by Trevor Wyatt
“You are a Terran,” says one of Gresh’s companions, an imperious-looking fellow. “Scholar, do you normally associate with our...” He frowns. “Former enemies?”
I guess if there’s one thing the Sonali factions can agree on, it’s that Terrans are anathema. That’s okay with me, as long as they don’t start fighting with each other.
Gresh turns a darker shade of blue. “Ms. Rosaline is a scholar among her people, sir. Some of her research dovetails with mine. Our relationship is mutually beneficial.”
The imperious one sniffs, a surprisingly human response. The other members of Gresh’s retinue mutter to each other. Again, I ignore them. “What happened here, Gresh?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. All I can say is that Noble Marshal Yanik is dead, shot with a projectile weapon.” He gestures to the buildings surrounding the park. “Someone from one of those places shot him!”
I see that he is in shock, and I feel sorry for him. In the very short time I have known him, I’ve found Scholar Gresh to be a good man, if a little boring—like many scientists. Yanik’s death will not help his movement. I’m fairly well-versed in Sonali politics, and I know that the leaders of their homeworld will use this tragedy as a wedge to drive members of the Origin movement further from the Sonali mainstream.
One thing I know for sure is that people are getting increasingly agitated. As a Terran, I stand out amid this sea of blue faces. I’m attracting more attention with each passing minute. Maybe it wasn’t such a bright idea to give into my impulse to make sure Gresh was okay. He’s safe enough here with his people, inside the shield and guarded by police officers.
Now one of the rally organizers has grabbed the microphone. “Do you want to know who is responsible for Noble Marshal Yanik’s death?” The crowd roars its assent.
“Uh-oh,” I mutter. This situation is about to go pear-shaped.
“I’ll tell you who—the Terrans, that’s who! They have nothing to lose and everything to gain from pitting us against each other!”
Gresh wheels and gives me a stricken look. I know he doesn’t believe that, but plenty of others will—and aside from the cops, I’m the only Terran in view.
This isn’t good. Sonali with determined looks are moving in my direction. They are getting themselves all worked up. If I were a normal person, I probably wouldn’t have a chance.
But I’m not.
Without a word to Gresh, I simply take off and pour on speed. The area inside the force shield isn’t very big; I’m trapped inside. I can circumnavigate it in mere instants, but I use that to my advantage. I allow myself to be seen here, then there, then over there—and when I stop running, screened by a stand of boxwood, I am near enough to the edge of the field that I can walk slowly through it while behind me, people mill around in confusion after hearing multiple reports of my exact location.
Shaking a little, I leave the area at a normal pace while more officers pour in toward the site of the Noble Marshal’s murder.
I am not having a good day.
No-One
One way my day could improve would be if I can find the bastard who shot Noble Marshal Yanik. Now that I’m safely out of the park, I find that people are so upset that no one is paying any attention to me. That’s good; It means I can take off at a run again.
There’s little question that the shot came from one of the nearby buildings. Some of these can, of course, be eliminated at once: the ones behind the stage, for example, and immediately to the sides. I saw the corpse, and the entrance wound was in the front of Yanik’s skull. That means I can safely rule out three-quarters of the buildings surrounding the park, leaving me with four possibilities, each one about seven stories high.
Once I am out of sight of the officers, I speed up again and begin searching for clues as to the sniper’s location. Motive will come later, but I don’t think there will be much difficulty in figuring it out.
The buildings I’m targeting are mostly residential, though there are some offices. Ignoring the commercial structures, for the time being, I concentrate on the apartments. They’re not locked down yet, but soon they will be. At top speed, I can search an entire structure in less than a minute.
I’m a little disconcerted to discover that there are two or three teams of strategic police officers making for the same edifices as I am. Well, they can’t all be idiots, I suppose; but I want to find the shooter before they do. We Terrans need to score all the points we can with the Sonali.
I zip into the first apartment complex. There are people in the lobby, but I can avoid them easily enough. Taking the stairs, I gradually wind my way through the structure’s upper floors; the shot had to come from high enough to avoid hitting other people in the park, which means the shooter had to be firing from at least three stories up, leaving me only four to search. Locked doors mean nothing to me; I can vibrate my hand so fast that it addles the locking mechanism. Those that are stubborn fall to my little lock-pick kit, which includes, along with its mechanical tools, some sweet little electronic gadgets that can override any power lock on the market. The Sonali never use chains, thank heavens.
I canvas the apartments for about five minutes. Nothing suspicious in any of them. I might have missed something, but I’m willing to bet that I didn’t. My senses are acute enough that I would scent any traces of cordite or gunpowder.
On to the next apartment block. I’m beginning to think that I might be wasting my time—but that’s a self-defeating idea, and I kick it out of my head. I will find this asshole.
I have an equally bad luck in the second building, so I race to the third. And there I have the worse luck, because the cops are in this one, swarming through it like angry ants at a doll’s picnic. One bit of good fortune is that they are starting on the ground floor and working their way up. Thanks, guys, I think as I flash past them.
In a fifth floor hallway, I catch a very faint whiff of...something. It’s a little acrid, not quite like any propellant familiar to me, but I’m certain it’s a kind of gunpowder. Now I really pour on the speed, because I can hear cops charging up the stairs.
Outside one door in particular, the scent becomes sharper. I slow down to regular speed, sure that I have tracked my quarry to his lair.
I listen at the door. Can’t hear a thing; he might be in there, but probably not. Why would he linger? He’d done the deed, so he must have fled. Still, I want a look in there. I try the door handle. Unlocked.
“Good on me,” I mutter, opening the door.
I have a straight view into the living room, which overlooks the park. There on the floor is a high-powered rifle; looks military grade. I am about to step in for a closer look when a hand grips my upper arm and turns me around, none too gently.
“Who the hell are you?” the cop demands, releasing me. Two others hulk behind him in the hall. None of them looks friendly. That’s okay; I am in no mood for a party myself.
I play innocent. “I was coming to visit a friend when I heard something,” I say.
They aren’t having it. “A Terran? Visiting a Sonali?”
“Um, we went to school together?” Pretty weak, but it’s all I can think of at the moment.
“What’s your friend’s name?” one of the other cops growls, taking out his scanner.
“Gresh.”
“Gresh, as in the Origin Movement, huh? Just stand still for a second, Miss.”
“Listen, I hear something in there, officers!”
“We’ll take a look,” says the first cop while the second one scans me.
“Hey,” says Cop #2. “I’m not getting a reading from her.”
“I thought you had that thing fixed, Darrish.”
“I did!” Cop #2 points the scanner at #3 and gets a reading. “See? Working fine.”
Meanwhile, Cop #1 is looking inside the apartment and spots the weapon. “All right,” he says to me, “I’m detaining you on suspicion.”
“Suspicion of what, officer?” I ask, still tr
ying to sound innocent. I don’t think it’s working.
“Never mind that now,” he replies. “Let’s see some ID.”
They are not going to like my Terran Embassy identification, and frankly, I’m not going to show it to them. It’s bad enough that I’m a Terran, but a semi-official? Who can’t be scanned? “Suspicion” is right.
“Pretty interesting that you don’t show up on the scanner,” says Cop #1. He’s not bad-looking for a Sonali, I guess, but still not my type. I like ‘em human.
“I have no idea what could be wrong,” I say.
“Of course you don’t,” he says and grabs me again.
“Hey, hands off,” I say, struggling to push him away. I could throw him down the corridor, but I don’t want to tip my hand. Plus. I want a closer look inside the apartment, but I don’t think I’m going to get it. I stare into the room, committing what I see to memory. I don’t need to notice everything that’s in there; my brain will make a record that I can access later through some mild self-hypnosis. With any luck, I’ll even be able to tell the make and model of the rifle. I think there’s a cartridge on the floor, but before I can give it a closer scrutiny, the cops are manhandling me.
“Look, officers, I don’t want to cause any trouble here—”
Cop #3 laughs. “Good thing for you that you feel that way.”
It will be easy enough for me to make a break for freedom, but if they don’t release my arms, someone might get hurt. I don’t want to cause any injury to these guys.
“Let me show you my ID,” I say. “It’s in my pocket.”
“I’ll get it for you,” says #2, reaching for my skintight jumpsuit. It’s so tight it’s almost painted on me.
Yeah, no—not gonna happen, Mr. Gropey.
I shift into high gear, and it’s as if the scene suddenly freezes. The cops are moving so slowly now, relative to me, that they look like they are standing still. They won’t be able to see me as I run away, but it’s possible their shoulder cams will give me away. So before I go, I simply pluck the little devices off their uniforms and take them with me.
Moments later I am outside the building. I can’t slow down because there are cops all over the place. Fortunately, my hapless trio hadn’t figured they needed backup yet. It’ll be a few more seconds—maybe ten—before they can give the alarm, and by then I’ll be a kilometer away from here.
I toss the cameras in a trash receptacle as I fly by, and head out toward the street. The sooner I can get back to familiar territory, the better off I will be. I’ll need an alibi, but there’s time to figure that out.
I didn’t get a good look at the scene as I wanted, but I trust my memory enhancements to supply me with what I need.
The day is marginally better, but it still won’t win any prizes in the “I Love My Life” sweepstakes.
No-One
As I sit behind my desk at the Embassy, I take a moment to catch my breath.
That was close.
I need to be careful if I want to keep my cover intact. Now that I'm safely out of reach, it's time for me to find out what the police on Sonali Prime actually know.
I pick up the illegal communications scanner device I hid inside a case full of diagnostic digging tools. My hope was that if it was discovered, I could claim it was a type of sonar device for digging. While it's true it’s a contraband on most worlds; it's also equally true that devices like this are not hard to come by on the black market.
For what I do, they are standard issue when it comes to undetectable surveillance. The one I have doubles as a scrambler, should the need arise. I roll through the static until I get the police channel loud and clear.
I catch the middle of a log report for the weapon.
"Preliminary forensics report concerning rifle found at presumed sniper location. Weapon is a Terran EM rifle. Item appears to be without modifications; however, there is a dent in the eye scope. It is unclear what caused this damage.
“It could be that the assailant dropped the gun in his or her haste to escape and the impact from the fall caused the damage. Weapon appears to otherwise be in working order. More tests need to be done regarding ballistics and DNA detection."
I switch the scanner off and mull over all the facts I just heard. Obviously ballistics still needs to confirm that this was the weapon used in the assassination, but frankly, I don't need to wait for that report. I know this is the weapon the assailant fired, no questions asked.
What's bugging me is that the weapon used is a Terran weapon.
My gut tells me that no matter what DNA comes back (if any) on that gun, there's no way in hell a Terran was the murderer.
Tensions may be high, and animosity still exists; however, there is little to no reason for a Terran to stick his or her nose in this bit of Sonali politics. If anything a disgruntled Terran should be more than happy to sit back and watch the fight.
The thing I keep coming back to is the bit about the dented scope. I close my eyes for a moment picturing how it all went down.
My mind's eye creates a figure holding the rifle, peering through the scope and bam—the kill shot. I replay this a couple of times, letting the figure drop the rifle and high tail it out of there.
But I'm not buying it. If you have the balls to shoot a person dead, then it seems unlikely you just drop and run.
Plus, no sniper worth his or her salt just drops their gun. No way. Your gun is your baby. If you do have to abandon it, you rest it down gently.
Suddenly two things click in my head.
First, the person who did this left the weapon on purpose so it would point at Terran treachery.
Or—the shooter dented the scope when they fired the weapon because they were not familiar with the recoil from a Terran sniper rifle.
And the only assassin that would be unfamiliar with a Terran weapon would be a non-Terran.
An alien.
Like a Sonali.
My mind starts going ninety miles a minute as I realize that I’ll need to look for a single Sonali. The shooter. And he or she will lead me to whoever is behind all of it.
Now all I need to do is narrow it down to one suspect—out of the whole of Sonali Prime.
I need more information, or I'm going to be on a wild goose chase. I have an idea where I might get some clues.
I stand up and get ready to leave.
It’s time to resume my role as the mild-mannered xenoarchaeologist. I can't help but smirk at the thought of me as "mild-mannered".
During the war, we had a lot of downtime in between ops when we were behind enemy lines. One of the things we used to do was watch the vids of an old 20th Century reruns of an entertainment segment called Superman. Alien royalty masquerading as a mild-mannered journalist within what was then the United States of America. It was a show full of hope for humanity, before the dark years of the Third World War and Post-Atomic Horror.
Sometimes I wish I could leap tall buildings in a single bound (though admittedly, with my nanites, I get about as close as humanly possible to that), or have an x-ray vision.
Thinking about vision reminds me that the main (if not only) clue I have to who is behind the assassination of Yanik is the dent in the rifle scope. I sigh because having that as my one piece of evidence seems kind of flimsy; in addition, I'm still gritting my teeth over the fact that I didn't get to actually see the scope up close. I'm relying on second-hand information, which is not the way I like to do things at all.
I do allow myself a moment of smugness, however, when I think about Ambassador Asis. By now I'm sure he's been informed of the assassination (though not by me, I grin at the memory of me sauntering out of his office), but I'm sure even if the details are handed to him on a silver platter he would still have his head up his ass. So while I don't have a lot of clues, at least I have a clue. Which is definitely more than I can say for ol’ Esteban. No wonder he's behind a desk.
So, I ask myself, what am I going to do with this one clue?
Ti
me to do some hunting. Alone. That’s how I like to do things.
I inhale deeply…conjuring my daintier alter ego, Rosaline. I make sure my mask is on tight. It doesn't hide much of my face—it's see-through, but it still feels like I'm putting a costume. Except that like Clark Kent from the pre-war vids, I can never truly hide behind my persona.
He was always Superman lurking behind those window pane glasses.
Me? I'm a wolf in a sheep's clothing. You can see it in my eyes.
I know how to hunt.
I know how to kill.
And something tells me I'll be doing both of it very soon.
My day might be looking up, after all.
Gresh
As a Sonali, I do not feel that the need to express my apprehension regarding the future of the Origin movement openly to my Terran colleague; however, given her curious nature, I doubt I will be able to duck her inquiries for long.
I find myself amused more than annoyed by this possibility. As a member of the Scholar Caste, it is always refreshing to find another, particularly from other species, that shares my passion for knowledge. I never guessed that Terrans place the same value on scholarly pursuit as we do.
So when Rosaline walks into my office, I smile at her.
She finds a place to sit. The room is filling up quickly. Unfortunately, I notice more than a handful of my brethren looking at her with disapproving glances.
While I understand where this prejudice comes from, I fail to see how they can so quickly assign it to her—to a Terran that is obviously not a threat and is just incredibly interested in our culture and way of life.
If anything, the death of Yankin should make us band together—Terran, Sonali and any others that share our Origin goals. We need numbers to fight this insufferable dictatorship over our lives. The more fighting we do within our own ranks, the weaker we will become.
Looking around at all of the young Sonali, some of them years away from Ascension, I worry that in their youthful exuberance they are geared up to fight.