A Breath of Hope: The Humal Sequence, #1

By Robert E. Taylor

The Humals. Humanoid Aliens. They dominated the spiral arm millennia ago then vanished without trace. Man had found traces of their presence, reverse-engineered their technology and speculated endlessly about their demise. But no one really knew what had happened. No one knew why they had disappeared or why so few traces of them remained.

For James Hamilton the Humals were not something he concerned himself about. Not, that is, until a billionaire philanthropist seeks him out with a proposition he can't ignore.

It started out as the offer of a lifetime. A way to finally end all his financial concerns and to do something good for humanity into the bargain. But as Hamilton was well aware, if something sounds too good to be true then it usually means trouble.

Suspicious, Hamilton fears the worst and plans accordingly but even he is unprepared for the events that will follow. With precious few allies and more questions than answers, Hamilton must desperately try to piece together the clues in order to understand what is going on before it is too late.

For what starts out as a journey for the betterment of mankind may well sow the seeds of its destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert E. Taylor
• Release date: Aug 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465941022

Robert E. Taylor

Robert Taylor lives with his long-term partner just outside London, England. He has travelled widely, visiting most of Europe, much of North Africa and parts of the Middle-East. His jobs have included many diverse careers such as Bank Courier, Cinema Projectionist and even Scuba Diving Instructor. In his off time, he enjoys travel, reading, computer gaming and watching movies.

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A BREATH OF HOPE

By

Robert E. Taylor

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY:

Robert E. Taylor on Smashwords

A Breath of Hope

Copyright © 2011 Robert Taylor

All rights reserved.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s 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 sci-fi 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 homage to some of those works.

There are undoubtedly mistakes and grammatical gaffes in this work. For those I apologize 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

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. Laboring 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 practiced 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 realize 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 traveler, 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 humor. 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.

Say, The dark man began. Where are you headed? Least I could do is give you a ride.

Hamilton zipped up his bag and considered the offer for a second. It wasn't entirely unexpected. He'd more or less hoped for the offer in return for fixing the vehicle. Hamilton firmly believed that no-one did anything for nothing. He fished in his jumpsuit, withdrew a scrap of paper and scrutinized it. I'm looking for a hotel called the Star Rider Inn. Know it?

The black man scratched his chin. Can't say I do. But it sounds as if it's in the South District. He eyed Hamilton critically. That's the rich area of town.

Hamilton shrugged. I'm not staying long. One or two nights max.

Jones looked skeptical. Looking like that you'll be lucky to get into the lobby.

Hamilton smiled. You'd be surprised at some of the places I've gotten into.

I believe you. Jones said. But they might not.

We'll see.

Jones shrugged. None of my concern. Throw your gear on the back seat.

Hamilton toted his gear around to the side of the car and flipped the door open. He saw that the back seat was already occupied by a variety of boxes and bags. Through the open tops of some of them he glimpsed items that he wouldn't have said were altogether legal.

He shrugged inwardly. It was nothing to do with him. If anyone asked he'd only seen boxes, not contents. He threw his gear atop the jumble and then got into the front pulling the door closed.

Jones got in the drivers' side. OK. Let's see if we can find this hotel of yours.

The car pulled rapidly away from the terminal. Jones' driving was reasonably competent, if a little erratic at times. In no time they were on the connectway leading to the city. It began to rain steadily.

Nice weather. Hamilton muttered.

Jones smiled. You think this is bad? You should've seen it last winter. Hailstones large enough to smash windows and dent bodywork. he chuckled. Yeah, I bet them insurance fellas had a fit.

They were silent for few moments then Hamilton asked. So what line of work are you in?

Jones glanced across cautiously. Oh, a little bit of this and a little bit of that.

That sounds like a familiar line. Hamilton grinned.

Yeah. Jones agreed. Truth is, I'm between what you might call regular employment. Just keeping my eyes open. How about you?

Same as you at present. That's why I'm going to this hotel. I've got an offer of employment to check out.

Jones raised his eyebrows. Must be well paid if you're willing to come all the way out to this craphole of a planet.

Let's just say, it interested me.

Shit! If it pays halfway decent then I'd snap it up if I were you. Ain't every day you find an interesting job. What kind of work is it, anyway?

Hamilton considered how much to tell the other. His potential employers hadn't exactly sworn him to secrecy. On the other hand, he wasn't entirely certain of his exact duties himself, yet. He decided to be a little vague. It's what you might call a security job.

Jones glanced across at Hamilton. His eyes also flicked to the back seat and Hamilton's weapon cases. I get you. In fact, I'm in that line of work myself, so to speak.

I noticed. Hamilton smiled.

Jones grinned. It's a small universe, ain't it?

Sure is. Hamilton agreed.

They drove on for some minutes, finally entering the city suburbs. Attractive one and two storey buildings with extensive grounds were visible from the road.

Only the wealthy live out here. Jones explained. Us poor folk live in high rise ghettos in the north and west sectors. The east sector is mostly businesses and factories, that sort of thing. The south is where the truly rich live and carry on their businesses.

You know where this hotel is?

Jones shook his head. Not yet. It'll be in the south sector though. I live in the north and I know both that and the west sector well. It ain't in either of those and it won't be in the east sector so that only leaves the south. I'll stop and ask a guard when we get there.

A guard?

Sure. You don't think all those rich folk'd still be rich if they didn't have someone to look after them, do you?

Hamilton mulled this over for a while. He hoped that he hadn't come all the way out here to be employed as a guard. He tried hard to recall the conversation he'd had with the guy's representative. Not for the first time he began to wish he recorded all such discussions. He was fairly sure that the guy had said it would be offworld, but he wasn't certain.

Now that they were in the city proper they began to see more vehicles. On the way from the terminal they hadn't seen any other traffic at all, but now there was a steady stream.

Hamilton glanced at his watch. I guess we'll get caught in the rush hour?

Jones snorted. We'll be fine. We're coming in from the north. Everyone else'll be headed east.

In fact, there was little delay as they headed through the poor northern sector. Jones pointed out the shabby high rise where he lived.

You don't mind if I drop my stuff off before I drop you off, do you? he asked.

Hamilton shook his head. I'll give you a hand with it, if you like?

Thanks a lot, man. Jones smiled, turning the car toward the block. Those stairs can be real killers if you have to make more than one trip.

Stairs? Hamilton scowled.

Yeah, well the elevator packed up about four or five months ago. Since then the only way up or down has been the stairs.

Hamilton looked wary. What floor is your place on?

The tenth.

Shit. Hamilton sighed.

Don't worry about it. Jones said. The exercise is good for you.

*****

Hamilton preferred not to think about the trip up the stairs to Jones' apartment. It hadn't exactly been a nightmare, struggling with three or four boxes and several bags up a litter strewn stairway for ten floors, but it was a pretty bad dream. Hamilton was in pretty good shape but even he had been sweating and cursing by the time they had reached the door to Jones' rooms. Worse still, Jones himself seemed unaffected by the ordeal, not even breathing hard.

Now they were sipping on some brew that Jones had made up. It wasn't coffee or tea, but somewhere in between. It was thick and dark and extremely sweet. Hamilton decided not to ask what it was. It was in his experience that it was often better not to know some things.

Jones' apartment was filled with all kinds of objects. Most were electronic paraphernalia, still trailing wires from where they had been ripped from their housings, others appeared to be art objects, carvings, containers and the like. All appeared to be of fine quality. A stack of various photocopied instruction manuals lay to one side.

Big business. Hamilton commented.

Jones shrugged. It pays the bills. Leastways, the one's I can't get out of paying.

Taking a bit of a risk aren't you? Bringing me here?

Jones shook his head and smiled. Nobody ever gets through that door unless I'm certain they're trustworthy. Or apathetic. Or so drugged out of their heads that they don't even know who, much less where they are.

Hamilton said nothing, concentrating on his drink. He glanced around at the accumulated fruits of Jones' labor. One item in particular caught his eye.

Isn't that an InterDyne fiber-optic alarm system?

Sure. Jones nodded. Took me some time to figure a way around that one.

But you did?

Of course.

How?

Jones grinned and flipped Hamilton a small, but heavy box. It was, in fact, two boxes joined by clips. Hamilton saw how undoing the clips would leave you with two boxes. Each of the resulting boxes had a small slot in one side that extended about half way through the box. At the end of the slot was a gripping mechanism. Hamilton divided the boxes and noted the spool of fiber-optic cable that connected them.

Simple, if you give it a little thought. Jones commented. "Of course, smarter systems measure the