“Yes, please.”
“One moment.”
In a short while, Hamilton was talking with some woman about the casualties suffered during the earthquake. It transpired that three hundred and fifty were dead, seven hundred injured and a further ninety listed as missing. None of his family appeared on any of the lists. He thanked the woman for her help and disconnected from the ‘net.
At least his family were all safe. Still, the loss of communications probably wasn’t doing the business any favours. Ah well! It was time to talk to Vogerian.
Vogerian was ecstatic when Hamilton told him he’d picked his assistants. He promised to see to transport for Klane, though he expressed some reservations about having a female security operative along.
“Don’t worry,” Hamilton told him. “She’s the best.”
“Well,” Vogerian conceded. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”
Oh, I do. Hamilton thought.
“What about this other fellow?” Vogerian inquired.
Hamilton saw no need to be truthful. “He’s an experienced security expert. I knew him a long time ago, met him at the port terminal and asked him if he was interested.”
“If you knew him, that’s recommendation enough for me.”
“Thank you, sir.” Hamilton said with false pleasure.
Vogerian promised to have their contracts ready for them. He told Hamilton to be ready to leave the following night.
After his talk with the old man, Hamilton contacted Jones. The black man was in a suite of his own on another floor. Hamilton had arranged it the night before and charged it to Vogerian’s account. There had been no questions.
The black man wasn’t very happy at having so little time to put his affairs in order, few though they were now. His last muttered comment was something to do with cars breaking down.
After that, Hamilton checked his gear out. Jones had not replaced the hotel lock on his bags so there was no problem there.
Hamilton’s large bag contained mostly add-ons, small items of equipment and ammunition. The only large item in the bag was itself a bag, or rather, a backpack. It was also by far the heaviest item in the bag.
Hamilton put it to one side and checked out the various sundry items he had. Various scopes and night-sights were checked for damage, cleaned and packed away carefully. Hamilton was careful with his other devices. His combat scanner was cleaned and checked for operational accuracy. His headset comm system was working fine. His small first aid kit was complete. The small laser welder was fully charged and working. The small tool kit was complete. His gasmask and protective goggles were fine, though the latter were getting a few too many scratches on them. They wouldn’t have many hours left in them. Scratches were unfortunate weak spots in otherwise bullet proof goggles. A bullet that would glance off a new pair of goggles would very likely plough straight through a badly scratched pair. The emergency shelter was unpacked and erected in the lounge. It didn’t have an airlock, but could be pressurised from inside. Part and parcel of the shelter was the emergency spacesuit. Hamilton had only used this once. It was made of ultra thin material and cost a fortune. Hamilton did not fully trust it. But it was for emergencies only.
At the bottom of the bag Hamilton found his armour. It was very old and battered. The mercenary insignia was almost unrecognisable. It was basically an anti-ballistic bodysuit with a layer of silvery, anti-laser, material sewn in. It contained numerous holes, some right through. Hamilton often considered replacing it, but it held too many memories. He put it on, then strapped on the reinforced joint protectors. He glanced in the mirror, chuckling at how ridiculous he looked. At one point, the suit would have been sealable against hostile environments. It was too far gone for that now. He’d have to wear a suit either over or underneath it. He’d long since lost the correct helmet, anyway.
Also at the bottom of the bag was the ammunition supply and Hamilton’s three pistols.
The first was a simple laser pistol. It was fully charged and operational.
The second was a miniature launcher. The projectiles that it fired had their own propellant and even limited self-guidance abilities. These projectiles came in a variety of types but were all about four inches long. They couldn’t exactly go around corners, but they generally hit other opponents without any cover. The gun took two clips, one fitting on each side, above the grip. Each clip held four rounds.
The third pistol was enormous, having a bore of over half an inch. It weighed over six pounds and the ammunition clip extended down far below the grip. It took ten rounds. Hamilton used it mainly for effect. It was almost impossible to hit anything with it but it made a tremendous amount of light and noise. The few times Hamilton had hit anyone with it they hadn’t survived. It was a weapon to impress civvies with.
Hamilton cleaned all the pistols and then checked his ammunition over. All seemed in order, though he would have liked more, and he packed everything away again. There was also ammunition for one of the weapons in the cases Hamilton had. It was standard nine millimetre automatic rounds, unchanged through the centuries. Hamilton preferred them to the more widely accepted seven point six two rounds. There wasn’t a great deal of difference between them, power wise, but Hamilton was a firm believer in “bigger is better”. There were innumerable boxes of the stuff, but also some boxes of shotgun shells. Hamilton checked them all out carefully, making certain none of the rounds were damaged in any way. It was better to do it now, than to have your gun jam in a critical situation. As well as the normal ammunition, there were several boxes of rifle and hand grenades. Hamilton carefully made sure that they were all safe.
After that, Hamilton packed everything away and turned his attention to the weapon cases.
The first held a sleek, though very heavy weapon. It was an Imperial assault weapon, combining an automatic rifle, shotgun, laser rifle and grenade launcher. It was designed to be used by Imperial Marines in full battle armour with strength enhancers. It was just a little overpowered for a normal person to run about with. Hamilton tended to use it as an emplacement or support weapon.
The final case, in contrast, held a weapon lighter by far than its companion. It was a long barrelled weapon made of some silvery metal with a simple stock and trigger assembly. Coils of wire were wrapped tightly around the barrel and a silvery tube trailed from the stock. It was similarly wrapped. Hamilton poked his hand down the enormous barrel and checked there were no obstructions. He then connected the silver cable to the backpack that he had earlier removed from his bag. The pack was heavy. Hamilton opened the top of the pack and flipped some switches. The pack began to hum. He carried both weapon and pack over to the balcony and opened the door. Pointing the rifle out of the opening, he pulled the trigger.
With a roar, a small star seemed to shoot out the weapon’s barrel. Hamilton, who used to be an aficionado of old sports, preferred to liken it to a burning tennis ball travelling at a hundred miles an hour. It shot out into the sky, expanding slightly. It exploded into a small fireball after travelling only a relatively short distance, dissolving completely.
Satisfied with the results, Hamilton disassembled it.
He replaced all the equipment back into their respective bags and sealed everything with the hotel locks.
Afterward, he set to absorbing the data on his soon-to-be crewmates. He did this not out of any desire to ferret out potential threats to the mission, but to discover any likely candidates for accomplices of Vogerian.
The crew seemed a fairly average bunch. No one was very suspicious. Vogerian’s and Carl’s dossiers were perfectly normal. There were, in fact, only five that were interesting.
First, there was Veltin O’Won, the pilot. He had once been in the Imperial Navy and had been up on charges for reckless flying. On other occasions his flying skills had earned him commendations. He saw even the simplest of flying tasks as a challenge, to be performed in as extraordinary a fashion as possible.
Next up, Cassandra Johns
on, the scientist. It turned out that she was what was known, rather unkindly, as a rebreather. That is to say, she had been placed in cryogenic storage in the past and been restored to life later on. It said that she was placed in storage during the mid twenty first century and thawed out only eight years ago.
The third unusual character was Phillip “Fluke” LeGault. His nickname came from the fact that he always seemed to muddle through, regardless. He was an intelligent fellow, but not noted for his intuitive grasp of the obvious. This had often led to the deaths of fellow team members, though he always managed to survive.
Fourthly was Liz Lewis, a planetologist. It was clearly stated that she was an unstable person, given to acts of violence. She had once been charged with murder, though the case was dropped through lack of witnesses.
Last came Jack Dyzwiecki, known as J.D. to his friends, who were few and far between. This nickname came as much from the fact that he liked to drink whiskey to extremes as it did from his initials and unpronounceable surname. He had once been sued for malpractice and had received a temporary suspension of his license to practise medicine.
The rest seemed harmless, competent practitioners of their various professions.
Hamilton wondered why there were so many apparently untrustworthy people on this mission. Perhaps, he reasoned, there was some spark of decency in Vogerian. A spark that led him to employ only expendable individuals rather than people who had not done anything wrong. After all, who would miss a drunken doctor? A mad woman? Or a gung-ho flyboy who couldn’t be trusted to fly a straight line without looping the loop a dozen times?
On the other hand, Vogerian might have included them to give Hamilton something to think about during the mission, so that he wouldn’t have time to worry about Vogerian and his antics.
Hamilton saw the problem. He’d have to deal with those five as swiftly as he could.
The pilot could easily be demoted and the co-pilot put in his place. Hamilton glanced through the latter’s dossier. Mike Puckett.
The woman from the twenty first century shouldn’t give him any trouble in any case.
LeGault wouldn’t be in charge of any landing parties, so he couldn’t give any trouble.
The doctor could happily drink himself into oblivion, for all Hamilton cared, so long as he was sober when needed.
The mad woman, Liz, seemed to be the most likely headache. If she threatened Hamilton he resolved to make sure she met with an accident. The kind of accident that the drunken doctor, even when sober, couldn’t undo.
It was most likely, Hamilton decided, that one of the normal crewmembers would be Vogerian’s accomplice. The others were simply too obvious.
Hamilton mulled it over for the rest of the afternoon, still not coming to any real conclusions as to who, if any, were Vogerian’s accomplices. Reading and re-reading the dossiers until his eyes were sore didn’t help. Finally, he gave it up. There just wasn’t enough information to go on as yet.
That evening, Hamilton went out. He took a small bag with him, brought from the local souvenir shop, and borrowed Jones’ car. He headed straight for Jones’ old place.
It didn’t take him long to get there and he went straight up, leaving the car parked right outside.
The rooms were as ruined as ever, though a few more things had gone missing since. Hamilton replaced the shattered light-bulb with one he’d brought with him and switched it on. Then he settled down to wait. He made sure the curtains were open.
He waited for two hours before the gang heard that Jones’ had returned. As he expected, they charged in, hoping to surprise Jones. Unfortunately for them, it was they who were surprised.
They were the same bunch that he’d met at the bar, plus another three. The leader had his arm in a sling and led from the back. Another had a heavily bandaged shoulder. They all carried guns.
Hamilton kicked the door shut behind them as they piled in and let off the gas grenade. Lacking breathing apparatus they quickly collapsed, though a few managed to get off wild shots. Luckily, the gas canister doubled as a smoke charge, so few shots came anywhere near Hamilton. In the aftermath, however, he discovered that several shots had come very close to other members of the gang.
Two of the newcomers were dead, shot by the scatter-gunners. In addition Steel, the leader, had managed to shoot his second in command, though not fatally. All were now unconscious and would likely remain that way for an hour. Hamilton planted some of Jones’ stolen property on all of them and then left.
At the car, he contacted the police on a pocket comm borrowed from the hotel and then drove the car out of sight. Then he returned to watch the fun.
The authorities turned up rapidly, and in numbers. In a few minutes they were dragging the semi-comatose bodies into a van and driving off with them. Others remained to gather evidence.
Hamilton considered his actions. The gang were likely to mention Jones’ name but, he reasoned, Jones would soon be offworld. Given the potential rewards of their mission, it was unlikely he’d want to come back here, anyway. There were plenty of better places to live in the Empire.
Satisfied, he returned to the hotel.
The next day, Jones returned the car to the rental company. He hadn’t even known Hamilton had used it.
Later that evening, whilst Hamilton was catching up on some lost sleep, his intercom buzzed.
Groggily, he acknowledged the call. “Yeah.”
“Mr Hamilton?” The clerk’s voice was unmistakeable.
“Yeah.” Hamilton repeated. “What is it?”
“I’ve been asked by a Mr Jones to tell you that he is awaiting you in the lobby.”
“Huh? What for?” Hamilton said. At that point his stomach grumbled. “No, never mind. I’ll come down. Is the restaurant still open?”
“Of course, sir. It is only eight thirty, after all.”
“It is? OK. Thanks. I’ll be right down.”
He terminated the connection and tiredly got up.
The restaurant was opulent. The food was expensive and tasty. Hamilton and Jones tucked in to large helpings of embarrassingly common food, made “special” by giving it a fancy, foreign-sounding name. Hamilton’s only concession to his rich image was to order a huge steak.
Jones wrinkled his nose in disgust and moved the table ornament to block his view of Hamilton’s plate, but said nothing.
He also wore a jumpsuit, though, in contrast to Hamilton’s grey, his was black. He toted a large, and obviously heavy, black bag. Hamilton thought that he’d be very hard to spot in a dark place.
The restaurant was about half full of residents. They were all dressed for dinner, unlike Hamilton and Jones. Hamilton hadn’t even bothered to comb his hair before coming down. It stuck up at odd angles, drawing disapproving stares from the other restaurant occupants.
Over dinner, they discussed the mission.
“I see you’ve got your gear.” Hamilton said, indicating the black bag.
Jones nodded. “I can get in anywhere with the stuff in that bag.”
“Good. Take a look at these.” Hamilton said, handing over the crew dossiers.
Jones skimmed through them silently for a few minutes.
“What do you think?” Hamilton asked, as Jones put the folder aside.
Jones pulled an object from his jumpsuit and touched a switch on it. He placed it on the table, atop the dossier file. “I think you forgot there’s a bug in one of these.”
“I think you’re right.” Hamilton agreed. “But what do you think?”
Jones shrugged. “I don’t like the sound of the crazy woman. The others shouldn’t be too much trouble, though.”
“Don’t worry about her,” Hamilton said. “Klane can handle her.”
“Who’s Klane?”
“She’s,” Hamilton began, searching for an appropriate description. “Somebody I know quite well. Words don’t really describe her.”
“That pretty, huh?” Jones grinned.
“Wait and see.
” Hamilton advised.
The rest of their meal they spent discussing each other’s history. Hamilton went through his years in the Corp and in various mercenary units.
Jones, it turned out, had had an equally colourful career.
From school, he had entered an electronics firm as a very junior executive. After six years of going nowhere, whilst those around him became senior executives, he abandoned the job and, using the knowledge he had quietly gained on electronics, went into business for himself.
“Those early days were quite ridiculous.” Jones related. “I seemed to think I could steal anything, anywhere, at anytime. How I lasted a year I don’t know. Anyhow, the law caught up with me one night and that was that. I did two years in the local pen. I learnt a few things in there, too. My family kind of went to pieces over it. My father, who’d always been a knuckle-down and carry on kind of guy, began drinking heavily. My mother ran out on him after a year. I had no brothers or sisters, so there was no one to keep them together. When I came out, my old man tried to kill me. If he hadn’t been so steamed, he would have done it, too. I ran off. I never went back. I heard that he died about a year later of alcohol poisoning.
“After he attacked me, I tried to get regular employment. My record meant, however, that I only ended up in crap jobs. When my dad died, I slipped back into my old ways. I was a great deal more cautious, however. I haven’t been caught since, though I’ve come close a few times.”
Hamilton snorted. “Like last night?”
Jones shook his head dismissively. “That wasn’t even a close call.”
By this time they had finished the meal and were relaxing with drinks at the bar. They were silent for a while before Jones cleared his throat and asked. “So how about you? Are your folks still alive?”
Hamilton nodded. “Last time I heard.”
“How do you get on with them?”
Hamilton sensed that Jones wanted to hear a hard-luck story similar to his own. Hamilton’s wasn’t quite that simple, however. “We’re not on the best of terms.” he said.
Humal Sequence 1: A Breath of Hope Page 8