Humal Sequence 1: A Breath of Hope

  A Breath of Hope

  Robert E Taylor

  Copyright © Robert Taylor 2011

  Robert Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I began writing this book over twenty years ago and finished it within two years. Writing it, though, was a lot easier than getting it published. As anyone who’s tried that route will know, the road to publication is a long one, filled with endless rejections and disappointment. Eventually, I gave up on the whole enterprise. The worst part wasn’t the rejections, though. It was the total lack of any kind of constructive criticism from agents and publishers. I had never expected them to send my manuscript back with a ten page critique, but I had hoped for more than just a complement slip.

  Time passed. I prodded at the story from time to time, considered resubmitting it. But real life got in the way more often than not and so it sat gathering dust. Eventually, even that hard copy disappeared. But I still had the files on disc. So it was forgotten, but not lost.

  So we come to the present day. Increasing concerns over my day job’s long term viability have prompted me to reconsider writing as a career. I dusted off those old files and set to work on them. The result is what you are looking at now. A scifi novel that owes its existence to the likes of EE Doc Smith, Jack Vance, Larry Niven, Alan Dean Foster and a host of others too numerous to mention. Without their efforts, my imagination would never have taken flight as it did. This novel is most definitely an homage to some of those works.

  There are undoubtedly mistakes and grammatical gaffes in this work. For those I apologise in advance. Proof-reading your own work is a difficult task.

  I hope you get some enjoyment out of this novel and please, please leave me some feedback about it. Positive or negative. I can’t get better at this if I don’t know where I’m going wrong.

  Enjoy.

  Robert Taylor, July 2011

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Hamilton ambled down the slideway in direct disregard of the signs all about which proclaimed it was for cargo only. Slideway was too good a name for it, he decided. It was nothing more than a conveyor belt, and a crappy one, at that. The rubber belt was cracked and frayed and the number of dips he experienced on it hinted at missing rollers underneath. If anyone saw him, and there were plenty about who could, mostly cargo handlers and the like, they did not say anything to him.

  There was something about him that said, quite plainly, don’t.

  It was, perhaps, the suspiciously bulging khaki coverall that he wore. After all, as any good citizen knew, there were no end of drug-smugglers, corsairs and generally not-nice people about these days. This man could be a pirate captain. His unshaven, scurvy henchmen could be lurking about waiting to do his bidding at that very moment, ready to carry off law-abiding citizens to a life of slavery, or worse. Yes, a citizen could be kidnapped or, worse yet, gunned down for even daring to raise an objection to this disrespectful cut-throat.

  Hamilton hopped off the cargo slide before it entered the terminal building and glanced back at the shuttle which had brought him down from orbit. It was a battered hulk, he reflected, with probably only a few more years’ service left in it. Certainly the landing had given testimony to its inadequate landing gear. Probably bought cheaply from some scrap dealer, he judged. Still, he’d endured worse and would again, in all probability.

  Glancing up, he noted the gathering storm clouds. He hoped it wasn’t an omen.

  Hamilton waited patiently whilst the slideway brought its load of baggage from the shuttle. Citizens would have said he lurked. There was a casual air of unconcern about him that just failed, perhaps intentionally, to disguise his hawk-like glances and measuring-up stares. As the belt continued to roll past him Hamilton reached out and grabbed a massive, military-style, kit-bag from it with one hand and two long weapon cases with the other. Labouring under the load, he turned and headed towards the passenger entryway.

  There hadn’t been many others on the flight with him, so Hamilton had the customs inspectors mainly to himself. He dumped his bags on the counter.

  “Something to declare, sir?” one of the officials asked in that tone of voice that only a customs man can manage. Hamilton wondered if they practised it regularly.

  He smiled at the man. “You could say that.” he began to unzip the first weapon case. The official took a precautionary step backwards, watching carefully.

  Hamilton put his hand inside the case and withdrew a piece of paper.

  “Here,” he said. “That’s what I’m bringin’ in.” he offered the paper to the official.

  The man took it, began to read, then looked up, incredulously. “You’re not serious?”

  Hamilton smiled again. “When you’re through checking the inventory, I’ll be in the terminal lounge.” he paused a moment. “I suppose this place has a lounge?”

  The official nodded, still scanning the paper he’d been given.

  “Good.” Hamilton turned and began to pass the official.

  “Just a moment,” Hamilton turned back to the man. “What about you?”

  Hamilton frowned. “I haven’t got anything on me, it’s all in there.”

  The official glanced at the massive kit-bag and weapon cases, thence to Hamilton’s multi-pocketed jumpsuit. Perhaps it was wise to let the matter drop. He nodded. “I guess you’re right.”

  Hamilton nodded and resumed his leisurely amble to the lounge. It was not hard to find.

  There were one or two other people sitting about. They looked distinctly nervous at Hamilton’s entrance.

  He wandered over to the single drinks dispenser that served the lounge. It was an archaic affair, probably older than Hamilton himself. Hamilton pushed his credit card into the machine’s slot.

  “Please make your selection.” A voice warbled from the depths of the dispenser, none too steadily, to Hamilton’s mind. He sighed and pressed the button for coffee.

  The machine commenced what could only be described as gut-wrenching groans and shrieks. Some seconds later a filthy plastic cup appeared in the dispenser tray. A spigot above the cup belched and began to fill it with a brown liquid containing any number of anonymous brown lumps.

  Hamilton didn’t like the look of it, but he had paid for it.

  He grabbed the cup before the spigot could overfill it and cautiously sniffed the contents. He decided that he’d smelt worse, but not often. A tentative sip brought a grimace to his face. He spat onto the floor several times to rid his mouth of the awful taste. The liquid might once have been coffee but it had probably resided inside the machine’s innards for more years than Hamilton cared to speculate.

  Hamilton, still holding the cup, regarded the
dispensing machine with stern disapproval. He placed the cup on top of the machine and retrieved his credit card. After having cleaned away the inordinate amounts of grease and grime the machine had deposited on it he put it away and grasped the cup again.

  Being careful not to spill any he tipped the remaining contents into the slot where his card had emerged from. A satisfying frazzling sound came from the machine. Hamilton smiled in recognition of a job well done and tossed the empty cup negligently to one side. He smiled fitfully as he watched the machine’s death-throes.

  Someone cleared their throat behind him.

  Hamilton turned and saw that he was confronted by a middle-aged man going slightly bald and more than slightly to fat. The man wore quite fine clothing and appeared to be somewhat angry. Hamilton pegged him as a business-type returning or departing for a meeting, or perhaps here to meet someone coming in.

  “What d’you want?” Hamilton inquired amicably.

  The man clenched his fist. “Do you realise that damaging private property is a serious offence on this planet?”

  Hamilton shrugged. The man was a local. “So what?”

  The man began to turn purple, seemingly enraged by Hamilton’s careless attitude. “Because I’m going to report you, that’s what.”

  Hamilton chuckled. “That wouldn’t really be very nice of you, now would it?”

  “I don’t care, louts such as you shouldn’t be allowed to share public places with decent people.”

  “Is that right?” Hamilton revised his estimate. The man was an excitable business-type, given to fits of ranting.

  “It is. You’re a disgrace to mankind. Why I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re a wanted criminal!”

  Hamilton shrugged. “Me neither.” he agreed.

  The man paled slightly and took a step backwards. “I’m going to get the port authorities onto you.”

  Hamilton found a seat, sat down and waved a hand dismissively. “Go away, I’m too tired to argue with you.”

  “Just you wait right there!”

  Hamilton didn’t bother to watch the man depart. He merely closed his eyes to snatch a few brief moments of rest.

  All too soon he was being prodded awake. Hamilton sighed and opened his eyes. A port guard stood there, his weapon still in its holster. The balding man stood nearby, triumphal grin plastered over his face.

  “Excuse me, sir.” the guard said. “But this gentleman accuses you of damaging port property, namely, the vending machine.”

  Hamilton stood up. He was slightly taller than the guard, but no more massive. Intimidation wouldn’t help here, he decided. He glanced around the lounge. Some of the people had since departed, but about a dozen remained. They seemed like average folks. Fortunately, there were no children about. Children, Hamilton knew, could be irritatingly honest.

  “Anybody here see me damage anything?” he asked to the room in general. His tone was that of an amiable traveller, put upon by officialdom. The guard detected nothing else but the other lounge occupants, having witnessed Hamilton’s confrontation with the bald man, detected the undercurrent of menace.

  Silence greeted his outburst, punctuated by the uncomfortable shuffling of feet and throat clearings. A couple of heads, wiser ones, Hamilton assumed, shook negatively.

  “See?” Hamilton said to the guard. “He’s just wasting your time.”

  The guard sighed and turned on the man angrily. “I’ll have to ask you to accompany me, sir. Wasting an official’s time is a serious offence.”

  “But, but.” the man spluttered, unable to believe what had happened. “They’re all lying!”

  “Come along, now.” The guard ordered, placing a firm hand on the man’s arm. “Don’t make things any worse for yourself.”

  He dragged the protesting man away.

  Hamilton resumed his wait.

  Sometime later, a port official entered the lounge. He glanced around, spotted Hamilton and walked over.“Mr Hamilton?”

  Hamilton struggled to open his eyes. “Yeah.”

  “Your…” the official fought for an appropriate word. “Baggage has been processed and all the documents found in order.”

  Hamilton got to his feet wearily. “Thanks.”

  “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you where to reclaim them.”

  The official led the way out of the lounge, followed sedately by Hamilton. They ended up in what passed for the administrative offices of the port. The dirty walls and coffee-ringed tables were typical of such an out of the way planet. Hamilton doubted they were called upon to perform their official duties more than once a month. There were unlikely to be more scheduled stops than that. They were probably all part-timers.

  The official gestured to a pile of bags in one corner. “Take what’s yours. Then fill in these forms.”

  Hamilton nodded absently, picking his way through the bags until he found his kit-bag and weapon cases. They looked conspicuously out of place amongst the suitcases and travel packs that made up the rest of the pile. Then he moved to the desk where the official waited patiently.

  “Just sign here, here and here.” The official advised, pointing out relevant dotted lines.

  Hamilton, well travelled, glanced over the forms quickly to make sure that they were of standard format then, satisfied, scrawled his name on the bottom of each.

  As he was picking up his bags to go, the official asked. “May I inquire the nature of your visit to our planet?”

  Hamilton smiled. “Business.”

  The official swallowed involuntarily, glancing at the weapon cases. “Business?”

  Hamilton nodded. “But nothing to do with these.” he shook the bags he held.

  The official smiled nervously. There was something in this man’s manner that said don’t push your luck. “In that case I wish your stay a pleasant one.”

  Hamilton nodded, then turned his back on the official and left the port swiftly. On his way out he passed a room in which he could hear the balding business-type arguing with someone over his innocence. The other man didn’t sound convinced. Hamilton smiled to himself. When you only did your job once a month, you made sure you got whatever pleasure you could out of it.

  There were few vehicles outside the port. Mostly they were dark, empty. There didn’t seem to be any public transport facilities at this port. There were no taxi cabs in evidence and certainly no coach stop or rail-line. From a map he’d noticed inside the terminal, he knew the city was a long walk away.

  He was about to re-enter the terminal building to inquire about transport when an illuminated groundcar caught his attention, half hidden by an overfilled refuse skip. The engine compartment hood was open and a light showed a man working at the engine. The vehicle itself was of standard design with a completely transparent dome top made of steelglass.

  Hamilton walked over, making enough noise so as not to startle the man.

  The man looked up as he approached. He was dark-skinned and Hamilton put his age at between twenty five and thirty. He regarded Hamilton warily, casting nervous glances at the weapons cases.

  “Have you got the time?” Hamilton asked. The man started to glance at his own watch, then noticed the one Hamilton wore. He looked suspiciously at Hamilton.

  “I just got in,” Hamilton told him. “Haven’t had the time to set it to local yet.”

  The man nodded then told Hamilton the time.

  “Thanks,” Hamilton said, dropping his baggage and adjusting his timepiece. He glanced in the engine compartment. “Having trouble?”

  The man snorted. “You bet. The shit they hire out around here ain’t worth pissin’ on.”

  Hamilton grinned, dropping his bags. “Maybe I can help.”

  “Be my guest.” The black man said.

  Hamilton studied the engine for a moment. It was an ancient petrol powered thing that should have been melted down ages ago and put to a more productive use.

  “What exactly is wrong with it?” Hamilton asked.

 
The other shrugged, “Beats me,” he said. “I just parked it to see a friend off on the last shuttle and when I got back the damn thing wouldn’t start. Been here almost an hour now.”

  “Give it a try.” Hamilton said.

  The man clambered into the driver’s seat and fiddled with the controls. The engine whirred mightily, rocking in its mountings. Then all was silent, save for the click of relays.

  The man looked hopefully at Hamilton. “Any ideas?”

  “Maybe.” Hamilton volunteered. He knelt down and fiddled in his kit-bag. After a few moments he withdrew some tools and began tinkering with the engine.

  “How’s it going?” The man asked.

  Hamilton shrugged, a gesture completely wasted on the man as the bonnet blocked his view of Hamilton, and said “Could be anything.”

  “Great.”

  “Give it another try.” Hamilton called, standing back.

  The man pressed the starter and the engine groaned and whirred once more but failed to start.

  “Wait a minute!” Hamilton said, “I think I see the problem.” He bent over the engine bay again. After a few seconds he leant around the bonnet and made a key turning gesture. “Give it another go.”

  The other man frowned, never having seen a key started vehicle before, and pressed the starter. The engine chugged for a couple of seconds then caught and began to run smoothly.

  “Hey!” The man smiled. “You did it! What was wrong?”

  Hamilton held out a handful of food wrappers and miscellaneous garbage. “Air intake was blocked solid. You think they’d fit these piles of junk with a grill.”

  “Anything to save a lousy credit.” The man agreed, disgustedly. “The name’s Jones, by the way. Jonah Jones.”

  Hamilton raised an eyebrow.

  “My mom had a sense of humour.” Jones replied, holding out a hand.

  Hamilton nodded, throwing the wrappers aside, “James Hamilton.” he said, taking the others’ hand. He retrieved his tools from under the bonnet and then bent and replaced them carefully in his bag.