So he spun the suits the same yarn that they’d all agreed on. Of having signed on for a mission on behalf of businessman Paul Vogerian. They’d all gone aboard the survey vessel SVIII63 and set off in search of a crashed Humal ship. There’d been a malfunction, they’d dropped out of hyperspace and been forced to abandon ship due to an imminent drive core failure. Safely away from the survey vessel, they then noticed the ancient freighter just floating there. They’d boarded her, fixed up her engines, and headed home, putting themselves into cold storage just in case.
It was a fabrication, of course. Hamilton knew the secret of a good lie was to mix enough truth into the tale to be believable, but leave out the parts you didn’t want the listener to hear. In this case, those left-out parts could very well get them killed, or worse.
The suits listened politely, not interrupting this time. They’d heard him tell the story enough times to know it off by heart. They were just hoping he’d slip up.
Hamilton did, of course, add small details in to the story. Nothing relevant, just thoughts and comments to add to the realism of the tale. What he’d eaten at breakfast, his sadness at the loss of the survey vessel and so on. Little things, entirely personal to him, that couldn’t be checked up with anyone else. It added a nice touch and only he had to remember the details he invented. It was something that he was very good at.
He could only hope that the others were sticking to their story as well. Klane and Jones he had no concerns about. Klane had probably glared at them silently and Jones was a criminal after all and well used to lying through his teeth. The others had promised to do their best if it came to it, but Lewis was the wild card. Hamilton just hoped even she could see the need for caution here.
It was, he reflected, a sorry state of affairs.
Ostensibly their mission for Paul Vogerian had been touted as a way to get rich and help mankind into the bargain. Take a newly built ship, the Hope’s Breath, into an uncharted section of space to find the Humal homeworld. Recover their technology, including a supposed energy-matter convertor, and return to fame and fortune.
It had been too good to be true. Hamilton had known that from the start. But despite his best precautions, he hadn’t expected to be confronted by a new alien race.
Walsh.
The man had been on the mission previous to theirs and had uncovered a parasitic alien life-form that had taken him over completely. Some sort of virus or program that had invaded his mind and dominated him. In the months it had taken them to fix the Morebaeus, Hamilton had often found himself wondering if the original Walsh had been there still, trapped in his own head, a prisoner and helpless observer to all that transpired around him.
Doesn’t matter now. He thought. He’s dead.
Dead and atomized when the Hope’s Breath and the Humal monitoring station collided in orbit and exploded. But the alien thing that had controlled him, that had called itself Walsh -Hamilton didn’t know about that. He’d had a long conversation with that thing via radio and one of the last things it had said to him was.
“Transmission has begun. Farewell Hamilton. I have to go.”
It was fairly chilling. Walsh, or the thing that controlled him, was little more than data or a program. It had intended to transmit itself and hundreds more like it back into human space. It was the beginnings of an invasion.
When Hamilton had reunited with his fellows on the planet the station had orbited, he had told them what he had learned. There was anger, confusion and more than a little fear. They had debated long about what to do if they got back to human space.
The problem was, they had no idea what had happened to Walsh and his army of programs. Had they successfully made the transmission? Or had that signal been cut off prematurely when the ship and station collided? One way, Walsh and his cohorts had all perished. The other they had successfully reached civilization and begun their infiltration.
Regardless of which was the case, they all agreed that letting others find the location of the Humal world holding the Jada-Ko-Vari – as Walsh named his kind – was a disaster waiting to happen. Men would tinker, they would study. Inevitably, it would backfire and another Walsh would get loose. The cycle would start all over again.
So they agreed to lie. All of them. They had thrashed out the story of a failed mission and left out the Hope’s Breath, Walsh’s alien identity and the location of the Humal world. Instead, they substituted the survey vessel SVIII63 as their ship, a ship which Walsh had destroyed as soon as it had dropped them off aboard the Hope’s Breath. Walsh himself was using aging tycoon Paul Vogerian as a front man for the expedition. They had no need to change that. Vogerian would have gone missing, in any case, so the explanation that he had died aboard the survey vessel was a convenience that fit nicely. Instead of the Humal world they substituted the location of the crashed ship that Walsh had come from. If anyone checked, they’d find both the remains of the survey vessel where they said it was, and the alien wreck on its planet, too. All extra details adding to the authenticity of their story.
Truth mixed with lies. Hamilton had told them. The best kind of bullshit.
That their story would be checked into, he did not doubt. Their arrival aboard the long-lost freighter Morebaeus would spark an investigation. Their story about discovering the ship adrift near the point where the survey vessel was destroyed was a coincidence of, literally, astronomical improbability. But it was all they had to use to explain their return. In truth, the old cargo hauler had been at the Humal world, far out beyond a shell of asteroids that enveloped the entire system. What had taken the Hope’s Breath hours to traverse had taken weeks in the two shuttles they had to work with.
That was fun. He thought wryly.
Weeks spent in a tiny shuttle designed for surface-to-orbit hops. No toilet as such. They’d modified the tiny airlock to serve, but the smell had been rank by the time they reached the freighter. They had all been sick of the sight of each other, too. Enclosed spaces, people you didn’t like, nothing to do. A recipe for trouble. Tempers had frayed almost to breaking point.
Once at the freighter, things had settled down. There was a lot more space, if you counted the cargo modules. They found the Morebaeus’ last surviving crewmember, King, quickly enough. He’d set up a cryo-tube and frozen himself. His life-signs were good so Charlton, the only medic they had left, had started the reanimation procedure. Despite taking great care it really hadn’t mattered. Fifty years in a cryo-tube designed for short-term, emergency medical stasis, had left him in a total vegetative state. No brain function at all. The unkind slang for it was Freezer Burn.
The guy was a lost cause. However, on the off chance he might be recover at a proper medical facility, they had re-frozen him. Freezing him also meant no one had to look after him or make the uncomfortable decision to put him out of his misery.
Despite his current non-functional state, King had not been idle on the Morebaeus. He’d attempted repairs to the Morebaeus hyperdrive, which had been damaged in the original misjump that had brought the ship to the Humal world. He’d also set up and activated a “portable” fusion torus in the cargo module where the cryo-tubes were. Such things weren’t easy to get up and running, but he’d managed it alone. McDonald, the sole engineer left from their own expedition, had marveled at the man’s ingenuity. But then, McDonald had turned out to be not so hot an engineer himself. The Morebaeus own power core was offline, damaged along with the hyperdrive. The fusion torus provided enough energy to light and heat the modules and maintain the artificial gravity.
To be fair, King had three modules worth of equipment, supplies and machinery intended for the new colony of Alpha Centauri. Anything that those pioneers might conceivably have needed was in one or other of the modules. He wanted for nothing. Except companionship.
His fellow crewmembers had gone off to explore the Humal world. Hamilton knew that some had perished on the station orbiting the planet, whilst the rest had escaped to the planet’s surface. Either
way, they weren’t coming back for King, though he could not have known that.
After a year and a half though, he had gotten depressed. Unable to complete the repairs on the hyperdrive, and not having heard back from his fellows who had taken the ship’s shuttle to investigate the Humal planet, he had taken to drowning his sorrows in the enormous alcohol supply that was on hand. There had been so many empty bottles, cans and pouches that it had taken them a day to tidy up. How long he had drunken himself into a stupor every day before he decided to freeze himself they did not know. But eventually he had tired of his lonely existence and put himself into a cryo-tube, half-drunk. And that was the end of him.
Hamilton and the others found a lack of certain exotic materials had been the reason King had failed to effect repairs completely. Luckily for them, the shuttles had some of the materials they needed. But not quite enough. Eventually, they had conceived a jury-rigged repair. It meant that the huge burst of energy that was normally used to fire a ship into hyperspace was altered to a slow build up over time. The end result was the same; it just took several days, not minutes.
There was a problem with that, though. The interface between normal and hyper space wasn’t kind on human issue. Massive amounts of radiation were unleashed as the ship slipped from one to the other realms. In a normal jump, the ship’s own shields dealt with the sudden, but short-lived burst. In a protracted entry scenario, the radiation would overwhelm even the densest shielding and fry anyone aboard.
The only answer was to dose themselves up with anti-rad meds, put themselves in cryo-stasis and hope the additional shielding of the tubes would protect them sufficiently to survive the transition.
Clearly it had worked. Hamilton was still alive. So, if the panel of suits were to be believed, were the rest of the refugees. The only problem was, having put themselves into cryo-stasis, the damn things didn’t let them out again. They’d set McDonald’s tube to wake him a few hours after entry to hyperspace. He was to check everything had gone okay, waking others if needed to help him make adjustments or further repairs. But that had never happened. Instead, they’d stayed frozen whilst the Morebaeus made its way back to human space.
Even that hadn’t gone well. The suits told him the ship had been in hyperspace for five years. The engines only just keeping it within that grey realm. Apparently their repairs hadn’t been quite as good as they had hoped.
But he was alive now, that was the main thing. So were all the others, as far as he knew. All he needed to do was to get through this farce of an investigation.
As he finished recounting his fake story once again, the suits sat back, activated their privacy fields and muttered to one another. Hamilton had picked up the odd bit of lip-reading, but was by no means fluent in it. He picked up the odd word or phrase.
Bullshit. Hiding something. Liar.
So they knew it was a lie, or suspected strongly. That wasn’t much of a surprise. Every time Hamilton told the tale it sounded more and more unlikely. The question was what they were going to do about it.
Along with their obvious disbelief, however, was a more curious aspect. After each re-telling of the story, they usually asked him questions. Mostly they were questions concerning his story, but there was also the occasional question concerning the Morebaeus that was anything but relevant, to his mind.
How much of the cargo had been disturbed? Was one of them. At first, Hamilton had assumed they were wondering if the cargo was salvageable, or worth anything.
But then came. Was there anything unusual on board?
He answered as best he could. There were only one or two of these questions per session, but they were never repeated, unlike earlier, relevant questions. It became clear to him that there was something about the Morebaeus’ cargo that they were interested in. Some part of it, or something hidden within the cargo itself. He was able to answer those questions easily, since he had no notion what they were going on about. But it puzzled him, since it almost seemed like they were more interested in the cargo, than in his ridiculous story.
He waited patiently for a good ten minutes whilst they held their discussions. Finally, the chairman leaned forward and, deactivating the privacy field, addressed Hamilton.
“Well, Mr. Hamilton. Thank you again for your continued cooperation with this investigation. I’m sure you can appreciate that we wish to get the facts completely straight before we render a judgment on this situation.”
Hamilton nodded. He’d heard this line before.
“On the other hand, we can see no further purpose in holding you in medical isolation. You are therefore released into the open quarantine section of this station. Some of your fellow crewmembers have already been released. The rest will follow in due course. I’m afraid you won’t be able to leave the quarantine section until our investigation is concluded, but at least you’ll have some company. Once again, thank you for your assistance.”
And, just like that, it was over. A guard escorted him back to the holding cell he’d been occupying for the last three weeks. More of a medical isolation chamber than a cell or a room. He gathered the few possessions they’d allowed him to keep – mostly his clothes – and then he was taken to the quarantine section. He passed many other doors to chambers like the one he’d just vacated. All shut and sealed. He wondered how many of their expedition were still languishing behind those doors and how many had been released.
When the doors to the quarantine section opened to admit he half expected to see Klane or Jones waiting for him. But there was no one. Evidently nobody had called ahead to let them know he was coming. He felt slightly put out by that. Instead, there was just a corridor leading away.
The quarantine, or Q, section was built up against the outside of Tantalus Station’s hull. Along the corridor he’d just entered, a series of large steelglass windows allowed the observer to look out beyond the station’s skin. Hamilton saw that the Q-section was in the upper part of the station. Below, many levels away, he could see the central berthing ring and its attendant ship hangars and docking arms. In fact, from here he could make out the Morebaeus. The freighter was at the very end of a docking arm, no doubt quarantined itself and off-limits to all but the forensics teams that were undoubtedly scouring it for evidence. From this distance, Hamilton saw that it seemed quite small, especially compared to the vastness of the station. But a quick look at the other vessels docked nearby showed the optical illusion for what it was. No other ship within his angle of view came near to the freighter’s bulk. One of the seemingly tiny vessels right next to it was almost certainly the Ulysses. Rames’ ship. It would have easily fitted inside just one of the bulk freighter’s cargo modules.
Sighing, Hamilton turned away from the windows and continued down the corridor. It was a measure of how enormous Tantalus Station was that, despite the corridor being up against the hull, there was little discernible curve to the corridor. It would even have dwarfed the Humal station they’d discovered.
Hamilton had heard of the station before – it was being built years before he had joined Vogerian’s expedition - so he assumed the structure had been completed within the last few years during his prolonged cryo-stasis. He hadn’t expected it to be so big, though. Clearly the Imperial coffers had far too much money in them. A station a quarter the size would have served just as well.
At the end of the corridor there was another door, which gave onto a kind of reception room. Like the corridor, there were windows that allowed a view outside. An officious looking individual sat behind a curving desk, looking bored. Hamilton ambled over to him, noting the second door in the adjacent wall.
“Good day to you sir!” The man stated. His voice was cheerful enough, but his eyes said “terminally bored”. “How may I help you?”
Hamilton smiled at him. “It appears I have been released from isolation. The name’s Hamilton. James Hamilton.”
The man nodded and consulted a display out of Hamilton’s sight. “Ah yes! Mr. Hamilton. Welcome to Q
-section.”
Hamilton nodded. “What’s the drill?”
The man punched some keys, then handed Hamilton a key card. “This is a key to your personal quarters. You’ll also need it to access the section’s facilities and obtain food and so on. The section’s rules are simple. Make no trouble and don’t try and leave the section or enter the rest of the station. If you break any of those rules, you’ll end up back in isolation. Understood?”
Hamilton nodded. “Like crystal.”
“Good. Then I wish you a pleasant stay and I hope you’ll be released completely as soon as possible.”
“Gee! Thanks.” Hamilton said, injecting what he hoped was the right amount of sarcasm into his voice.
“Any questions?” Either the man was used to it, or the sarcasm had gone right over his head.
“I think I can take it from here.” Hamilton told him.
The corner of the man’s mouth twitched.
Got you that time!
“Then by all means, make your way through.” There was no cheerfulness in the man’s tone now.
Hamilton took his new card and went over to the second door. As expected, it had a slot to one side. Hamilton pressed his card into it and the door slid open silently.
The corridor that led off was carpeted, at least, unlike the purely functional ones he’d walked along so far. A four-way intersection was just ahead, so he walked up to it, passing doors on either side labeled medical and gymnasium. Further signs to the left and right told him that guest quarters and other facilities lay in those directions. He was interested in the straight ahead route, though, for the simple reason that he could hear talking and laughter coming from it. The sign above the corridor read lounge area.
A Taste Of Despair (The Humal Sequence) Page 4