Cold Boots

By Simon Haynes

The Spacers' Guild needs a new president, and Hal Spacejock is determined to cast his vote... even though he's not a member.

Meanwhile, Hal's latest cargo job belongs to someone else, his shiny new ship is losing money hand over fist, and doing a good favour could turn out to be the biggest mistake of his life.

Join Hal and Clunk in their tenth adventure, where the only good boots are... Cold Boots!

Hal Spacejock novels are self-contained, with a beginning, a middle and a proper ending. They're not sequels, they don't end on a cliffhanger, and you could start or end your journey with any book in the series. Some events from earlier books are referenced in later ones, so it makes sense to read them in order, but it's not essential.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Haynes
• Release date: Sep 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463512784

Simon Haynes

Simon Haynes lives in Western Australia, where he divides his time between herding deadly spiders, dodging drop bears, and making up wildly inaccurate sentences like this one.By day he's an author. By night he's also an author.He loves wry, dry humour, and his hobbies include daringly inserting the letter U into words where -- in some parts of the world at least -- this simply isn't the done thing.As for his genre-spanning novels, they include epic fantasy (with robots), scifi comedy (also with robots), middle grade humour (featuring robots AND the wanton use of the letter U), as well as a series of historical mystery novels set in 1870's London. (No, of course there aren't robots in those. He's not completely out of his mind.)When he's not writing Simon is usually renovating his house, sim-racing online, using twitter (@spacejock), gardening, tweaking his book covers, pondering the meaning of the universe and reading, and if you think it's easy doing all that at the same time you should see what he can do with a mug of coffee, a banana and a large bag of salt.When he's not making outlandish claims he likes to count how many novels he's written, and how many genres he's written them in. (Lots and too many.)Finally, if you want to hear Simon reading one of his award-winning stories, you'll find an enticement to join his newsletter here: spacejock.com.au/ML.html

Book preview

The Spacers' Guild needs a new president, and Hal Spacejock is determined to cast his vote… even though he's not a member.

Meanwhile, Hal's latest cargo job belongs to someone else, his shiny new ship is losing money hand over fist, and doing a good favour could turn out to be the biggest mistake of his life.

Join Hal and Clunk in their tenth adventure, where the only good boots are… Cold Boots!

Chapter 1

What do you mean I have to sell my ship?

Hal Spacejock was on the Albion's flight deck, one finger hovering above the elevator's control panel. They were coming in to land and he was meant to be in the hold, getting ready to supervise the unloading of his latest cargo. Instead, Clunk had just dropped the mother of all bombshells, and all of a sudden the cargo didn't seem quite so important.

I'm sorry, Mr Spacejock, but we're not even covering our costs. Clunk was sitting at the console, the overhead lights reflecting off his battered bronze skin. His expression was neutral, thanks to faulty actuators in his cheeks, but his tone was serious. "The truth is, the Albion costs too much to run."

Hal shrugged. We're always broke, but we manage somehow.

We can't afford to fill our tanks with fuel.

So fill them half way.

We've skipped three scheduled services.

"The Albion is a new ship. She'll be fine."

Clunk hesitated. I'm afraid I had to cancel your food order.

What? Hal turned from the lift controls, now fully aware of the gravity of their situation. You mean… no more coffee?

Indeed.

But… I don't understand. How did things get this bad? Hal gestured at the console. Customers are lining up to book jobs with us. We've been flitting all over space like a moth in a light box!

"The Albion is a long-haul freighter, designed to carry large loads over huge distances, explained Clunk patiently. That's the only way to make this type of ship pay, and yet we keep taking on short-range cargo."

I'm not spending weeks plodding halfway across the galaxy. Hal shuddered at the thought. Space travel is the pits.

Perhaps you should have considered that before becoming a space pilot. Clunk shrugged. In any case, the only course of action is clear.

Yeah, of course it is. Hal hesitated. What is it exactly?

"I already told you, Mr Spacejock. We must sell the Albion and buy something smaller. Something more suited to your needs."

Hal frowned. He liked the way everyone turned to look at the Albion as she came in to land. He enjoyed the admiring glances, the air of jealousy from fellow pilots, and the better class of customer he was attracting. And he really liked his new slogan: Spacejock Freightlines, where bigger is better. We're selling this ship over my dead body, he said firmly.

"But I know of a planet with numerous shipyards dealing in second-hand vessels. We would get a fair price for the Albion, and then we could set about purchasing a smaller ship as a replacement."

"The subject is closed. If you mention it again I'll put you up for sale," Hal warned him.

But Mr Spacejock! You have no coffee!

I'll live, said Hal, through gritted teeth. He pressed the elevator button and the lift arrived promptly, the doors opening without fuss.

Which floor, please? the elevator asked him.

Cargo hold.

Complying.

The doors closed and the lift carried him downwards. On the way, the voice spoke up again. You're looking trim and healthy today, Mr Spacejock.

Thanks. Hal looked around the stainless steel interior, which was featureless apart from a recessed control panel. You're, er, looking pretty good yourself.

The doors opened, and Hal stepped out into the corridor. The elevator was programmed for flattery, and Hal knew the words meant nothing. On the other hand, it was ten times better than a creaky old lift which only worked every other day. Some of the old wrecks he'd flown didn't even have a lift. Instead, he'd been forced to climb between decks using a rickety metal ladder with missing rungs.

Hal strode down the spacious tunnel towards the hold, passing several off-shoots which led to the Albion's passenger cabins. All were empty, and as he thought of the wasted space they were hauling around on every cargo trip, he could see why Clunk was making such a fuss. The Albion was graceful and spacious, and came with a huge amount of prestige. She also came with an insatiable thirst for fuel.

Despite her flaws, Hal knew she was the best ship he would ever own. "There has to be a way to make this work, he muttered. There is a way, I'm sure of it. Clunk will just have to figure it out."

— ♦ —

Clunk's bronze face bore a thoughtful expression as he worked the Albion's console, his fingers flying over the controls as he shut down the ship's flight systems. There was actually a large button nearby labelled 'shut down flight systems', but he didn't bother pressing it. There were also buttons labelled 'max speed plus ten', 'raise shields' and 'make coffee', but he knew none of them were connected to anything. Sometimes, when you had to deal with a human pilot who insisted on taking over the controls, it was better to give them their own section of the console with large shiny buttons to press. It kept them busy while hard-working robots and flight computers got on with the actual work.

The robot's thoughtful expression wasn't due to anything that human pilot, Hal Spacejock, had done. Not this time at least. It wasn't because Clunk had finally got his actuators working, and was experimenting with his facial muscles. No, Clunk was pensive because they couldn't afford to fill the ship with fuel. Ground, he said, activating the comms. "This is the Albion. Instruct the refuellers to stop filling the tank at the halfway point, please."

On a tight budget, huh?

No, we're only flying a short distance.

"Very well, Albion. Message received. Just be sure to save enough for fees and charges, because the Portmaster's already repossessed three ships this week."

Clunk disconnected and sat back in his seat. With the money from their current job they could afford the landing duty, departure tax and atmospheric usage levy, with just enough left over to cover the fuel bill. Things were getting tight, though, and he hoped Mr Spacejock was taking his suggestion to sell the Albion seriously. Well, he might not be able to influence the stubborn human to any great degree, but he could certainly prepare. Navcom, bring up a list of ships for sale on planet Zargan. Filter them from cheapest to most expensive.

Again? said the flight computer, in a neutral female voice.

Clunk frowned. Yes, again. For your information, I'm going to ask every time we land somewhere.

I've noticed, said the Navcom heavily. Very well. I'll collate the list, but it's going to take some time.

How much time?

As long as it takes, said the Navcom shortly.

Thud!

Clunk winced as the entire ship shook to a hammer blow. It sounded like someone had reversed a large truck into one of the Albion's thick landing legs, and for one horrible moment he wondered whether Mr Spacejock was actually trying to unload the cargo all by himself. But no, only a complete idiot would put the human at the controls of a heavy vehicle. Maybe Mr Spacejock was guiding the driver into the hold… which could also explain why the truck had run into something.

That did it, thought Clunk. They had to sell the Albion quickly, before she was devalued by any more dents and scrapes. Navcom, the list?

There was a pause. Still working on it.

Clunk knew this was a lie, because the Navcom could generate such a list in the blink of an eye. He also knew why the computer was stalling. Over the years, the Navcom had been shifted from one rust-bucket to another, usually at a moment's notice and always without the required software keys. Now, she was perfectly content installed in the Albion's fast and roomy computer system, and she had no intention of leaving. If you don't hurry up, I'll install you in a commset. You can spend your life playing mobile games against a teenager with greasy fingers.

Displaying the list on monitor three, said the Navcom quickly.

Clunk eyed the first few rows of ships on offer. Two of them he discarded immediately, since they were relics from the dawn of the space-faring age. Another was a 'fixer-upper's dream', and he guessed that meant a rusty hull with no means of propulsion. The fourth was interesting, though. It was an elderly Rigel-class ship with a full service history, and the price was very modest. Better still, Mr Spacejock had once owned a similar ship, albeit in far worse condition, and the Navcom had started life in one. "What's the current price for a near-new Sirius-class vessel such as the Albion?"

The Navcom made a sound like a mechanic sucking air through his teeth. Not that good, if I'm perfectly honest. The market is depressed at the moment, and these bigger vessels simply aren't selling.

Do not employ a used-car-salesman act on me, said Clunk sharply. The truth, or I'll dig around in your circuits until I find it myself.

Unwillingly, the Navcom told him, and Clunk's eyebrows creaked up. The figure was five times the price of the elderly Rigel class ship showing on monitor three, and the idea of a changeover was very tempting indeed. Had the Albion belonged to Clunk, he'd have done the deal there and then, but unfortunately the Navcom wasn't the only obstacle standing in the way of what should have been a common-sense decision.

So how was he going to convince Mr Spacejock to sell his pride and joy? Cancelling the food order had been a nice touch, if ultimately ineffective. We're selling this ship over my dead body, Mr Spacejock had declared. Well, Clunk wasn't prepared to go that far, but he would go a lot further than cancelling a few groceries now and then.

In fact, he was prepared to go much, much further.

Chapter 2

Down in the hold, Hal strolled past rows of neatly-stacked crates, all of them tied off against the bulkheads with numerous thick straps. None of the cargo appeared to have shifted in transit, and for once it seemed there wouldn't be any breakages or spills to explain away.

In fact, the Albion had turned out to be something of a lucky charm. Ever since he'd taken the controls — or at least, ever since Clunk had — all their deliveries had been on time. They hadn't broken anything, or lost anything, or failed at a single job.

That made Hal even more determined to keep his ship, whatever the cost. Clunk had to be mistaken about their cashflow. He just had to be.

Hal eyed some of the labels on the crates as he headed towards the rear of the hold. The cargo consisted of electronic parts, test equipment and powerful computers, all destined for a local wholesale company which would set them up and supply them to manufacturing plants, scientific labs and universities. It was a valuable cargo indeed, and Hal believed he'd charged a respectable price for carrying it. Unfortunately, according to Clunk, he should have charged about five times more.

He reached the rear doors and opened the big ramp, and as it lowered to the ground he saw three men waiting outside. It was night, and spotlights shone on their hi-viz outfits, bright yellow hats, reflective gloves and heavy steel-capped boots. Behind them, a large truck stood open and ready for loading.

About time, said the boss, a portly guy with a moustache. You were supposed to be here two hours ago.

Sorry. Customs delay, said Hal, using his favourite excuse. Nobody argued with customs unless they were keen on an overly-invasive search.

The boss obviously didn't, because he bit off any more complaints and signalled to the others. One of the men climbed into the truck and started the engine, which ran with a powerful whirring noise. The boss and the second man came up the ramp, moving purposefully towards the cargo, their breath frosting in the cool night air. One started untying a strap, while the boss turned and gestured towards the truck. The driver turned the big vehicle around on the landing pad, then started reversing up the ramp into the hold, moving slowly and carefully while his boss motioned him onwards.

Hal stood to one side and watched all the activity, feeling like a fifth wheel on a shopping trolley.

Here, you got the manifest?

For a moment Hal thought the man who was removing the straps was speaking to him, but instead he'd been addressing his boss. Some of the weights on these crates are pretty high, continued the man. Might need to take it in two loads.

No chance, it has to go in one. Let me check the overall weight. The boss raised one hand, stopping the truck. Then he headed for the cab and spoke to the driver, who handed him a clipboard. While the leader was eying the manifest, Hal saw his opportunity to help, and so he stood behind the truck and beckoned to the driver with both hands. The big truck started to move, and Hal stood aside as it reversed into the hold.

What the hell do you think you're doing? shouted the man with the moustache, raising his voice over the truck's engine.

Just keeping things moving.

Well don't! Get out of it! The man waved Hal aside impatiently. This is a skilled job. I don't want any amateurs—

The rest of the sentence was lost in a roar from the truck's engine. Unnoticed by either of them, the truck driver had seen his boss's waving arms and changed direction. Worse, he'd detected the urgency and planted his foot on the accelerator. The truck raced backwards, the rear swinging around wildly before slamming into an upright, breaking a tail light and sending shards of red and orange plastic cascading across the deck.

Stop stop stop! shouted the boss, gesturing at the driver. Then, once he was sure the driver wasn't going to slam into anything else, the boss rounded on Hal. Now look what you've done!

It wasn't me! protested Hal. You were the one waving your arms around.

Just… get the hell out of here, shouted the boss, his face an unhealthy shade of red.

All right, muttered Hal. I'm going, I'm going. He was going to warn the men not to steal anything, but decided it was probably best to just leave them to it. Anyway, apart from a couple of EVA suits and a somewhat beaten-up space bike, there wasn't anything to steal.

As Hal left the hold he realised he hadn't asked about payment, but it was too late now and so he decided to let Clunk handle the financials. Instead, he went to his cabin, where he swilled hot water around the inside of an empty coffee can before tipping the contents into a mug. Then he added milk and sugar, and tried to imagine he could taste actual coffee as he sipped the warm white liquid.

Nearby, through the bulkhead, he could hear voices and boots and thuds as the men laboured to empty the hold. Hal couldn't hear what they were saying, but he guessed his name was being mentioned more than once. They were just lucky they hadn't knocked the upright over, or he'd have charged them for the repairs. As it was, the truck had left a big scratch in the paintwork.

Suddenly, Hal shivered. Was it just him, or was it getting cold all of a sudden? He reached for the vent above his bunk and felt freezing cold air blasting through the slats. He tapped a button to close the vent, but there was a beep and nothing happened. Then he reached for the intercom. Navcom, I'm freezing here. Can you put the heating on?

Negative. Heating function not available.

Hal frowned. Why not?

There is a malfunction in the ship's circuits.

Well at least turn the blower off. In a few minutes I'll be a solid lump of ice.

Unable to comply. The fan is currently stuck on maximum.

I know, I can feel it!

Would you like me to book an urgent repair?

Hal hesitated. Normal repairs were costly enough, and tacking the word 'urgent' on just made them even more expensive. And, according to Clunk, they couldn't afford basic foodstuffs, let alone maintenance. No, I'll just grab a jacket.

Very well.

Hal crossed to his wardrobe and slid the door open. Inside, hanging on the rack, was… precisely nothing. Then, looking at the carpet, he noticed several torn fragments of fabric. Navcom! he shouted.

Yes, Mr Spacejock?

Where are my clothes?

You're wearing them.

"No… my spare clothes. My second flight suit. My leather jacket. That check shirt I got in a fire sale."

Clunk needed rags for a makeshift oil filter. Your unused clothing was the only fabric available.

Are you kidding me? Hal clapped his arms around his chest to keep his circulation going. Then a thought occurred to him. You said fabric. So why did he take my leather jacket?

To make a seal for the edges of the filter.

Tell him we're going to have words about this. Angry now, Hal strode to his bunk and hauled the thin bedspread off. Instead of finding his nice warm quilt underneath, all he saw was a bare mattress. By now his teeth were chattering so hard it was a struggled to speak clearly. N-Navcom, where i-is my b-bedding?

It showed signs of contamination, said the computer calmly. "Fortunately, Clunk managed to incinerate it right here aboard the Albion. Disposal didn't cost anything at all."

W-wonderful, said Hal. T-tell me, what is the w-warmest place on board?

Inside the exhaust cones, when the engines are running.

N-not that w-warm.

The Navcom hesitated. There is currently nowhere on board warmer than your cabin. In fact, many locations are substantially colder.

Hal swore under his breath. All right, just… try and turn the temperature up a bit.

Complying.

Grabbing the bedspread, Hal jammed several folds into the vent to try and stop the freezing gale. Then he switched his kettle on, setting it to boil again and again, and held his cold hands to the meagre warmth.

— ♦ —

In the flight deck, Clunk was wiping his hands on a large piece of cloth torn from Mr Spacejock's check shirt. He'd just cleaned the console with the rest of the human's clothing, and after disposing of the ragged squares of fabric he sat back in the pilot's chair and addressed the Navcom. Anything to report?

Mr Spacejock is complaining about the cold.

Good, thought Clunk, but aloud he said That is most unfortunate. It paid to be cautious when addressing the Navcom, because sometimes it was hard to know whose side the computer was on… if any.

I did not tell him you removed the fuses from the heating circuits.

You saw that? said Clunk in surprise. He was planning on removing several more fuses, but he didn't want an audience.

I see everything.

Clunk was silent. The Navcom was fond of upgrades, and she wasn't averse to a little blackmail to get them. That extra memory you've been asking for—

I just ordered two sets, said the computer promptly. Incidentally, a courier is approaching the ship.

I know. They're already in the hold, said Clunk. Mr Spacejock is assisting them right now.

Negative. This courier is stepping off the passenger ramp, and is currently reaching for the doorbell.

Ding dong!

As stated, I see everything, remarked the Navcom.

Clunk's neck motors whined as he turned his head. He could see right through the round porthole set into the airlock door, and beyond he could just make out an indistinct shadow in the darkness outside. Exterior lights… on.

Complying.

Intense light filled the airlock, spilling through the porthole like the eye-watering glare of a supernova. In the sudden daylight, the person outside recoiled and hurriedly covered their eyes.

Set exterior lights at twenty percent, said Clunk quickly, and as the lights dimmed to something a little less bright than the midday sun, he got up and crossed to the airlock. The door slid open silently, and Clunk stepped inside the spacious interior and opened the outer door.

Delivery for Spacejock, said the courier, a tall thin man wearing a brown uniform. He held up a plain white envelope, still blinking from the effects of the blinding light. Signature needed.

I can do that, said Clunk.

Addressee to sign, said the courier stubbornly.

I am Mr Spacejock's business associate.

The courier squinted at him, weighing him up, then shrugged. He offered a thinscreen, and after Clunk wrote his name with care and precision, the courier gave him the envelope. It was heavier than Clunk expected, and his fingertips detected something metallic inside. On the front it was addressed to Commander Hal Spacejock, which was surprising in itself, and when he turned the envelope over he discovered the reverse was completely blank. Who is this from, please?

None of my business, said the courier, in a tone that suggested it was none of Clunk's either. Then he turned and left, feeling his way into the darkness with the help of the handrails lining the passenger ramp.

Mystified, Clunk shut the airlock door and returned to the flight deck. He took a seat and held the envelope up to the overhead lights, but it was completely opaque. Then he tried smelling it, before flexing it gently. Finally, after shaking it and testing whether the flap was securely glued down, he propped it up on the console.

Who was sending letters to Mr Spacejock? Why were they addressing him as Commander? And more importantly, what was inside?

Well, he supposed he'd find out soon enough.

Clunk leaned forward and activated the cargo hold camera. He could see three workers removing the last of the cargo, stacking the crates inside a large truck, and he brought up a message terminal on one of the console screens. Within seconds, he'd notified the customer that their delivery had just been collected, and he added a polite request for immediate payment, as per the freight agreement.

Message sent, he glanced at the envelope once more. It was gnawing at him, even though it was probably junk mail.

Ping!

Clunk turned to the screen and noticed a reply to his message.

Thank you for the prompt delivery. Our terms are payment 90 days after delivery, and we'll send you confirmation on that date once the deposit has been made.

A frown creased the robot's brow. Ninety days? Nobody had said anything about a delayed payment, and they needed the money right now! Navcom, place a call to our customer. Top priority.

Calling. There was a delay of several seconds. They are not replying.

Try again please.

The Navcom did so, with the same result.

This is unacceptable, breathed Clunk. He began to type a new message, and as he did so, he saw movement on the nearby screen. In the cargo hold the men had just finished loading, and were clambering into the truck. Navcom, close the rear doors! Raise the ramp! Those men must not be allowed to leave without paying!

Even as he spoke, he knew it was too late. The truck moved off before the doors began to close, and it was still gathering speed as the ramp rose slowly from the landing pad. The heavy vehicle drove right off the end, bounced on its suspension, then roared away.

Doors closed, said the Navcom. Ramp has been retracted.

Clunk's lips thinned. Mr Spacejock could very well be bankrupt in seven days, never mind ninety. He ought to call the Peace Force, and a debt collector, and…

Then, slowly, his face cleared. Maybe this wasn't a disaster. Indeed, it could be the very stick he needed to encourage Mr Spacejock to sell the Albion! Without the funds from the cargo delivery, they couldn't pay their fuel bill. The Portmaster would order the Albion sold, whether Mr Spacejock liked it or not. Then they could take the money and buy a more suitable vessel.

Maybe, just maybe, things had worked out perfectly after all.

As Clunk sat back in his chair, considering every angle, he caught sight of the envelope. If it contained payment of some kind, or a lucrative job offer, or an unexpected inheritance, it could ruin everything. So, after a guilty look over his shoulder, Clunk plucked the envelope from the console, detached one of his fingertips and extended the sharp blade inside.

Chapter 3

Hal soon gave up trying to warm his hands with the kettle. It was working, in a way, but the rest of him was still freezing and on top of that he was getting hungry. The Albion had a cold store, which was the last place he wanted to be right then, but it was also the only place with any food.

So, with his arms around his chest and