Humal Sequence 1: A Breath of Hope

by Robert Taylor

  The last entry Jacks had written told of his intent to take an overdose of sedatives.

  Hamilton closed the diary and sat back, thoughtful.

  The Morebaeus’ crew had stumbled on this place by accident and been almost totally destroyed. Only two had survived.

  Hamilton and his companions had been led here deliberately. What chance would any of them have of surviving?

  Hamilton mulled it over. The two survivors had reached the planet. Had they survived for long? Jacks’ notes told of one of the three ejected crew being a woman; Hin, the medic. It was all fifty years in the past. Could she have had children? Could her descendants be alive on the planet? What about the two themselves? Could they still be alive? Fifty years on a hostile planet. Was it possible? And what of King, the engineer left on the Morebaeus. Had he managed to survive this long? Hamilton doubted it. No matter how much food the freighter had carried, a man could eat a lot of it in fifty years. In addition, he recalled, the freighter had appeared shut down. Very low power readings. It was likely that King had fallen into depression and despair as Jacks had. He’d probably shut the ship down and done himself in.

  Hamilton considered the big picture. What was going on? Vogerian had built the Hope’s Breath and brought them out here, supposedly to find the Humal homeworld. Instead, they found a primal world and a space station, all surrounded by a shell of asteroids that could not have occurred naturally. Who had built the station? The Humals? Hamilton considered it unlikely. Man had found quite a few Humal sites and none of them had robot’s or other defence mechanisms in them. In fact, the Humals had seemed quite a peaceable race. But if not the Humals, then who? Whoever was responsible, they were far more advanced than mankind. Perhaps beyond even the Humals.

  And what of the planet below? What secrets did it hold that required a guardian space-station? Why was the station orbiting it? Hamilton recalled that some of the station’s transmitter dishes pointed down at the planet. Who were they supposed to send to? Or receive from?

  What of the asteroid shell? Had the same race that created the station also moved the asteroids into their current orbits? The engineering required was mind-boggling. Why were the asteroids arranged as they were? Was it to protect the planet? If so, from what?

  Where, if anywhere, did the Humals fit into things? If they weren’t responsible for all this then who was? And why?

  Where did Vogerian fit in? Had he known about this place? Had he known it wouldn’t be a Humal site? Hamilton was pretty sure he knew it wouldn’t. But why mislead them about their destination? What did he hope to gain by lying to them? What was his game?

  Furthermore, who was the mysterious assassin aboard the Hope’s Breath? Why had he killed when he had? What purpose did it serve? To frighten the crew? Possibly. It was the first question Hamilton had an answer to. But why frighten them? What good did it do except make them tighten up on security?

  And who had jammed their communications? Hamilton had noticed it just before Simmonds death. Perhaps the robots? It seemed likely, particularly in light of what he’d read in the diary. Jacks and Co. had encountered the robots as well.

  He quickly read through Jacks’ description of events again. There was something different, however, in their encounter. He re-read it again. That was it! They hadn’t suffered any jamming of their radios! Jacks wrote of his terror at hearing his companion’s screams. No jamming, then.

  Why not? Unless it wasn’t the robots that were jamming them. But if the robots hadn’t jammed them that left only one alternative. The jamming signal must have originated from the Hope’s Breath! But why jam?

  Hamilton grew cold as realisation began to dawn. The jamming had been done very effectively, slowly increasing in intensity right up until the crucial moment when Simmonds opened the door. But for someone on the Hope’s Breath to jam that precisely would mean that they would have to know exactly what was happening on the station. Which would mean that they would have had to know exactly what to expect when they reached this system. Which meant that they would have had to build the jamming equipment into the ship. Which meant only one person.

  Vogerian.

  Hamilton began to wonder if he would be rescued after all. Vogerian seemed to have no qualms about sending a shuttle full of innocent people to certain death aboard the station. Why should he let it return safely? In which case, Hamilton reasoned he, like Jacks before him, could be in for a protracted stay.

  Assuming Vogerian’s guilt, and Hamilton was fairly certain of it now, the question remained as to why he was doing this. Cogs turned slowly in Hamilton’s head. The Hope’s Breath was technically far superior to anything the Empire could produce. So, too, was the station and its defenders. If Vogerian had built the ship, ostensibly from data gathered from the Humal find of LeGault and friends, then was he linked to the station in some way? Was it possible, Hamilton frowned, that Vogerian was of the same race that created the station? He cursed himself for not thinking to order full medical examinations for everyone. He’d blindly accepted the data he’d been given. Data provided by Vogerian. It was a stupid oversight.

  But if Vogerian was an alien, why had he waited all these years before making an attempted return? According to Hamilton’s research, which he now regarded as woefully inadequate and probably faked, Vogerian’s life could be traced back to childhood. Hamilton began to go off the idea of Vogerian as an alien. After all, he reminded himself, if Vogerian was a superior being, why did he drag all of them along with him?

  Hamilton shook his head, as confused as ever. There were still far too many unanswered questions. Too many damn holes. He was only certain that Vogerian was behind it all. Then again, he sighed, he’d been certain of that from day one.

  He checked his chronometer. If someone was coming back for him they’d be here soon. His explorations and musings had taken up far more time than he would have thought. He noted that he’d changed oxygen bottles four times. There were still as many left. He found a small sack and bundled them into it. He then attached it to his belt.

  He also took the photograph, chain and diary. If he ever got out of this, he’d need proof to show the authorities back in the Empire. They weren’t likely to believe him otherwise.

  Gathering his things, he made his way back through the shuttle and its scenes of devastation, until he was once again standing in the hangar.

  On an impulse, he went over to the outer doors and peered out into space.

  The planet hung below, emerald green and sapphire blue. It was all jungle and sea. A few brown lines crisscrossed its surface. Mountain chains, he thought. Somewhere down there lay two escape capsules; the ones that had saved Hin and Tyler. Had the pair survived? Had their descendants? Were there even any offspring?

  Hamilton moved to scratch his head, realised belatedly that he had his helmet on, then carried on anyway, scratching the plexiglass dome. It wasn’t very effective or satisfying. He made his way to the internal door.

  The lights were on all over the station, though there was still no atmosphere. Robots didn’t need to breath, he supposed. Consequently, his suit light was totally drowned out. It was a good thing.

  Hamilton stepped out into the corridor. To his left, and heading towards the torus, back to Hamilton, was a spacesuit clad figure. He hadn’t noticed Hamilton, who stopped dead in his tracks.

  The figure continued on.

  Hamilton’s first thought was to use his radio to call the fellow, or to run after him or her. A moments caution stayed his actions, however.

  The fellow walked purposefully, intent on his destination, no thought to look for Hamilton or anyone else. The man expected nobody to be here. This was no rescue mission. Whoever it was had their own motives for being on the station. Hamilton thought he knew who it was; Vogerian. He considered following the figure but decided it was too dangerous. He had no decent weapon anymore, only the laser pistol. If any more robots turned up it would be ineffectual against them. In addition, there was no telling wh
at other tricks Vogerian had up his sleeve.

  Hamilton turned and headed the other way, heading toward the other hangar bays. The man must have come here on something, right? Hamilton decided a quick getaway was called for. Besides, he needed to know what was happening on the Hope’s Breath.

  He quickly located the bay with the shuttle in. He noted it was not the one they had arrived in earlier. Although he checked quickly, Hamilton could detect no booby-traps or surprises left by Vogerian. He scrambled aboard and quickly strapped himself into the pilot’s seat.

  It had been a long while since he’d piloted a shuttle. A very long while. Years, in fact. He rapidly powered up the shuttle and checked its systems. It was going to be a very interesting flight.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jones sat listlessly in his chair. In front of him the security console continued to scan the planet, displaying its results for him to view. That view, unfortunately, still showed nothing of interest but jungle, deserts, mountains and an overabundance of flora and fauna. Data on such things was dutifully recorded by the main sensor console. The scan the security console was conducting was for anything out of the ordinary.

  He tapped his headset again, but to no avail. Since Hamilton had entered the station there had been no contact with him via the headsets. Even communications with the shuttle were difficult. Hamilton’s progress was relayed through it.

  Jones was, by now, fairly used to the controls of the console. He’d read the manual provided by Vogerian and been instructed by Hamilton. He’d had little practical use, though. This was his first real attempt. Even so, after an hour and a half of diligent trouble seeking, he’d grown bored.

  He confined his observations mostly to the bridge crew now. They were a somewhat different lot than before.

  Veltin and Philbin still acted as pilot and astrogator, respectively. Both were pretty bored by now, having little to do but listen to progress reports from the boarding party.

  Walsh was at the system monitor console, as always. He was keeping busy tweaking the various controls. A faint smile was evident on his lips, as if he was mentally telling himself jokes to pass the time.

  Tong manned the sensor console proper. Although a scientist, he was used to this sort of work. He avidly scanned the planet, making notes in a diary. Jones wondered what else he wrote in it.

  Jackson monitored the engineering console. He was quiet without Simmonds to talk shop with. Having served watches in the engine room with them, Jones knew how they liked to babble incessantly about flux density and other incomprehensible topics.

  Vogerian sat in his customary centre seat, still hunched forward in the same manner he’d been in hours ago. He still seemed as eager as ever. Jones found it hard not to stare at the man. He had a manic expression on his face.

  Carl stood behind his master, hands resting lightly on the seat back. He’d been standing that way for hours, too. Jones marvelled at his endurance. But then, he was an Enjun. They didn’t know the meaning of the word “exhaustion”.

  The time dragged by as the crew waited for further news from the shuttle. Time passed. It passed slowly, very slowly. But it began to mount up, nevertheless. Jones grew increasingly concerned. The shuttle crew were supposed to check in every fifteen minutes. Some twenty had now elapsed. He tried to raise them on the comm.

  There was no reply, only the crackle of static.

  Jones frowned. Something was up. He tried again. There was still no response.

  “I think something’s going on.” he stated.

  The others looked at him.

  “I can’t raise the shuttle.”

  Vogerian glanced at him, smiling disconcertingly. “No need to worry. I’m sure it’s just interference from the structure.”

  Jones shook his head. “I don’t think so. We were reading them before, albeit poorly.”

  Vogerian shrugged. “What do you suggest we do about it?”

  Jones was taken aback. He didn’t know what they should do.

  He shrugged back. “Not much point in sending the other shuttle over,” he answered. “But I guess we could manoeuvre the ship a little closer, try to get a better line of transmission.”

  Vogerian nodded thoughtfully, still smiling all the while. “Good idea. Mr. O’Won. If you please?”

  The pilot nodded eagerly, glad to be busy again. “You bet!”

  In moments they were under way. Ahead, the station grew larger by the second.

  Jones repeatedly tried to contact the shuttle. There was still no reply.

  Suddenly, the shuttle appeared, leaving the station in a big hurry. The security console registered its velocity as far in excess of what would be considered normal. Even Veltin wouldn’t fly like that, Jones thought.

  He felt the icy fingers of fear running up and down his spine. He called the shuttle on the comm. Despite being free of the station, there was still no answer to his calls.

  There were only four reasons he could think of for their silence.

  Firstly, the comm gear could be damaged. But if so, how had that happened?

  Secondly, they were unable to answer. But if that was the case, who was flying the shuttle?

  Thirdly, they were unwilling to respond. Again, why?

  Fourthly, and most disturbing, they were responding, but something was blocking their signal.

  The shuttle approached rapidly, far faster than it should have under normal circumstances. Even Veltin whistled at the danger of its velocity. It was heading straight for the Hope’s Breath.

  Jones quickly scanned the shuttle. As he had dreaded, it was short of a full complement. Two people were missing.

  “There are people missing.” he reported to the others. They stared at him and each other in confusion.

  Veltin shook his head in disbelief. “They’re still on full burn! If they don’t alter course or slow down soon…..”

  The others looked around hopefully at Jones. Veltin hadn’t needed to finish his sentence to get his thoughts across.

  Jones turned to his console optimistically. Maybe he could do something, fire a warning shot, anything.

  Abruptly, as if reading his thoughts, the console changed to a new screen without any help from him. This was a tactical display showing the ship and the shuttle. Data at the top of the screen showed the Hope’s Breath’s weapons arming totally of their own volition.

  “No!” Jones gasped, hurriedly punching buttons to avert what he realised was coming next.

  “Jones?” Klane’s voice was full of concern. “What’s…”

  The last part of her inquiry was drowned out in static. Jones was far too busy to pay much attention, anyway.

  Nothing he tried seemed to have any effect on the wilful console. Tiny cross-hairs appeared over the approaching shuttle. Tactical data appeared nearby, along with the ominously flashing legend of “tracking”.

  “No!” Jones cried again, frantic now, pounding the console ineffectually.

  “What’s going on Mr. Jones?” Vogerian inquired mildly.

  “The ship! It’s! It’s going to..” Jones stammered, unable to believe it himself. “It’s going to fire on the shuttle!”

  Even as he spoke, a barrage of deadly fire lanced out at the shuttle. The sound of heavy weapons fire rumbled through the hull. Hits registered on the console, dispassionately noting damage. All to the engine area.

  The shuttle spun uncontrollably away, towards the planet and certain destruction. Its engines silent now, save for an occasional flicker of random life. The console returned to its normal state innocently, as if nothing untoward had happened.

  “What’s going on?” Vogerian asked again.

  Jones ignored him and scanned the tumbling shuttle again. The console obeyed at once.

  Of the twelve hits recorded, ten had struck the engine area, almost completely destroying the shuttle’s drive systems. The remaining two had pierced the cabin compartment. With trepidation, Jones ordered a life scan.

  “Jones? What’
s happening?” Klane demanded.

  Jones let out an explosive breath of relief as the scanners showed five people still alive in the shuttle. They must have kept their suits on, he decided. Even so, only one death was miraculous.

  “Jones!” Klane’s voice returned with conviction. “Answer me!”

  “I’m OK.” Jones gasped, still following the shuttle down on his screen. “But the shuttle’s been hit. The ship fired on it without warning. I couldn’t prevent it.”

  There was silence for a few moments.

  “Is anyone still alive?” she wanted to know, quietly.

  Jones sighed. “Scans show five still living, but the shuttle’s out of control. Almost no power. They’re going to burn up in the atmosphere of the planet in a few minutes.”

  Weariness flooded through him. Everything had gone wrong. Hamilton couldn’t have expected something like this. He wondered who the five on the shuttle were. Maybe he should try to contact them again.

  Perhaps his exhaustion was the reason he failed to see Vogerian get up suddenly, turn round and reach beneath the padding on his chair. He pulled forth a pistol and turned round again.

  At this point, Jones did notice that he’d stood up. It was a fraction later that he saw the pistol, now pointing unerringly towards the helm area, and shouted.

  “Gun!”

  Trained troops would, undoubtedly, have taken cover instinctively at the cry. The bridge crew, however, were anything but trained soldiers. Instead of diving for cover, they merely looked towards Jones.

  A beam of white-hot energy struck Philbin in the side of his temple as he was turning to see what was up. A crater the size of a fist appeared in his head. He slumped to the floor.

  “Look out!” Jones yelled, reaching for his own pistol, whilst taking cover behind his chair. The gun wouldn’t come out of the holster!