean, given you’re determined to investigate everything.’ Herringen glanced at Hal. ‘To save you any more effort, perhaps my secretary could send you a brief outline of what we do here?’
‘Fine by me.’ Hal tossed the notepad on the desk and pocketed the silver pen.
Herringen led them out of his office and along the corridor to a sturdy metal door with DANGER painted across it in vibrant red letters. He accessed the control panel, and after several beeps the door swung open with a whirr of heavy motors. A gust of warm, moist air blew out, ruffling Walsh’s hair.
Beyond the door was a tunnel, with bare metal floor, walls and ceiling. A single light shone down from above, and the far end was sealed with a thick metal grating. Beyond was intense darkness.
The heavy door thudded to behind them, and Hal frowned as he noticed a series of deep scratches across the bottom, as if a pack of robot dogs had tried to get out - tried very hard indeed. ‘What happened to -?’
‘Just wear and tear,’ said Herringen, without looking. He was busy with a second control panel, and after entering several codes in succession the steel grating opened towards them. A dim light came on, revealing a small metal cage, and Hal and Walsh exchanged a glance. He wasn’t sure about her, but his subconscious was urging him out, away from the lift and the enclosed room and those scratches on the door. ‘What’s the cage for?’
‘It’s a lift. Look, we don’t have to go down if you’d rather not. I’ve seen people run screaming from this room, so I understand if you’re feeling scared.’
Without a word, Hal stepped into the lift. Like the walls, the floor was mesh, and he could see … down. A long, long way down. So far down the lights merged into a continuous blur, then disappeared altogether. With his eyes focused on the distance the floor seemed to vanish, so that he appeared to be standing on thin air. Hurriedly, he moved to the back of the lift.
Herringen stepped in, and the lift settled under their combined weight.
‘How many will it carry?’ asked Walsh, from the safety of the doorway.
‘It’s perfectly okay. Please, come in.’
‘I’ll come down afterwards. You go ahead.’
Hal took her hand and pulled her in. ‘Look, it’s as solid as a rock,’ he said, stomping his foot on the metal floor.
Herringen pressed the button but Walsh broke free of Hal’s grip and stepped out again, narrowly avoiding the doors as they clashed together behind her. ‘What are you doing?’ demanded Herringen.
‘Send it back up for me,’ said Walsh.
The lift dropped away, and while Herringen hit buttons to try and make it go back, Hal looked up to see Walsh in the doorway. She winked at him, and he grinned as she disappeared from sight. She’d been shamming, the cunning devil! No wonder she was in law enforcement.
The lift continued to drop despite Herringen’s attempts with the controls, and lights whizzed by as the car gathered speed. Wind whistled through the cage, tugging at Hal’s clothes and threatening to rip them right off.
‘Sorry, forgot to warn you about that,’ called Herringen, raising his voice over the roar and rattle of the cage. His face alternated light and shadow as they passed the light fittings attached to the walls, but Hal could still see the smug grin on his face. There was no doubt he was enjoying the thought of Walsh’s discomfort, and Hal could only wonder what further surprises Herringen’s lengthy shaft had in store for them.
Chapter 17
‘How do you know Mr Spacejock?’ Clunk asked Bernie. ‘And more importantly, do you know where he is?’
‘I haven’t met him personally, but I do know his last reported position. He’s on planet Forzen.’
‘Forzen!’ His worst fears realised, Clunk hardly dared ask the next question. Had Mr Spacejock carried out his threat to take over the Tiger? ‘Tell me, have there been any reports of hijackings?’
‘None that I know of. Do you need me to investigate one?’
‘No, please don’t.’ Clunk hesitated. ‘So, what was the message?’
Bernie shared it, and Clunk digested the contents for several seconds. Somehow, Mr Spacejock had found a new cargo job, which was good news. Unfortunately he needed the Volante on Forzen, which wasn�
��t. ‘Can I send him a return message?’
Bernie hesitated. ‘The office computers aren’t working right now, but I’ll send it as soon as I can.’
‘Thank you. The message reads: Ship not ready due to setback. Your approval required re funds to bring in specialist. Am working on alternative, but very slow.’
‘Message received.’
‘Thanks.’ Clunk looked the huge robot up and down. ‘Tell me, what is your function? Are you a communications officer?’
‘Hardly. You’re looking at a BNE-II, custom designed for mobile crime scene analysis.’ Bernie drew herself up. ‘I can collate evidence and finger a suspect almost before they’ve finished the deed.’
Clunk eyed the robot’s massive build. ‘I bet you get confessions in no time.’
‘That’s the theory. I’ve not had a chance to put it into practice yet.’ Bernie sucked in a long breath then smacked her lips. ‘It’s nice to get out. The air tastes different.’
‘That’s just rocket fuel.’ Clunk looked thoughtful. ‘Tell me, are you any good at code breaking?’
‘Fair to middling. It’s not my primary function, but you never know when you’ll need to search the contents of a bad guy’s computer.’
Hardly daring to hope, Clunk transmitted the encrypted file he’d been working on. ‘What about that? Can you extract the contents?’
‘Interesting. They’ve used several layers of encryption.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Because I’ve just got through the first two. No, make that three.’ Bernie frowned. ‘The next one’s harder.’
‘Can you break it?’
Bernie opened a compartment and took out her charge cable. ‘Can you plug this in? Shouldn’t take long then.’
Clunk connected the lead to a power socket and Bernie’s fans whined as she sucked in the juice. The overhead light dimmed, and through the windows Clunk saw the dockyard cranes slowing to a crawl, while all over the Volante workers stopped to inspect their non-responsive hand tools.
Bernie groaned, then unleashed a massive roar that almost blew Clunk’s audio circuits. The overhead light came back on, and outside two dozen workers cursed mightily as their power tools unexpectedly burst into life, chopping pieces of metal in two, drilling holes and hammering several thumbs flat. ‘Are you all right?’ asked Clunk, once his ears stopped ringing.