Hal Spacejock 4: No Free Lunch

by Simon Haynes

  ‘H-how fast are we g-going?’ Hal managed to ask through the shakes. ‘And m-more importantly, c-can we stop?’

  ‘Certainly, if the new upgrades don’t go on strike.’

  ‘What if they d-do?’

  ‘We’ll be the ones doing the striking. Hold on, impact in ten seconds.’

  Hal gazed at the screen, watching the concentric circles pulse around their landing pad.

  ‘Five,’ said the Navcom.

  A line of text appeared below the rings.

  ‘Four.’

  Hal read the text and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  ‘Three.’

  Hal read the text again, but it still said ‘Point of Impact.’

  ‘Two.’

  The screen went dark. So did the overhead lights and the console.

  ‘One,’ said the Navcom calmly. ‘Welcome to Forzen.’

  Hal opened one eye, and realised the overhead lights, the console and the screen were all lit up as usual. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Yes. It’s an instantaneous reversal field. Brings us to a complete halt in eight nanoseconds, dispersing our momentum as a sound wave.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

  ‘Neither will the people outside for a while. The faster you stop, the bigger the damage radius.’

  ‘Are you telling me we made a big bang?’

  ‘No, I’m telling you we hit the western hemisphere with a sound the likes of which hasn’t been heard since the birth of the universe.’

  ‘I thought that was the big bang.’

  ‘This was bigger.’

  ‘Who came up with a stupid idea like that? Some big-time criminal mastermind? A bloodthirsty alien race?’

  ‘No, it’s military technology. And we’re not allowed to talk about it.’ The Navcom hesitated. ‘Of course, it wouldn’t matter if you did talk about it, because nobody out there will be able to hear you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you warn me it would do that?’

  ‘You chose an unsupported option. It’s not my fault if you don’t appreciate the result.’ The Navcom hesitated. ‘I believe you were going to the Peace Force office?’

  Hal gestured at the airlock. ‘If you think I’m going out there —’

  ‘Oh, you’ll be quite safe.’

  ‘Safe? I’m going to be explaining myself from a jail cell for the next ten years.’

  ‘For all the good talking will do,’ said the Navcom. The airlock door slid open. ‘I’ll see you when you get back.’

  ‘If,’ muttered Hal. The outer door swung open, admitting a blast of freezing air that almost took his ears off, and he was shivering long before he reached the ground. The landing field seemed deserted, and he dismissed the Navcom’s big bang theory as an exaggeration.

  Ten minutes later he found the parked car, just where he’d left it. Unfortunately, fresh falls had completely buried the vehicle, the hulls and everything in between, and the vehicle was now a blob of car-shaped snow nestled between two towering blobs of spaceship-shaped snow.

  Hal dug in with his bare hands, and by the time he found the door handle he could barely feel his fingers. He pulled and pulled, but the door remained stubbornly shut, and he had to give it several hefty kicks before he could break the icy grip. He got in and coaxed the motor into life, then turned the heater to full. Circulation returned gradually, and he winced as waves of intense pain shot up his arms. When he could feel again he gripped the wheel and pressed down on the accelerator.

  The car gathered speed and snow slithered off the bodywork, letting the light in through the frosted windows. Hal steered with one hand and wiped condensation off the heated glass with the other, torn between seeing where he was going and not running off the road. Eventually he found the spaceport exit, and with a twist of the wheel he pulled onto the main road.

  * * *

  In the Tiger’s flight deck, Clunk had finished his diagnostics and was now preparing to restart the engines. The process was fraught with danger, since a blockage could strand the vessel until help arrived.

  ‘Is it going to work?’ asked Spearman, who was looking rather nervous.

  ‘I’ll tell you in a minute,’ said Clunk. Mentally crossing his fingers, he initiated the start sequence, and a broad smile creased his face as the engines rumbled into life. ‘You don’t have to wait a whole minute. I can tell you right away. They’re fine.’

  Spearman clapped Clunk on the shoulder. ‘I can see why Hal keeps you around.’

  ‘It’s certainly not for my breezy personality,’ said Clunk.

  ‘You can say that again.’ Ignoring Clunk’s frown, Spearman gestured at the viewscreen. ‘How long to Dismolle?’

  ‘The engines should be safe up to fifty percent power, and the hyperdrive will operate as usual.’ Clunk hesitated. ‘I’d say five hours, give or take a few minutes.’

  ‘Excellent. Just enough time for a decent cleanup and a good rest.’

  Clunk looked down at himself. His skin bore several new scratches, and his thorough cleaning of the fuel filters had transferred much of the disgusting mess onto his own person. ‘That’s very kind of you. I’m very much in need of it.’

  ‘Not you!’ said Spearman, with a laugh. ‘I meant me!’

  ‘Oh.’ Clunk’s face fell. ‘Can I at least get a recharge?’

  ‘Sure.’ Spearman gestured expansively around the flight deck. ‘Find a socket and plug yourself in. And maybe you could give the computer a going-over while you’re here, eh? It acts a bit funny sometimes, but I’m sure you can sort it out.’

  Clunk felt a leaden weight in his arms and legs. All he wanted was to shut down and take on a charge, and the idea of untangling a bug in some foreign operating system was like reaching the summit of a mountain, only to discover the real peak was still hours of climbing away. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Great. I’ll see you later.’

  Clunk watched Spearman enter the lift, then found a power socket and plugged himself in. The jolt was delicious as it flowed through his circuits, and the weariness lessened. Then he remembered Spearman’s instructions, and reached into his chest to find the diagnostic cable. He took hold of the plug, turned it upside down and pushed it against the data socket. Not surprisingly, it wouldn’t go in. ‘I did my best,’ he murmured, as he closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Hal drew up outside the Peace Force office, leaving the car halfway across the road in his haste. He ran down the alley, threaded his way between the boxes scattered around the dumpster, and reached for the door. It was locked, but two hefty kicks got him inside, and he charged down the hall to the main room.

  Hal stumbled to a halt as he saw the damage: the shredded carpet, the remains of the terminal and the forlorn fragments which had once been part of the huge Peace Force robot. He shuddered at the sight. If the attackers had torn apart an armoured robot, what had they done to Harriet?

  Something glinted in the tangled mess, and Hal crouched to pick up a buckled Peace Force badge. It was heavily scored and blackened with soot, but he could just make out the name Barney under the Peace Force Legem Erga Nos motto. Relieved it didn’t read Harriet Walsh, Hal pocketed the badge and took the stairs to the first floor.

  The door to Walsh’s room had been shredded, and the scant remains of bedroom furniture wouldn’t have filled a shopping bag. Hal stepped over the mess to examine the window, leaning right out to look down at the car park. Directly below was the dumpster, and it was obvious Walsh had barricaded herself in the bedroom, then leapt out the window to save her life.

  So, where was she now?

  Any sensible person would have legged it to the spaceport and caught the first ship out of there. Unfortunately, Hal couldn’t see Harriet running away from anything, no matter how dangerous it was.

  He returned to the office, where he saw something moving in the armoury. He grabbed a splintered table leg and made his way across the room, stepping around the holes bored into the concrete floor. Inside the armour
y, a damaged mining bug was dragging itself around in circles, clawing the concrete with its one remaining leg. Hal stared at it, realisation dawning. Miner bugs had torn the office apart, and if Harriet had survived she’d be at the mine right now, interrogating suspects! Hal swung his makeshift club, crushing the bug with a single blow, then threw the table leg aside and ran for the entrance.

  Outside, he jumped into the car and streaked towards the mine. As he urged the car on he reached for the Navcom, dividing his attention between the screen and the road. The battery was dead, so he tried holding it in front of the heater vent, and when that didn’t work he sat on the thing, hoping a little warmth would stimulate the charge.

  After several uncomfortable minutes he removed the PDA and tried again, and this time there was a flicker of life. ‘Navcom, can you hear me?’

  ‘Oh, so you’ve decided to see how I am.’

  ‘Not now, this is top priority. I need to get a message to Clunk.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said the Navcom smartly.

  When he’d finished, Hal put the PDA away and hunched over the wheel, giving the road his full attention.

  * * *

  RRRINNGG!

  Clunk had barely lapsed into blissful semi-consciousness when he was yanked out of his reverie by an insistent alarm. A hurried check of his internal diagnostics revealed nothing out of the ordinary, and he was still looking around for the source when he heard it again, louder:

  RRRINNGGGG!

  Puzzled, Clunk opened his chest compartment, where he found the PDA containing the Navcom’s backup. It rang again as he reached for it, and when he inspected the tiny screen he saw a line of text:

  MESSAGE RECEIVED. UNPACK?

  Clunk tapped the ‘Yes’ button.

  SENDER: Spcaejcko. MESSAGE: ‘eNde oyru ehlp. eGt oyru raes abck ot Frozn SAAP. Hla’

  Clunk frowned at the garbled letters. The message had been corrupted, but was there enough of the illiterate junk to work out the meaning? He ran the text through a couple of hundred decryption algorithms, before realising what the problem was: the transmission had suffered a vowel movement!

  Working quickly, he transposed the letters to come up with the full message, and he gasped aloud as the meaning became clear. Back to Forzen? Need your help? Mr Spacejock was in trouble!

  Clunk pulled his charge cable from the wall and hurried to the console, where he brought up a system map to plot their return course. It would take them over an hour to reach Forzen if they turned immediately, but with every passing minute they were getting closer to the Dismolle hyperspace point. There was no time to lose! He reached for the controls to swing the Tiger around on its new course, but the computer had other ideas.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘We have to change course!’ shouted Clunk. ‘It’s an emergency. Mayday!’

  ‘I received no such message.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t.’ Clunk brandished the PDA. ‘It’s on here!’

  ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll need Mr Spearman’s permission if you want to set a new heading.’

  Clunk ran for the lift and waited impatiently for its return. What danger could Mr Spacejock have encountered? Had the Volante struck a problem … or had it struck Forzen? The lift doors opened and Clunk stepped inside, his brain racing. Why hadn’t Mr Spacejock sent a more informative message? Was he a captive? Hurt, even? Clunk shuddered. If anything happened to Hal because he’d decided to help Mr Spearman instead …

  The doors slid open and Clunk charged along the passage to Spearman’s cabin. He reached for the handle, then forced himself to knock.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Mr Spearman, can I talk to you?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Spearman’s voice, muffled by the door.

  Clunk tried the handle, but the door was locked. ‘I just received a message from Mr Spacejock.’

  ‘Old Spacejoke himself? What’s he say?’

  ‘He needs my help on Forzen. It’s urgent.’

  ‘Oh, sure. Why don’t we go back so he can sabotage the Tiger again?’

  ‘But Mr Spacejock wouldn’t —’

  ‘He already did.’

  ‘Please, Mr Spearman. Let me turn the ship around!’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘We’ll make it worth your while.’

  The door opened and Spearman looked out. He was still wet from his shower, and wore a towel around his waist. ‘Now you’re talking sense. Out with it.’

  ‘I’ll give you the rest of the cargo fee.’

  ‘Spacejock would never honour it.’

  ‘I’ll work for you! Six months service for nothing.’

  ‘He won’t honour that either.’

  Suddenly, Clunk saw red. ‘I fixed this ship, Mr Spearman, and I can break it again just as easily. Or perhaps I’ll break you!’

  ‘Hey, back off!’ Spearman slammed the door, and Clunk drew his fist back to punch a hole in it. Then he lowered his hand. Hal was in trouble, but how was he going to get Mr Spearman to change course?

  * * *

  When Hal arrived at the mine the front gates were closed. He leapt out of the car and shook them, but they were securely fastened and his efforts only rattled the bars. He tried to climb them, but his hands slipped on the smooth metal, and he couldn’t get purchase with his feet. There was an intercom, but repeatedly pressing the call button only made it buzz. Nobody answered.

  Hal eyed the gates again, then ran for the car. He drove away from the mine and braked heavily, sliding the car round until it was facing the way he’d come. Then he gripped the wheel and revved the engine, racing it until the bonnet shook. The gates were just out of sight, hidden by the nearest post, but if the car hit them fast enough it’d go through them like a bullet through a sheet of tin foil. Or maybe it would glance off and demolish ten metres of wall. Either way, nothing was keeping him out.

  Hal floored the accelerator and hung on tight as the car launched itself down the road. Trees and road signs whipped past in a blur, and before he could reconsider the wisdom of his actions he was hurtling towards the gates. Immediately, he realised two things. One, the gates were now open. And two, there was a car coming out.

  Hal yanked the wheel, and a split second later he was hurtling past the gates backwards. His car ricocheted off the wall, destroyed a row of bushes and ended up wedged beneath a large billboard advertising road safety. He struggled with his seatbelt, all too aware of the other driver hurrying towards him. Then the door opened, and he was hauled out bodily.

  ‘You maniac! You could have killed me!’

  ‘It’s all right, I’m not hurt.’ Then Hal recognised the face. ‘Newman!’

  ‘Spacejock!’ Newman gaped at him. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Never mind me. Where’s Harriet? What have you done to her?’

  ‘She’s inside, grilling my boss.’ Newman glanced at his watch. ‘Would you like me to take you in?’

  Moments later they drew up at the mine, where Newman parked alongside Herringen’s car. They got out, and he led Hal up the steps and through reception. Hal followed him along the corridor, but instead of stopping at Herringen’s office they continued towards the lift. ‘What’s she doing down there?’ asked Hal.

  ‘Search me. Maybe she’s torturing Mr Herringen for information.’

  They got into the elevator, and Hal leaned against the wall as the lift dropped down the shaft. After the shock of the ruined office, the near-miss in the car and the relief of discovering Walsh was all right, he was feeling a little weak around the knees.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ shouted Newman, pointing through the floor. ‘Look! Down there!’

  Hal leaned forward to see what the fuss was about, and as he did so there was a swoosh. His head exploded with stars and he dropped to his knees, stunned.

  Newman loomed over him, a wicked-looking cosh in his hand. ‘You arrived just in time, Mr Spacejock. I’m sure Miss Walsh will be delighted to see you.’


  Then he swung the cudgel again.

  Chapter 30

  Safe in his cabin, Kent Spearman was feeling rather smug. Not only had he put one over Spacejock, but now he had the robot begging for help too. He’d give the old rustbucket another twenty minutes to stew things over, and then he’d lay out his terms.

  Spearman adjusted the towel around his middle, and angled the bench top dryer so it blew a stream of warm air through his mane of blonde hair, whipping the ends behind him. When that was dry he played the air over his bare chest until the last drops of water evaporated.

  Once he was done, he returned to the problem of Hal. For a start, having Spacejock darting around the galaxy messing up cargo jobs was bad for business, and he decided it would be far more efficient if he took him on as a junior partner. Or maybe a sub-contractor, or a simple employee. Spearman grinned at the apt description, and wondered whether he could get an embroidered shirt made. Then he put his feet up on the desk and gestured at the terminal. A screen appeared, and with a handful of deft movements he designed a spreadsheet showing income projections from two ships working in tandem. Spacejock would be on a retainer, of course, but only the minimum possible. In fact, the biggest problem would be extracting an agreement from the robot that Hal would have to honour. Now if he could get Clunk to sign over the Volante … Then Hal wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. Spearman snorted. Or a flight deck.

  His empire-building was interrupted by a buzz, and a call alert appeared on the screen. Forzen passenger terminal? What did they want? Intrigued, he gestured at the icon, and a woman appeared. She was dressed in the livery of a passenger line, and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun. ‘Good afternoon, Mr —’ Barely had she started when the woman gasped and averted her eyes. ‘Mr Spearman! Please be so good as to remove your feet from the table!’

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’ Spearman waggled his toes, and from his laid-back seating position they seemed to be tickling the woman’s chin. ‘Don’t you like my ankles?’

  ‘It’s not your ankles staring me in the face,’ said the woman sharply. ‘I’ve not seen that much tackle since I threw out my husband’s fishing equipment.’