Homefront

by Trevor Wyatt

  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 trying 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.

  Chapter 7

  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 th
e 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?

  Time 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.

  Chapter 8

  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.

  As final members find seats, I address the gathering.

  "Friends, we are gathered here to discuss how we should proceed given the heinous murder of spokesperson Yanik. While we may not have agreed with him, at this point, we also need to protect our movement as we move forward."

  "Gresh, how can you speak of moving forward when his murderer has not even been brought to justice?" says one of the members. Several other members murmur in agreement.

  "Friends, an investigation is underway by Sonali police forces and the Terrans-"

  "Terrans! Gresh, how can we trust a Terran? All they speak of are lies! The weapon found was a Terran weapon. They killed Yanik!" The room is suddenly filled with shouts of "Justice for Yanik!" and “Driving us apart!” More faces turn toward Rosaline. She's a perfect target for all this anger and frustration. I glance at her face trying to see if she's getting worried, but reading Terran emotions is difficult.

  She looks wary, but not afraid. She's calm, not too comfortable, but certainly more relaxed than I would be were our positions reversed. She catches my eye, gives a little nod like she's reassuring me! Terrans, I'm not sure I will ever understand their emotional range.

  Rosaline is fine for now. I need to get my Sonali brothers and sisters to be rational.

  "Friends, brothers, sisters, we must group together, we must stand together against this oppression of our basic rights. Now is not the time to lose our focus, we must not let the need for revenge against speculated crimes consume us—it will dilute our purpose, and those within the Ascension movement will find a way to blame Yanik’s death on us," I finish calmly.

 
Harsh shouts greet my woods.

  "Protecting our lives and lives of our members is our focus!" shouts a female member at me.

  "Yes!" joins another, "How can we fight for our rights while letting our movement be hijacked? We must show that we will not allow ourselves to be subjugated by our government or have our political strength manipulated by the Terrans."

  The last of that sentence is delivered directly to Rosaline. Her eyes remain calm, but I do see her shift her body. I have a feeling that she is planning an escape route from my office before things get any more heated.

  Suddenly a chant starts, "Death to Terrans! Death to Terrans!"

  Although etymology is not my field, I do enjoy learning colloquialisms common to different species. In my brief contact with Terrans, I have learned that they often refer to situations of chaos by referencing fecal matter in some fashion. Specifically, I have heard "shit" used repeatedly both as a derogatory adjective (this is shit) and also as a derogatory noun (what is this shit?).

  However, there is another phrase I have learned from the Terrans regarding shit.

  Apparently when it "hits the fan" (it can fly?) really bad things happen.

  As I see my brethren turn blood-thirsty and hell-bent on letting their frustrations take hold, I realize that at this moment the shit is indeed hitting the fan.

  Sonali Prime may not have been touched by the war with the Terrans, but nearly all 8 billion residents of the home world felt it in some way or another.

  We’ve all felt the loss of war. Either a relative dead in a far flung colony, or knowing a soldier returning with hollowed-out eyes and a vacant stare. Food rations were decreased during the war and more than once the populace was told that protecting ourselves from the Terrans would mean that families would go hungry and cold.

  The anger is real. It is stirring this shit that is hitting the fan.

  And at the center of it is my colleague, Rosaline, a Terran, one whom I am beginning to hold in great esteem as she has shown such a keen interest and appreciation of our culture. Her earnest concern regarding this very issue of ascension has particularly made me look at Terrans in a whole new light.