Hal Spacejock: Framed

by Simon Haynes

  Clunk stared at him, glassy eyed.

  "Clunk?"

  No reply.

  "Oh crap, his batteries have gone." Hal looked around. "Do you have a charge point?"

  *

  Hal woke at dawn, shivering with cold and damp from head to toe. He was lying on a makeshift bed Kurt had thrown together from something itchy and hard and very uncomfortable, and the animal skins that had gone into his bedclothes had been unwrapped from their original owners all-too-recently.

  Hal threw off the ripe furs and sat up. The fire was burning out and there was no sign of Kurt the Krazy … or any hint of a hot breakfast. Clunk was still in the same place, covered in dew and dotted with fallen leaves, although his animal-skin cap had slipped a little. Come to think of it, the robot had never explained why he'd donned the headgear in the first place.

  He heard a twig snap and turned to see Kurt entering the clearing with something dead tossed over his shoulder. He tossed some wood on the fire, and when it was blazing merrily he took out a flake of stone with a razor-sharp edge and reached for the animal. At that point Hal decided to go for a quick walk. When he returned, Kurt handed him a hunk of roasted meat. Hal picked at it, but his appetite had vanished and he found himself missing the Volante's AutoChef. The bad-tempered machine was more likely to put frozen asparagus spears through the back of your hand than serve them on a plate, but at least the food hadn't been breathing ten minutes earlier. "We've got to get Clunk going again. He's our only chance."

  "Before you came round last night, he wrote me a note." Kurt reached into his loin cloth and took out a damp scrap of paper.

  Hal eyed the thing in distaste. "Could you maybe read it out?"

  "Most certainly. It says 'When the sun rises above the trees, you must take my hat off.'"

  Hal rubbed his chin. "Was there any more?"

  "No, that's the whole message. The piece of paper was not large."

  "Shame, when there was room for so much more." Hal sighed. "Oh well, I guess we'd better shift him."

  They carried Clunk to a fallen log on the western side of the clearing. Once he was propped up Hal reached for the furry cap, but Kurt stopped him. "He said to remove it when the sun was high enough."

  "What difference does it make?"

  "It was important enough to write you a note."

  Hal shrugged. "Fair enough."

  They made use of the time by gathering fallen branches for the fire, until the weak sun broke over the treetops. Hal hurried over to the robot and reached for the cap. Then he hesitated.

  "What is it?" asked Kurt.

  "For all I know this could shoot an emergency flare out of his left nostril, and I've used up my hospital cover for the month."

  "Would you like me to do it?" suggested Kurt.

  "Good idea."

  Taken aback, Kurt nonetheless took up his position in front of the robot, while Hal took up his position behind a large rock twenty metres away. With shaking fingers, Kurt reached for the cap on Clunk's head. Meanwhile, Hal's fingers were in his ears and his eyes were screwed shut.

  "It's okay," said Kurt. "It's just a solar panel."

  "Attached to what?"

  "His brain, I think."

  "Oh wonderful," muttered Hal. "He'll be thinking and talking and arguing, and he still won't be able to do anything useful."

  At that moment Clunk's eyes flickered and his lips moved. Hal got closer and Clunk repeated himself.

  "Travois."

  Hal looked at Kurt. Kurt looked at Hal. Clearly the solar power wasn't reaching every part of the robot's brain. "Travis isn't here right now," said Hal. "Do you want to leave a message?"

  "Travois," repeated the robot. "Build."

  "I think he wants us to build a travois," said Kurt.

  "I got that, but what is it?"

  "It's a transportation device. We can make one out of branches."

  "Yes," said Clunk, and closed his eyes again.

  "What did I say?" Hal spread his hands. "All thinking and no doing."

  *

  It was late afternoon, and construction of the travois was in full swing. Kurt had identified a couple of suitable trees - tall and straight and not too big - but when it came to chopping them down the only available tool was a stone chip. When Kurt offered Hal a flake he accepted enthusiastically, before realising what it meant. Worse, it came from the dodgy loincloth.

  Kurt went off to find the right kind of vines, leaving the job to Hal. The wood was tough, and by the time the first tree toppled over Hal ached from fingertip to shoulder. Worse, he still had another tree to go. And whoever heard of cutting trees down with a lousy chunk of stone?

  While sawing the second one with the tiny flake, cursing and muttering under his breath, Hal happened to glance at his trusty robot companion. Much to his surprise, the robot had a huge grin plastered across his face. Hal dashed the sweat from his brow, almost shaving off his left eyebrow with the flint. "You think this is funny?" he demanded, after he'd staunched the blood with his sleeve. The robot didn't respond.

  By the time the second tree fell Hal swore he'd never lay a hand on anything woody for the rest of his life. He spent another five minutes snapping off branches with the heel of his boot then glanced at Clunk again.

  The robot's expression hadn't changed, and he looked for all the world like someone had just whispered a hilarious joke in his ear. It was too much for Hal: After his concussion, a lousy night tossing and turning on a bed of rocks, and the slow process of sawing down cast iron trees with his bare hands, he'd had enough.

  He tramped across the clearing and snapped his fingers in front of Clunk's face. "Come on, wake up."

  No reaction.

  "Clunk! I know you're in there."

  Not a flicker.

  "Is it okay if I sharpen this flint on the back of your head?"

  The robot's eyes opened.

  "Ha. Thought so." Hal gestured with the flint. "You think all this is funny, do you?"

  Slowly, the robot's mouth turned down. "Involuntary. Sorry."

  Hal eyed Clunk suspiciously, but the face was now expressionless. Mollified, he tossed the flint aside and laid in the grass, closing his eyes. Twenty-four hours ago they'd been arranging delivery on a cargo of antique furniture. Now they were lashing together a couple of wooden poles so they could drag a heavy robot through the forest.

  The previous night, while they'd sat around the fire with the immobilised robot, Kurt had repeated a few of Clunk's theories about their location. The sky was overcast, so there was no chance of getting a fix by the stars, but according to the robot the power from the wayward lightning strike could have generated enough energy to transport them to whole new planet.

  The settlement was easy to explain: Explorers had found more habitable planets in the galaxy than anyone knew what to do with, and most were filed away for future settlement. Occasionally a splinter group would bribe a cargo pilot and set up camp on some deserted world, never to be seen or heard from again. Most turned feral within two generations.

  Clunk's database held information on these planets, including the unique chemical makeup of their atmosphere. This was like a planetary fingerprint, but unfortunately the same spike which had damaged Clunk's comms circuits had also fried his analyser, so he couldn't sample their planet's air to look it up in the database.

  Hal sighed. It wasn't a fantastic situation, but at least they hadn't been teleported to a barren asteroid or the middle of a star. He glanced at his watch and wondered whether there was time for a quick nap. Kurt of the Jungle could be playing with his vines for hours yet, and it was warm and pleasant in the sun.

  No, they were fighting for survival, not camping out. Each of them had a role to play, and lazing about in the sun wasn't getting anyone home. Hal sat up. He might not be able to hunt, identify rare species of vines, build a shelter, secure food, dress a wound or skin small animals, but he had plenty of other talents he could put to use.

  After a moment o
r two he was still deciding which of his many talents could be applied to their current situation. Piloting a spaceship clear across the galaxy? Making a decent coffee? Handling customer complaints with tact and courtesy? Bunging together a tasty sandwich using nothing but leftovers? Sure, if he could find a loaf of bread.

  Hal eyed the edge of the clearing. What if Kurt had collected these special vines hours ago, and was now having a quiet nap while Hal did the hard work? At the thought of this injustice, Hal sprang to his feet. He'd done his part, and now it was time to do a little exploring. But first, he needed a better outfit.

  *

  The chirp of a bird. The squeak of a small creature. A rustle in the undergrowth. A very human cry of pain.

  "What kind of idiot grows branches this damn low?" grumbled Hal, rubbing his eye. It was the third time he'd whapped himself across the face, and it was only a matter of time before he tried it with a bigger branch and knocked himself out.

  It would have been easier fending off the twigs if he'd had two hands to spare, but he'd wrapped the patchwork furs around himself as camouflage and he needed one hand to hold the edges together. Clunk's fur cap was pulled down to his eyebrows, giving him a fierce unkept look, and with his reddened eyes and dirt-streaked face he looked exactly like one of Kurt's 'evil people'. Indeed, that was his intention.

  Hal caught a whiff of damp ash, and he realised it had to be the big cooking fire Kurt had described. He crawled under a bush, parted the leaves and saw the settlement laid out below. At the foot of the grassy slope there was a clearing with half a dozen mud huts, and in the middle a big pile of white ashes was ringed with smooth stones.

  Hal bit his lip. There was nobody around, and there was bound to be food in the huts. If he returned to camp with a loaf of bread it would certainly take Kurt down a peg or two. His mouth watered at the thought of a crusty loaf, and he wondered whether it wouldn't be better to eat the thing and brandish a handful of crumbs as proof of his gathering skills.

  Hal moved forwards on hands and knees, keeping his eyes peeled for movement. Unfortunately he should have been keeping his eyes peeled for obstacles, and the first he knew of the root growing out of the ground was when it snagged his hands.

  He went over like a roped steer, nose-first into the dirt, and the momentum carried him out of the bushes and onto the edge of the grassy slope. He teetered, desperately trying to regain his balance, then tumbled forwards. There was a whirling confusion of grass, sky, green, blue, green, blue, greenbluegreenblue as he went head over heels down the incline before he hit a bump and sailed into the air. For a moment it was like floating in space, serene and peaceful.

  Then he went PLUMPF! into the big pile of ashes.

  *

  Hal fought his way out of the dense ash, choking and spluttering. He clawed at his eyes, where the ash had turned to a sticky paste, and blinked and squinted in the dim light as he tried to spot the nearest cover.

  He needn't have bothered. His sudden arrival had thrown up a massive ash cloud which was drifting through the village like a good old pea-souper, and anyone inside the huts would be too busy hacking and coughing and struggling for breath to notice an ash-coated figure stumbling around outside.

  Hal staggered to the nearest building and hauled the door open. Inside was a rough-looking bed and a few sticks of furniture. The drunken-looking table was bare, and there was no sign of any bread, crusty or otherwise. Discouraged, Hal tried the next hut. This one was a little bigger - two beds - but there was the same lack of baked tasties.

  The third building was a lot bigger, with several rooms. Hal searched them thoroughly, leaving a trail of ashy footprints, and was just about to give up when he spotted a wall hanging. One corner was rucked up, and behind it he could see a gleam of metal.

  He twitched the hanging aside and stared. There was an aluminium door with a sign: Staff Only.

  The door was locked, but gave a little when he put his shoulder to it. Stepping back, Hal drew back his boot and drove the heel at the smooth metal, just below the handle.

  Thud!

  The door shook, but didn't give, and the impact knocked ash from Hal's clothing. Engulfed in fine white powder, he tried again.

  THUD!

  The door burst inwards, bounced, and came back in time to whack Hal on the side of the leg. He went down, clutching at his throbbing knee with both hands, and then slowly raised his head. He was looking into a cupboard, and the shelves were packed with supplies. Tinned food and bottled water, coils of modern-looking rope, a shelf full of batteries … and at eye level, a large machete clipped to the wall.

  Hal cursed under his breath. Why hadn't he come exploring before cutting down two whole trees with a chip of stone? He grabbed the machete to test the edge, and a fierce grin split his ash-caked face. Now, at last, he could defend himself. Nobody made Hal Spacejock into lunch!

  *

  Hal emerged from the larger building with Kurt's animal skin quilt bunched over his shoulder. He'd piled as much grub as possible into the middle then gathered the four corners to make a rough sack. It was heavy, but manageable, and as he staggered up the grassy slope towards he bushes he pictured Kurt's expression when he saw the supplies.

  The villagers would be out for blood once they discovered they'd been raided, but Hal didn't mean to hang around much longer. Get the travois built, grab Clunk and leg it. That was the plan.

  Once he reached the bushes he set his burden down, giving his shoulder a rest. He'd loaded up a little enthusiastically, but then he'd just faced twenty-four hours of charred meat. Wincing at his aches and pains, Hal shouldered the bundle and set off for camp.

  He'd barely taken two steps when a rough hand was clamped to his mouth.

  *

  Hal struggled to free himself, but his arm was wrenched behind his back.

  "Keep still, you fool!" hissed a voice in his ear. "It's me. Kurt!"

  Hal relaxed and Kurt let him go. He opened his mouth to complain but Kurt shushed him and gestured towards the village. Then he motioned towards the forest, and Hal followed.

  "You're insane," said Kurt, once they'd put a safe distance between themselves and the settlement. "I tell you about this evil group of people eating their own kind, and you come for a tour?"

  "How did you find me?"

  "You left a trail of broken branches as wide as a four lane highway. Don't you realise they could follow such markings back to our own camp? Always approach enemies from the far side!"

  "Don't worry, I won't be going back."

  "Good." Kurt eyed the furs. "What's that?"

  Hal showed him, and he couldn't help grinning at the other man's shocked expression.

  "You know what this means?" demanded Kurt, holding up a tin of peaches.

  "Yeah. No more furry critter on a stick."

  "No, you …" Kurt shook the tin. "This means civilisation! Industry!"

  "Or maybe they ripped off a visiting ship." Hal frowned. "That would explain the door."

  "Door?"

  "Aluminium. It said 'Staff only'"

  "A speaking door! That's very high tech. How was it powered?"

  "No, you twit. There was a sign on it." Hal rubbed his shoulder. "Sharp edges, too."

  Kurt looked back towards the settlement, a worried expression on his face. "We must leave this place. When they return they will hunt us."

  "Lead the way."

  Kurt lapsed into silence until they reached the clearing, where he'd already assembled the travois. He showed off his handiwork, but as far as Hal was concerned it was just a big narrow 'A' with a few bits of vine criss-crossed between the uprights. "Is that it?"

  "Sure. We put the robot here," said Kurt, indicating the narrower portion. "The point rests on the ground, and we take turns pulling."

  "Pulling where?"

  "Not to the East," said Kurt grimly.

  They both looked up as a peal of thunder rolled around the forest. The sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in the sky,
but the thunder went on and on, growing louder and louder. "That's no thunder!" exclaimed Hal. He scanned the blue sky, shading his eyes from the sun, until he spotted it: a long white contrail headed by a silver spark. A spaceship!

  There was no chance of being spotted, but even so Hal was flooded with excitement. The ship was departing, which meant it had just taken off from the planet. Civilisation. Real food. A proper bed.

  "It must be a survey ship," said Kurt. "If they have a base we're saved." He glanced at the sun, then back at the contrail. "It's to the West, and not too far at that."

  "That's fantastic," said Hal. "Come on, give me a hand with Clunk. We'll stick him on this travvy and get moving."

  "Hal, it will be dark before long. I believe it would be best to set off in the morning."

  "Spend another night on that bed of rocks? No thanks!"

  "We cannot move in the dark, since we have no lights."

  "We can make torches."

  "And risk being spotted by our enemies?"

  Hal was all for instant action, but he realised Kurt was right. This rescue camp could be a day's walk from their camp, and stumbling around in the dark with a heavy travois was a recipe for disaster. "All right. But you'd better hope they haven't cleared out before we get there, or I'll —"

  Kurt stepped forward, towering over Hal by a full head. "Yes?"

  "They'd just better be there, that's all."

  *

  Hal's second night in the wilds was even worse than the first. Every time he drifted off he imagined the survey team packing their gear and leaving at first light, abandoning the three of them to a life of chewy meat and highly uncomfortable beds. During one particularly stomach-clenching moment, Hal came to a decision: If they missed the boat he was going to approach the settlement and throw himself on their mercy. Taken in or eaten up, either was better than this.

  When dawn broke he was roughly shaken awake by Kurt, who looked fresh and alert. "Come on, Hal. We can't spend all day sleeping."

  Hal didn't have the energy to reply.

  Half an hour later they were on their way, a soggy-looking pair in their misshapen patchwork skins, dragging Clunk's travois through the morning mist. It was heavy, the rough-hewn poles were like sandpaper on their hands, and they lost their grip every time the point caught on a fallen branch or a stunted bush.