Hamilton turned to the rest of the room. Apart from the bodies it was remarkably undamaged. A glance at his sensor console told him it was ruined. He examined the damage professionally; certain it had been caused by the strange weapon. The hole in the chair back was as large as the one in Philbin’s head.
The rest of the bridge was reassuringly normal, save for the stench of death.
He considered what he knew.
Whatever was going on, it seemed clear now that Walsh was the leader. Vogerian was, or had been, merely his accomplice. Someone to put up the money, perhaps?. He wondered how much of what the old man had told him was true. All along, it had been Walsh’s intention that suspicion fall on Vogerian, thus leaving him free to pursue his goal. What that goal was remained a mystery. He had hinted that he was about to take care of it during their conversation. Something to do with the station, certainly. But what? He went over what he knew of the structure.
Firstly, it was of an alien design. That Walsh knew his way around it suggested he was an alien, or possessed knowledge of the station obtained elsewhere. It was well defended, both externally and internally. Walsh, apparently, controlled those defences, again indicating superior knowledge. Why was the station there? Was it to keep things away from the planet? Or, more sinisterly, to keep things on the planet? Hamilton recalled the innumerable transmission dishes on the station. Many pointed down at the planet. Perhaps there had once been a groundside counterpart to the station? Hamilton glanced at his wrecked console. If it hadn’t been destroyed, then he could have checked the sweep he’d made of the planet. It would have been completed by now.
Then he smacked himself on the side of the head. Of course he could check his scan! His console had merely echoed what was put through the main sensor console. He hurried over.
The other console was unharmed. It took him only moments to pull the scan results onto the screen. In addition to the data he’d requested, additional information appeared. The scan had continued after he’d set it going, and was still in effect even now.
The additional data referred to the landings of two shuttles. Little further information on them could be gleaned from this console. It wasn’t, after all, the tactical console. He could only tell that the shuttles belonged to the Hope’s Breath and had landed more or less intact. He couldn’t even tell how many people were alive, there were just too many life signs from the surrounding jungle. But at least they’d gotten away.
Some of them, he reminded himself, with a glance at Philbin’s body.
Interesting as the shuttles’ escapes was, it was not what drew his immediate attention. His earlier sweep of the planet had finally turned up something. Several somethings.
Hamilton decided the somethings were more than the anomalies the console declared them to be. He looked around for a printer to copy the information out on. There wasn’t one.
Irritated, he scratched his head for a moment, considering possible alternatives. At length, he pulled a hatch open in the console’s side and compared it to the data transfer connectors on his tracker. They were incompatible.
Sighing, he tested the air on the bridge. It was fine. He unzipped his suit a little and reached inside, beneath his armour and into a pocket in his jumpsuit. He withdrew a piece of paper.
It was his contract with Vogerian. It meant, as he had foreseen, very little now. He turned it over and slapped it down on the console. A few moments further fishing produced a battered pen. He looked at it fondly for a while. Once it had been gold plated, a gift from a happy client. That was many years ago. Little gold remained on it now and numerous dents and scratches marred its once perfect surface. It was a reminder of happier, and easier, times.
He resealed his suit and got to work, copying out relevant data and producing a rough map of the region involved. It didn’t look very convincing. He made a number of additional notes regarding distances and terrain and then folded the map up and replaced in his jumpsuit pocket, unwilling to trust it to one of the velcro sealed suit pockets. The pen went with it.
Satisfied that he’d gotten everything he could, he made his way back to the elevator. There was little more he could do by staying aboard the ship. A last check of the aft areas, then he would be off, aboard one of the smaller craft from the hangars.
He entered the elevator, retrieving the air-bottle from the floor where he’d jammed it and stowing it away. He then ascended to the security level.
All was as silent as before. He returned to the security room briefly to gather certain items from his weapons’ cases. Then he made his way aft.
He checked both hangars on his way past. They were devoid of life. He spotted a likely vessel for his escape and took the time to get it warmed up. There was no point at all in using the shuttle he had returned in. Walsh had it wired up like a Christmas tree. Far better to choose another craft. Not that Walsh would let him go anywhere he wasn’t supposed to, but he might as well try. No sense in giving up just yet.
He then moved aft to the main engineering area. It was silent, like the rest of the ship. He toyed briefly with the idea of destroying the vessel. However, he knew nothing about the engines or how to control them. He’d most likely end up blowing himself to bits if he tinkered with anything.
Reluctantly, he began to move aft.
Ahead of him, along the passageway leading to the aft engineering section, a door opened in the wall. Hamilton saw it and stopped dead in his tracks. His laser pistol seemed to materialise in his hand of its own free-will.
Out of the door floated a robot far more advanced than Hamilton had ever seen before. Its four arms sported a varied array of weaponry and the visible flickering that surrounded it indicated a strong defence field. Hamilton knew his laser pistol would be useless against that field.
He moved slowly back into the engineering area and slapped his hand down on the blast door release.
A ton and a half of aligned steel slid down between him and the robot. He breathed easier. A shot from his pistol fused the door controls into a molten mass.
He decided it was time to leave and began to trot back toward the hangars. It seemed to take an age to travel the short distance but at last he entered the bay and hurried to his ship.
It was not much of a ship, really. More of a two man scout. Still, it was capable of atmospheric entry and that was more than sufficient for his needs.
He clambered aboard and sealed the hatch behind him. He began to bring the engines up to full power.
Across the bay, another door opened. The robot stepped forth and opened fire at once. The small launch rocked under the assault.
Hamilton watched in horror as warning lights sprang up on his board in startling profusion. The scout had no defensive capabilities. He began to wish he’d chosen a more military craft. The robot packed more punch than a squad of powered troopers! The ship was rapidly becoming un-space worthy. He punched the external door release button.
Nothing happened.
Unknown to him, of course, the robot had learned its lesson.
It advanced on the launch.
Hamilton realised he was losing this battle. But he still had one ace card.
The robot had no features as such, but if it had they would surely have read complete astonishment and sheer terror as the little craft suddenly lifted and lurched forward, accelerating too fast for the machine to react to. The best it could manage was to keep firing.
The launch smashed into the robot at a horrifying velocity and both machines sailed across the hangar to slam into the forward bulkhead with a tremendous crunch. The bulkhead buckled, but failed to give. The robot sagged over the nose of the craft, motionless. Its defence field had been of little use against the mass of the scout launch.
Hamilton extricated himself from the wreckage with some difficulty and staggered away towards the inner bay doors. Reaching them he staggered through. He rested a moment in the corridor.
His tracker beeped unexpectedly. He looked up and down the corrid
or wearily, expecting another robot. The corridor was, however, empty. With a disbelieving expression he turned and looked into the hangar.
The robot was struggling to free itself from the wreckage. It had been badly damaged, but was still functional. Hamilton could scarcely believe his eyes. Once the thing got free he would be a dead man. He had to escape, and quickly!
There was no time to power up another craft and no guarantee that the outer doors would open once he had. His only way out now lay in an escape capsule. He congratulated himself on having prepped one early on in the mission. It would save time. He began to head aft.
He was halfway to engineering before he remembered that he’d fused the blast door closed. Cursing, he retraced his steps.
At the hangar he checked on the machine’s progress. It had gotten its legs free, but in the process had jammed its arms into the wreckage. Not far from it, Hamilton saw the door it had entered by, still open. He hesitated a moment, then made a run for it.
The machine spotted him but was unable to shoot. Its struggles grew frantic. Like a trapped animal, Hamilton thought, watching the poacher approach. He ignored it and continued on to its door. The door twitched, as if trying to close. Hamilton glanced over his shoulder. The robot was staring at the door, seemingly fixedly. Atop its head, bent and dented antennae turned and wiggled.
Got you! Hamilton exulted. Lost control of things, eh? I wonder if that extends to communication with your master? He jumped through the door.
He was in a robot-wide tunnel. He could only go one way; left. He charged off, wondering belatedly whether he’d meet anymore of the things. The passageway led downwards slightly. Shortly, he reached a crossroads. Tunnels led fore and aft, and port and starboard, he realised. He must be beneath the main corridor of the ship. He headed aft at a run.
After only a few dozen steps he found himself entering a small chamber. He halted, amazed. The hidden room was full of robot parts. Spare arms and weapons lay all around. Ammunition and armour plating was neatly piled away. It seemed that he had found the machine’s lair. He cautiously made his way through the area and into the tunnel at the far end. He turned back. If the robot managed to get here it would be able to repair itself fairly quickly. He made his decision swiftly.
Moving to the ammunition crates he began to wrench the lids off. In no time he had found his goal. It was the work of a few moments to wire a grenade to explode when the crate was moved or opened. Satisfied, he hurried from the room.
A short distance further on he found the door that led back into the corridor leading aft. There was no obvious opening mechanism. A quick search also failed to find the release. He considered the obstacle disapprovingly.
From far off, back along the tunnel, came the sound of laboured metal footsteps. The robot was on its way.
Hamilton tested the door’s strength, pushing and sliding with all his might. It refused to budge. He considered the alien pistol. It might well open the door, but the tight confines of the tunnel were no place to test it. He pulled his laser instead. Setting it to cutting mode, he began to slice through the door. The material was unusually dense and progress was slow. The molten material solidified the instant the beam no longer played over it. Hamilton did not attempt to cut the entire door open, merely a circle big enough for him to clamber through. In both armour and spacesuit, it was not a small circle.
The noise of the robot’s advance grew louder all of a sudden. It had undoubtedly reached the crossroads.
The laser was not designed primarily as a cutting torch. It sputtered and died with six inches of cutting left. Hamilton put it away and pushed against the weakened section. It began to bend. Exerting what strength still remained to him, he managed to force his hands into the gap. Gripping the door proper with them and using them as leverage, he managed to bend the circle out with his feet. The resulting hole looked far too narrow for him.
The robot must almost have reached its chamber by now. In moments it would be able to fire on him with whatever weapons still worked. If it touched his booby-trap… Well, he wouldn’t have to worry about the door.
Lying down, he began to squeeze through the door. The gap was indeed narrower than he’d hoped. Inching one shoulder through at a time, he managed to get his upper body through. The suddenness of the gunfire shocked him into immobility for an instant. A brief instant. Hastily, he jerked the rest of his body through the opening. Gunfire sounded again and light flared in the tunnel behind him.
Hamilton scrambled clear and staggered aft, checking his suit for obvious rents. There were none he could see.
He reached the aft engineering section and slammed the blast door release. As before, he destroyed the door controls. There was no going back now.
He moved rapidly to the elevator at the back of the chamber and boarded it. He rode it swiftly up to the escape pod chamber. All the pods were in place, untouched. Selecting a random one from amongst those he hadn’t coded he sent it flying out into space.
The rumble of heavy weapons fire greeted him. The ship had opened up on the pod. Whether it had hit or not was beyond his scope of discovery. One thing though, he couldn’t eject whilst they were in commission. Walsh wasn’t making it easy for him. He considered the mechanics of space combat for a time before deciding on his course of action. Then he returned and called the elevator.
The elevator door opened to reveal the robot. It was incredibly battered and dented. This fact saved Hamilton’s life.
The robot’s arms were terribly twisted and bent. Consequently, the weapons on them didn’t point where the robot thought they did. All resulting blasts went to one side or the other of Hamilton.
Surprisingly, he didn’t feel threatened any longer. Just irritated with the machine. He ducked under its arms and into the elevator behind it. A swift kick sent the robot staggering from the lift. He promptly pressed the down button. The battered machine hadn’t even begun to turn by the time the doors closed.
He descended past the aft engineering section and down to the emergency airlock assembly. Particularly aptly named, in view of his current situation. He made haste to enter one of the locks and cycle through, removing certain items from his jumpsuit beforehand. Surprisingly, it worked for him. In next to no time he was outside the ship.
The robot rode the elevator down to the engineering section. Its quarry was not there. It continued on down to the airlock assembly. The target was not there, either.
It stood, undecided for a fraction of a second. Then it thought to check the number of suits in the lockers. They were all there. It could not remember whether its prey had been wearing a suit already. Come to think of it, it was having difficulty remembering a lot of things. One of those things was the coded transmission which linked it to the computer. Without that link it was unable to confirm with the computer whether a lock had been cycled or not.
Again it hesitated momentarily. The thought crossed its mechanical mind that it might have destroyed the intruder, as per its orders. After all, it had confronted the intruder in the escape pod chamber, fired and then the target had vanished. Perhaps it had disintegrated completely. Some of the targets in the mess had done so. After a moment, it decided it had accomplished its task.
It was time to go back to its room and repair itself.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hamilton attached the last of the command-detonated charges to the side of the aft battery turret, as near to the targeting module as he could manage. At least, he assumed it was the targeting module. It might be the turret motivator for all he knew. Whatever it was, a half pound of Volcanex explosive was going to seriously wreck it. He could have used a charge on the tunnel door, earlier, but the explosive was specially designed to penetrate armour and spray white-hot fragments up to thirty feet inside, hence its name. That wouldn’t have been particularly pleasant in the confines of the corridor. The fragments were a mixture of everything nasty the human race could come up with including white phosphorous.
He’d s
imilarly trapped the top and bottom-side batteries. The forward emplacement he considered out of his immediate reach. Besides, he’d only had three charges.
Satisfied with his handiwork, he returned to the emergency locks. If the robot was waiting for him he’d be in big trouble. His laser pistol was fully discharged. His other weapons were inside his suit. Except, that was, for the alien pistol. Shrugging, he pulled it from his oxygen bottle bag. He was mildly surprised to find it was the only thing still in the bag, which he discarded.
Gripping the pistol, he entered the lock and began to cycle through. It seemed to take an age. He peered through the small port in the inner door. He could not see the robot.
When the inner door finally opened he lunged through, thinking to evade any of the robot’s weapons. There was no attack. The robot was absent.
Hamilton ran to the elevator and called it down to him. The pistol he held before him as the door opened, in case the robot was lurking within. It was not. He got in and ascended to the pod room. The robot was absent from here, also.
Quickly, Hamilton put the final stages of his escape into operation. He primed all the capsules for launch in a minute’s time. This necessitated over-riding the pods’ safety systems, but it was a minor issue, easily accomplished. He then clambered aboard the pod he’d checked over all those weeks ago. He secured the hatch and lay back, catching his breath. His last bottle was just running out. Hi didn’t need air in the pod – it had its own supply. He relaxed and prepared himself for the sudden acceleration that such pods always subjected their occupants to. It was necessary to get fully clear of any artificial gravity field the parent ship might have. Also, it put a great deal of distance between pod and the presumably doomed ship.
The seconds ticked away. Thirty, twenty-five, twenty, fifteen.
With only ten seconds left, the robot emerged from the elevator. Hamilton hadn’t thought to jam it as he had on the bridge. He cursed himself again. He was too rattled to think straight.
Humal Sequence 1: A Breath of Hope Page 27
