The shuttle had reached the end of the hangar. As he watched, it soared out into space, banked sharply and disappeared from sight.
For a long time, there was no sound but that of Hamilton’s own breathing. As he regained his breath after his run, however, a new sound intruded on his awareness.
It was the hissing sound of escaping air.
His troubles had only just begun.
Aboard the shuttle all was chaos.
Lewis sat in the pilot’s seat, struggling to fly the craft with one hand and cover her protesting charges with the gun in her other.
The others had not seen where she produced the gun from nor knew how she got it past Hamilton’s search. They only knew that she had produced it the minute they were aboard the shuttle, telling them that they were going to leave immediately and not wait for Hamilton. The immense explosion they’d heard, she’d said, proved that Hamilton was dead. Quite how, she didn’t explain.
Puckett had tried to overpower her. It was then that they’d found out the gun was only a stunner. It was, however, set on extremely high. Puckett had flopped about on the floor for several minutes after being hit. It was all they could do to prevent him from hurting himself with his thrashings.
Lewis had promptly fired the engines up and taken off. Just as they were lifting off she’d cackled madly for some reason. The others were convinced she was insane.
Johnson hoped that, once they were back aboard the ship a rescue mission would be sent for Hamilton. She wasn’t very optimistic, though. It had taken an hour to reach the station in the shuttle. Probably another hour to get back and then another to return. Two hours. Hamilton would, if he wasn’t already, almost certainly be dead by then. Not for the first time since she’d been thawed out and revived, she wished she’d died permanently.
The shuttle hurtled through space, back towards safety.
At least, that was what they all thought.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Hamilton hurried back through the hangar door into the corridor. He consulted his tracker. There was no sign of any robotic pursuit. His immediate danger was, therefore, his air supply.
The suit monitor showed rapidly falling pressure within his pack. It had probably been hit by the robot’s fire, just as his plasma pack had been.
He scurried across the corridor and tried the hangar door opposite. It opened at once. There was plenty of power on the station now.
Inside, the hangar was empty.
Hamilton quickly left and headed for the next door.
Like the other, this hangar was empty.
Hamilton continued his hurried search, dividing his attention between opening doors and monitoring his scanner. He moved steadily back down the corridor.
The sixth hangar door he tried revealed his only possible hope.
A ship.
Hamilton was hoping to find some small compartment where he could seal himself, and more importantly his oxygen, in for the couple of hours it would take another shuttle to reach him. The suit contained enough air for the job, but if it leaked out into the empty station it wouldn’t do him any good.
The ship was the ideal solution. It would almost certainly have some small compartment he could hole up in. The suit would keep him alive until the leaking air had filled it. After that, he was home-free. The suit had sealant designed for such uses in tubes amongst its various pockets. Repairing the actual pack might be possible with the sealant, but to do that he’d have to take the suit off. Best not to choose too small a room, then.
As he approached the ship began to look uncomfortably familiar. He’d seen others like it before. It was not a Humal vessel. It was Human. Moving around the bow of the craft, his suspicions were finally confirmed.
The shuttle was named the Targon. Underneath that name was the name of the ship it belonged to: The Morebaeus. So, he thought, the crew of the Morebaeus had made it to the station after all!
He made his way down the port side until he reached the main lock. This shuttle was far larger than any of the Hope’s Breath’s were. It was designed to ferry the freighter’s cargo from surface to orbit and was a robust design.
Even so, he saw, as he approached the lock, the design hadn’t been so robust as to shrug off the attacks that had opened a split in its side. The jagged rip ran from the airlock all the way aft to the engine ports. The airlock had been bust wide open. Still, the ladder was down, which meant that there had been some survivors.
He tested the ladder’s strength with one foot. It was secure enough. Struggling with the effort, he clambered up and into the damaged lock. The inner door was ajar. He cautiously stepped through, tracker ready.
In truth, he didn’t expect to meet any of the crew. But there might be one or two robots set to guard the derelict. The tracker revealed nothing. He wondered what had happened to the crew.
The lock opened directly onto the crew compartment. Below, he guessed, would be the cargo hold. The crew area was devoid of anything in one piece. The same attack which had shattered the shuttle’s side had bounced around the inside of the crew area like a rubber ball. If anyone had been caught in here during the attack, they would surely have been killed. There were, however, no corpses. Hamilton reasoned this meant one of three things.
Firstly, there could simply have been no-one in the shuttle when it was hit. But if that was so, who opened the door and put down the ladder? More likely that no-one was in the crew area at the time.
Secondly, it could indicate that the survivors had removed the corpses for some reason. Hamilton saw this as unlikely unless the corpse was a relative or close friend of one of the survivor.
Lastly, the possibility existed that the robots had disposed of the bodies. But what would they want with them? And again, why would the robots put the ladder down? Indeed, if they were all tracked models, how had they even gotten in?
He concluded that the shuttle had been attacked, had landed on the station and the survivors had gone off in search of help.
In any case, he thought, this isn’t helping me any.
He moved forward, to the pilots’ area. The two seats were vacant. Much of the instrumentation had been damaged or destroyed.
Moving aft, he passed through the crew area and back to the small engineering section. As with the pilot’s section, this was barren and damaged.
There had been no place in any of the sections for him to put his plan into action. His tanks, he observed, were emptying fast.
There was only the hold left. Quickly, now, he climbed down the ladder in the crew area until he reached the bottom of the ladder well. Little light filtered in from outside here and he put his suit light on again. An undamaged door confronted him. He tried the door. It refused to budge.
Hamilton resorted to his scanner, checking to see if the door was blocked from the other side.
To his amazement the scanner revealed air on the other side of the door! Hamilton stood, undecided for a few moments, before checking the scanner’s readings again. There was definitely breathable air on the other side of the door. There were no life-forms, however. He double-checked on that.
Hamilton debated what to do. If he forced the door then the atmosphere inside would be lost. If he stayed outside, then he would die very shortly. The hold had no airlock. Only internal pressure kept the door sealed so well.
He shrugged. He put his back against the door and heaved with all his might. Despite his most ardent efforts, the pressure difference defeated him. What the door needed, he decided, was a pressure release valve.
He drew the laser pistol and zapped a small hole in the centre of the door.
Air came gushing out in a powerful, cone-shaped fan. Hamilton found himself engulfed in a cloud of frozen, sparkling particles, reminding him of how cold it was. He tried the door again. This time it moved slightly and a spray of air engulfed him. He gave a great heave and the door opened about an inch.
With an explosive blast the remaining air in the chamber burst out around him
and dissipated into the vacuum.
Hamilton staggered through the door and slammed it behind him. He fished out a tube of sealant and quickly gummed up the hole he’d made. The air was gone, but at least he knew this area was sealable. That might be important. Only then did he turn to examine his surroundings.
The hold was filled with boxes and crates of all descriptions. Some were obviously part of the cargo the Morebaeus had been carrying when it disappeared. Other boxes, though, showed signs of having been packed hastily. No doubt when they decided to abandon their ship, he thought. Cartons of survival food lay all about, some empty, some full, most half-finished. In one corner lay a makeshift bed composed of blankets and a once air-filled mattress. It had split along its side as the pressure in the room had fallen. Tables and chairs had been improvised out of empty boxes and crates.
The creator of this makeshift home lay amid the blankets of his bed. He’d been dead so long that he’d become desiccated by the air in the room. The sudden de-pressurization hadn’t disturbed him overly much. Hamilton was glad that he hadn’t got to breathe the air.
He moved over to the corpse and examined it carefully.
The man wore a space suit of old design, in keeping with the Morebaeus’ antiquity. The helmet, however, lay nearby. The suit bore his name; Jacks, P. What he’d died of wasn’t immediately apparent. There were no holes or other wounds and there had been air in the chamber. Perhaps he’d frozen to death?
A quick glance about him dispelled that idea. Several small heaters were scattered about the room, connected to wall sockets. They were long since dead, but Hamilton was fairly certain that they’d outlasted their user. He turned the corpse over.
Underneath there were no signs of violent demise. Perhaps he’d killed himself, Hamilton thought. He stood up and began to rummage through the various crates and boxes on the hangar deck. He was still not out of trouble yet. The hold was too large by far to provide an effective air trap for his escaping supply.
After only a few minutes searching he found a crate of carefully packed oxygen cylinders. They were small bottles, almost certainly intended for medical use, but they’d do. The connectors were incompatible with his own suit’s connectors, but he could rig something with the help of his sealant. Things looked a little brighter.
In ten minutes, his air supply began to fail. He quickly removed the air pack and disconnected the hose that joined his suit to the pack. The hose hung loosely from suit. Using tools he’d found in other crates, he cut the connecting valve from the end of his suit-hose. He did the same to a valve on a hose taken from an empty oxygen bottle he’d found. Then he pushed the, thankfully, smaller tube of the bottle into the cut end of the suit-hose and covered the makeshift join with sealant. He gave the seal a few moments to harden, then connected up a bottle to his suit. He opened the valve and sweet, fresh oxygen flowed into the suit. He breathed deeply. On the floor, his air pack wheezed out its last few puffs of air and lay silent. Hamilton tucked the mini-bottle under his belt and checked the time. It had only been three quarters of an hour since Lewis had abandoned him. Allowing for unforeseen events, he should be rescued in another two hours or so.
Safe for the moment, Hamilton investigated his surroundings more thoroughly.
The crates contained all manner of things, from food cartons and utensils to electronic parts and surgical implements. Hamilton examined everything carefully, having nothing better to do. All the items showed their age but were well preserved.
Hamilton returned to the body of Jacks. He went through the various suit pockets.
Numerous small items came to light during the search, many personal effects. An aging and badly faded photograph of a woman and child was in one pocket, an animal tooth on a silver chain in another. An empty container for pills was in yet another. Hamilton eyed the latter thoughtfully. They were sedatives, a possible explanation for Jacks’ demise. It was, however, the small notebook in a hip pocket that Hamilton found most interesting.
It was as aged and faded as everything else. Opening it carefully with his gloved hands he saw that it had been used as a diary. Hamilton settled himself down to read, not easy by the light from his suit lamp.
The first few pages told of the Morebaeus’ fate.
The ship had been on a routine flight from Earth to Alpha Centauri, Earth’s first colony. The ship was one of the first interstellar craft to be built specifically as a freighter. It wasn’t fast, nor comfortable, but its crew of eight were proud to be among the new generation of star-farers.
Their cargo had been a mixed batch of goods, designed to help expand the still-new colony at Alpha Centauri. The freighter was large, over sixty thousand tons and carried most of that mass as cargo. There was no manifest in the diary, just a rough idea of the cargo carried. Everything from computers to plant machinery, books, medicines, food and other supplies. Even a few luxury items.
The diary told how they had an engine malfunction after three weeks in hyperspace. Hamilton winced at the casual way it was written. Malfunctions usually spelt death. In those days, though, the mechanics of hypertravel weren’t understood too well. The malfunction hadn’t seemed to cause any problems and the ship had continued on through the grey murk of hyperspace. It had been due to arrive at Alpha Centauri after seven weeks of travel. The seven weeks of travel had come and gone, but still the ship carried on through Hyperspace, the computer calmly informing them that all was well.
They waited for another week. Then another. Still the computer assured them they were on course. After a third extra week they tried to get the computer to come out of Hyperspace. It refused, pointing out how dangerous it would be and how far they were from their destination. When interrogated it proved the computer thought them only three weeks out from Earth. That was the same time that the malfunction had occurred. After another week it was still convinced of the same thing. They had been travelling almost three months, now.
Finally, they made the decision to manually eject themselves from Hyperspace. The computer was disabled and the ship exited from the grey realm. Their drive was severely damaged in the process.
They found themselves in interstellar space. Their investigations revealed they were far from Earth. Very far. Their drive, damaged during emergence, was still capable of sublight velocities. They made for the nearest star.
Their surprise at finding it surrounded by asteroids was equalled by their disappointment. The Morebaeus was too slow and cumbersome to navigate the rock field safely.
It had taken them two months to reach the system from their emergence point. They were, however, amply stocked with food, having plenty of supplies intended for the colony aboard. They debated for some days on whether to try passing the shell of asteroids or attempting to repair the engines.
In the end, they opted for both ideas. An engineer, King by name, was left aboard the Morebaeus to look after the ship and tinker with the drives. The rest, led by Jacks, hopped in the shuttle and entered the asteroids.
They were almost destroyed several times, only Jacks’ and his co-pilot Andrews’ skill keeping them from death. After more than a day of manoeuvring, they emerged from the field and found what the crew of the Hope’s Breath had discovered.
It took them a further two days to reach orbit in the shuttle. There were no replies from the station to their hails.
They had approached and found an open bay. They’d landed.
The diary then broke off for several days before resuming in a more hurried script.
Of the seven of them, four had explored within the station. They had encountered the robots as Hamilton had. Unfortunately for them, they had no weapons of any note, only small pistols and makeshift clubs. The robots had destroyed Benson, Rich and Martin. Only Jacks had escaped their vigilance.
The three left on the shuttle, Andrews, Tyler and Hin had panicked. Andrews, the co-pilot, had presumably taken off and made a run for it. Jacks noted his arrival in the empty bay and seeing the shuttle, a tiny do
t by then, through the open hangar doors. A beam of energy had stabbed out at the craft. There was a bright flash, then the shuttle began to return, seemingly of its own volition.
Jacks had managed to contact the other three. Incredibly, they hadn’t been killed by the attack. They told him they were going to use the escape pods on the shuttle and try their luck on the planet below. Jacks had warned them the station might fire on the pods, but the threesome had seemed panicked beyond reason. They ejected.
The station did indeed fire at them. Luckily, the pods were very small and very quick. Even so, one of the pods was vaporised by a lucky hit. The other two vanished into the planet’s atmosphere.
The shuttle quickly returned to the bay and set down. Jacks, hearing noise from the corridor, hid just outside the main hangar doors, clinging on by his fingers, legs hanging out into space.
A score of robots had entered the bay and searched the shuttle thoroughly. Satisfied, they had left, but not before a further machine, this one much larger and more impressive than the others, had entered and made its own search. When the robots had finished and left the bay, Jacks continued to hang outside the station until his air supply was almost exhausted. Once, he’d seen a small ship leave from a nearby bay and head towards the planet. It had not returned. Only when his air ran low did he return to the shuttle. He renewed his air supply and returned to his hiding place. Several times he had repeated this process, even tying himself down so that he could sleep. Eventually, satisfied that the machines weren’t coming back he’d returned to the shuttle and locked himself in the cargo hold.
He’d stayed there for several weeks, growing more depressed each day. He’d determined that the shuttle was damaged beyond his ability as a pilot to repair. Even if he could repair it, he wouldn’t get far before being destroyed by the station. He considered removing and dragging an escape pod to the entrance of the bay and launching himself out in it. He didn’t think he’d make it. There was only one pod left. The station couldn’t fail to hit him. Finally, fear and frustration began to eat at him. Hamilton could see it in the way he wrote and the state of the handwriting.
Humal Sequence 1: A Breath of Hope Page 23