Homefront

by Trevor Wyatt

  I find a terminal. I hover my fingers over the keys and do a series of rapid eye blinks sending a message to my nanites to wake up.

  It's time to hack.

  My fingers tap the keys in rapid succession.

  Patient files...

  Accessing...

  I look for recent intakes with facial injuries—then I filter for female, which seems ironic given the current gender politics.

  Two entries come up.

  One with a nasal injury. Nope.

  The other came in with minor lacerations above and inflammation below one eye.

  I believe we have a winner. Now, time to go.

  I pass by the front desk, this time the female Sonali is there alone. I still have the key re-sequencer with me. Time for some more fakery.

  I stop in front of her, "Hey, where's your friend?"

  "Friend?" she asks, confused.

  "The other Sonali working here?"

  "He's doing other duties in another part of the building."

  "Well, if you'd just let him know he was a big help. I'd appreciate it." I give my best cheesy smile. She nods.

  "Hey, is that something important?" I point behind her on the floor. Where I rolled the re-sequencer with my foot while we talked. I see her eyes go wide.

  I slip outside while she goes to collect it.

  Time to go hunting.

  Chapter 10

  No-One

  By tying into the Sonali Prime mainframe, I’m able to isolate exactly where to go after the Renewal Center.

  I have the aircar drop me off a few residences away from my quarry. I approach the abode of the female Sonali on foot.

  She came to the Renewal Center with an eye injury that matches the location of the dent of the rifle scope. I picture the assassination in my mind's eye again. As the rifle fires, the gun recoils, making the rifle site hit the assassin's eye area. She probably wiped the scope before she ran so DNA won’t match, but I have the information I need.

  Plus, my gut is telling me that I'm on the right track.

  I'll be honest, of all the parts of my job I enjoy, cornering someone at their domicile ranks in my top five. My adrenaline has me juiced—a delicious mix of anticipation and wariness flooding my veins, stirring up my nanites, too. I feel like I can fly and with my little pretties, I almost can.

  I creep up to the back of the house. There's no roof, but there is a deck-like platform. As a bonus, the bottom of it is hidden in dense foliage. I believe I’ve found my way inside.

  I blink my eyes to detect if she's got any alarms set. Nothing.

  Well, that’s interesting. Makes me wonder what she really does for a living. My safe house is just that—safe. Lots of early warning systems.

  Which makes me think she's not expecting company.

  Time to crash the party.

  My nanites re-coat the keratin of my nails with burred metal so I can grip the deck post. I start to climb, pulling up with my hands while my legs wrap around the post to keep me steady. When I reach the top, I plant my hands flat on the post top, straighten my legs up and go over in one swoop. The metal skin of my nails flakes off. It's temporary but effective.

  I blink my eyes scanning the interior for life forms.

  One.

  To my left is a clear door that leads from the deck I'm standing on into the interior. I edge over to peer through it into the house.

  Her back is to me. She's talking to someone over a comm. I slip inside, walking silently up behind her.

  "The kill shot was flawless," purrs a disembodied voice from the comm. I stop a few feet behind her, hovering.

  "It was not flawless," the Sonali woman says, agitated. "The weapon nearly knocked me unconscious! What kind of barbarians are these Terrans with such horrible weapons? And why did I not know what weapon we were going to be using? I barely had time to run—had I been found all of it would have been for naught."

  The Sonali woman is post-Ascension, but still young.

  I take a step toward her. 1, 2, 3—I pivot with my arms like a dance, grabbing the Sonali female by her shoulders, twisting and throwing her a few feet behind me. I know she'll only be distracted for a few moments, but I'm hoping that's all I need to figure out who’s on the other line.

  I blink to bring up my nanites. Time to do a hack job.

  "What was that noise? What happened?" says the voice. It's clearly Sonali, male, my guess definitely post-Ascension. My fingers start flying across the keys. I start tracing the signal.

  "So it's you..." says the voice on the comm. The call is terminated.

  Well, that was fucked. Whoever was on the other end recognized my signal output....how could—

  I don't even get to finish my thought because I'm suddenly lifted on air.

  I land on my side against a wall taking out a very expensive looking sculpture on my way down. The Sonali woman springs at me.

  I move before she reaches me then twist around and give her a boot to the back. She groans, but then quick flips, grabbing my boot and using it to push me back.

  I let the momentum carry me, feet over face until I pull myself, crouching on my knees.

  She's on the other side of the room, facing me.

  "Warrior Caste," she says, slapping a hand twice on her chest. I almost roll my eyes. No shit, I think to myself. I know I should be more respectful. I've been learning about the Sonali as part of my cover; the caste system is a big deal. It dictates so much of their lives. This woman is obviously proud of hers.

  That or she's just trying to intimidate me. When people try to do that I usually laugh—right before I take them out.

  Though in this case, I need her alive.

  I stand up, consider slapping my chest in response, but instead, I decide it's time to bring out the fancy footwork. I feint like I'm going to run to her then drop to my hands, somersaulting through the air between us—my feet connecting nicely with her face.

  Her jaw crunches as my boots land.

  Up close I see the swelling around her eye and the almost perfect circular cut between her eyebrow and eyelid where the scope hit. I bet they had to scrap bits of metal out at the Renewal center. I've got my hands on her shoulders when she surprises me by bringing her knee up into my stomach.

  "Ooof," I say, but I still manage to hold on to her knee with one hand, while the other goes for her face. Now she can have matching eye shiners. She snarls, swinging her fist into my throat.

  Then I realize her real target. My mask. Digging her nails in, she rips it off my head, taking some hair with it.

  She rolls away from me, smiling with my respirator in her hands. I crawl backwards. My scalp is bleeding a bit.

  She stands holding my mask like a war trophy.

  "Need this?" she says, dangling it at me.

  I start fake coughing as I crawl to her. Now she grins at me. I can tell she's savoring watching me struggle for breath on my knees. She thinks she's won, so she no longer sees me as a threat. Otherwise, she'd never allow me to get as close as I am now with her guard down.

  On my hands and knees, I stop in front of her but don't look up. With the hand not holding my respirator, she grabs a fistful of my hair yanking my head up.

  I give her my wicked "you're really fucked now" smile. I can see it shakes her a bit, but she's still confident that she's the one in control. Time to prove her wrong.

  I press down with my palms, balancing on one foot while my other leg wipes hers out under her. She goes down hard; my mask tumbles from her fingers. She's on her back, dazed. Now if she stays down we can talk like this, but I have a feeling she's going to keep fighting.

  Well, I'm right.

  She rocks up to a sitting position, then jumps to her feet. Her lip is bleeding, and both eyes are red, but she's still standing. Still ready to fight. She's also confused as she sees me stand opposite her, breathing normally, while my mask lays discarded where it fell.

  "How?" she asks. I just shake my head.

  "No, I'll be
the one asking the questions."

  She roars running and slamming into me flipping us both over the back of her couch. Glass breaks as we land on a small table. I twist away, sliding my hands across my lower back and abdomen. No cuts. Good.

  I see a spot of blood on the floor. It's blue. Another drop joins it.

  She stands over me, holding a piece of broken glass tight in her fist cutting into her flesh. She raises the shard, "Now you die."

  As her hand comes down, I remember a lesson I learned in one of my martial arts classes.

  The sensei had one of the trainees pretend to come at us holding his hands as though he was attacking with an ax. Each of us had a chance to show what area of the body we would attack to defend ourselves. We would face him as an opponent while the sensei and class watched.

  One after another we all tried different ways to defend ourselves, some with punches, others with kicks and each time our teacher would say our approach was wrong.

  "He's killed you, now what will you do?" he would say to yet another failed attempt.

  By the end of the class all of us had tried, some more than once, but none of us had successfully defended ourselves. We all looked confused. What was the right answer? Was there no answer?

  "What is the best defense when someone comes at you holding an ax?" asked the sensei. We stared at him and at each other. Hadn't we tried everything?

  "Watch," said sensei.

  The trainee raised his hands as though he held an ax and charged the sensei as he had done to us.

  Sensei did not get into a defensive posture. He did not appear concerned about the man rushing toward him with an "ax."

  We watched the trainee raise his arms up holding the "ax" above the sensei's head. Before he could bring the "ax" down the sensei gripped the arm holding the ax in both of his hands. The trainee was so stunned he just stood there, hands raised, uncertain what to do next.

  "Sit," said the sensei allowing the trainee to join us. "A person with a weapon is also a person with a weakness. Use that to your advantage. When a scorpion tries to sting you—grab it by the stinger! Then it is nothing more than an angry crab."

  That lesson from long ago could help me now. Her weapon is her weakness.

  I blink my eyes fast, hoping my nanites have time to knit the metal.

  Either way, it doesn't matter.

  I surge upward clasping my hands around hers squeezing. Now she's fucked.

  I have her hands locked down, and the weapon she thought she had is now cutting her even more.

  She's in pain, she's trapped, but she still wants to fight me or die trying.

  But I need her alive.

  "Lights out, sweetie." I bring my head down hard on hers. Her eyes roll up as she falls forward.

  I catch her limp body before it hits the floor. "You're going to have one hell of a headache when you wake up, but at least I'm going to let you wake up.” But before that happens, I need to tie her up.

  I lay her down on the couch.

  Time to get to work.

  Chapter 11

  No-One

  I’m working on a crossword puzzle on my pad when my Sonali “host” wakes up. It takes a few moments for her to realize that she’s tied up and gagged; trussed up on her own couch, no less. Knowing I could never get this bitch out of her building without being noticed, I had to opt to interrogate her in her own place. She wouldn’t be living here if she wasn’t satisfied that it’s secure. Is that her arrogance, or mere carelessness? Either way, my respect for the Sonali military caste goes down a notch.

  Funny how sometimes our choices can seem so right when we make them, only to blow up later in our faces. Her safe place has become my safe place, and she is no longer safe at all.

  She struggles against the bindings as I watch her with silent approval. I’d test them, too. I’m good with knots, though. Warrior or not, she isn’t going anywhere for a while. I set my pad aside and watch her, feeling slightly sorry.

  “Hi, cookie,” I say at last. “Sorry about the beating.” I look around. “Guess you’ll have to redecorate a little, too. But that’s why we have expense accounts, huh?” I squat down on the floor beside the couch and put a hand on her shoulder. “We might as well get started. I have a few things to ask you.”

  The look of hate in her eyes is unprofessional, and she must know that—because within two seconds it’s replaced by a cold, steady stare as she waits for me to begin questioning her. A normal person—someone who isn’t an agent—would probably miss it. But I can also sense her electrodermal response. Like sharks and other certain kinds of fish, I am sensitive to electric fields, having been equipped with nanites that have attached themselves to my organs—hence the hand on her shoulder. To her credit, she doesn’t flinch from my touch.

  The Sonali have a slightly higher electric output than human beings, which makes this easier for me to do. Fortunately, the Sonali emotional spectrum is similar enough to ours that I can “read” her.

  “I don’t think your jaw is broken; just fractured. So just nod for yes, and shake your head for no, okay?” She stares at me without responding.

  Alright.

  “You’re in a lot of trouble,” I say conversationally. “I have personally taken some heat because of you, and I don’t appreciate that. I stand to benefit by turning you in.” The stare doesn’t change. “If you’re wondering how I was able to track you down, well, it was simply a matter of going through hospital records to find a patient with your type of eye injury. Nice shiner, by the way. I gave you another one to match it.”

  The cold stare has gotten a little warmer as she momentarily stirs some hate into the mix. Then it cools down again. This one’s good.

  Not good enough, though.

  I nod toward the small valise sitting by the door. “I see you’re planning a little trip,” I say. “I would, too. You’re from the military, yet you killed another member of your caste. Interesting. The deal is, you answer some questions, and I give you enough lead time to get out of town before the authorities track you down.”

  She nods. Ah, we’re getting somewhere. And I can tell from the shift in her electrical field that she is frightened. It doesn’t show on her face, but her electrodermal activity isn’t under her conscious control.

  What’s funny is, she thinks she knows where this is going. And she thinks she can trick me.

  Now she shifts uncomfortably on the couch and gives me an imploring look.

  “What’s up, cookie?” I ask. “Have to pee? Well, that’s going to have to wait until I’m satisfied with what you tell me.”

  Now she shakes her head.

  “Something to drink, maybe?” I ask. This time she nods. “Promise to be a good girl and not scream if I take the gag off?”

  Another nod.

  “Because I can hurt you bad pretty fast if you give me any shit.”

  Another nod.

  So I loosen the gag. She blows out a breath, and I can smell her nervousness on her breath.

  “Who are you?” she asks as I get up to fetch some water from her kitchenette.

  “Let’s just say we’re in the same line of work,” I say, tipping a glass to her lips. She swallows greedily. Guess she really was thirsty. “All I want is for you to tell me who you’re working for.”

  Now she shakes her head. “I don’t even know. I got notices on my pad on where to pick up assignments. I never actually met anyone. Money gets wired into a special account.” She looks at me. “That’s all I know.”

  I look her in the eyes. According to her EDA, she’s lying.

  “Nice story,” I say. “Now let’s hear the true version.”

  Her eyes shift, up and to her right, then back to me.

  “All right,” she says with reluctance. “Here’s what happened.”

  I sigh. She’s getting ready to lie again. I would know that even if I couldn’t read her EDA. I know from the eye injury that she is right-handed...it’s her right eye that was hurt by the scope whi
le she was peering through it. My neuro-linguistic training has taught me that when right-handed people look up to their right, they’re likely to be visualizing a "constructed" scenario: a falsehood, a lie.

  She’s good, but her own neurology betrays her. However, there is a simple way to convince her not to waste my time. I take her right hand, which is still constrained by the bindings around her wrist, and break her little finger.

  She really is good; she doesn’t scream. But a tear forms in her right eye and trickles down her cheek. I say, “I can keep this up for a while until you run out of fingers. And toes, maybe.”

  “You—” and she uses a Sonalian word with which I am familiar, j’hondlsh: a primitive, self-fertilizing organism common in the planet’s seas, regarded as repulsive. Needless to say, it’s not a flattering or affectionate term.

  “Now, now,” I say. “Language.” She squirms in anger and frustration.

  Which is what she wants me to think. All this while, I pretend not to notice that she is loosening her bonds, bit by bit, every time she moves. The point of this inquiry is not to get answers; I know she won’t give me anything. She’s a Sonali—she’ll die before she talks—I know this. She knows I know this, and she’s now thinking I’m a sadist, tormenting her purely for my own gratification. This is not true, but I don’t mind her thinking it. The pain will prevent her mind from working with its usual clarity.

  What I want here is for her to lead me to whoever is providing her with her assignments. In the normal course of events, she’d be too sly, too alert to possible tails. Her bolt-hole has proven to be compromised, which (I am betting) means that the only other place she’ll feel safe in is with her handler. I want her to escape—but I don’t dare make it easy for her, or she’ll tumble to my scheme.

  “Woman to woman,” I say, “I don’t get any pleasure out of this. Honestly. It’s just business. You’d be doing the same to me if you could.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “I probably would.”

  No lie, this time. I pretend to relax. “Do you want more water?” I ask.

  “You know, I think I do.” She leans forward, ostensibly to pooch out her lips for the water I am offering, but I sense her tension rising and I know she’s ready to make her move. I lean over, and several things happen at once.