Homefront

by Trevor Wyatt

  I relax into one of the benches, wondering what’s next. I think I’ve untangled the conspiracy. The man responsible for the death of the Noble Yanik and the mastermind behind the entire conspiracy is lying unconscious before me. That ought to be the end.

  Nevertheless, I can’t shake off the feeling that I may be missing something. I have taught myself to always depend on that feeling, whenever it presents itself because I have found that it was always right.

  But what could I be missing?

  I stretch my legs and kick away some of the rubble. I look up and around. The architecture in this room is quite exquisite. The sharp angles seem to sing and connote something extraterrestrial and spiritual.

  I’ve never really been a spiritual person. Religion hasn’t really been much of a driving force in humanity ever since the end of the Third World War. It’s something about blowing up untold masses of people in a nuclear fire that made people turn away from an all-powerful deity. There are pockets of it. And it’s growing. But First Contact and the Earth-Sonali War may have changed that forever.

  Besides, I never really did like anything I couldn’t feel, touch and see. Spirituality required a lot of make belief and faith than I was ready to believe. Joining the Armada Intelligence Service only made me more suspicious of the otherworldly realm.

  My belief is simple. While you’re in the world—this physical plain—make the most of it. Even if there were an afterlife, what makes you think you’d do better there if you didn’t do well here? Perhaps, maybe doing well here was the determinant of if you even had an afterlife.

  Personally, I believe that death is it. That’s the final button. There’s no other door and the end of that hallway. The moment you die, you die. No life after death for death is the absolute cessation of life. And death is the end of all things, including existence and the universe at the Big Crunch.

  Religion, nevertheless, is a good thing. The universe can be a very cruel place. It can be very wicked and twistedly evil. People needed to believe in something other than the vanity that seems to pervade many worlds. People needed hope, even if it is falsely veiled. Religion provides that veil, and as far as this provision is concerned, Religion is good.

  Religion, however, can be so powerful that it forgives the most unforgivable of acts. In the early twentieth century of human evolution, some of the most terrible offenses were conducted by religious extremists. Alas, this problem is not limited to humankind.

  Through the dimness, I can see Szaad’s form in the rubble. As I stare at him, I see the same vicious cycle that runs in the many worlds that have a sacred religion that’s beyond the influence of a government.

  High Cleric Szaad, who is supposed to be the light to the faithful of the Sonali religion has himself yielded to the elixir of power that corrupts and has taken upon himself the responsibilities of God to destroy the Temple. I know if he’s questioned, his defense would be that he heard it from God.

  I may be skeptical about religion. I am not, however, skeptical about god. Simply because there is no god. There is only science and technology…and power. We are the gods. We determine what happens in the universe. We take full responsibility for our actions. Us, not some God somewhere.

  I heave a deep sigh and crane my neck to look all the way to the back. The stone door leading into the main worship hall was destroyed in the firefight. I call up my nanites and use them to zoom in so that I am now looking through the corridor that leads to the landing of the stairs. It’s deserted.

  “Computer, check the building’s statue, will you?” I say aloud, my voice echoing back to me.

  “Complying…” comes the computer’s reply in my ears.

  “The Temple has been evacuated,” the computer replies. “You are currently the only inhabitant of the Sacred Temple of the Holy Combine.”

  I know I told them to leave the main worship hall. I didn’t realize they’d leave me all by myself. It would be sadly self-centered of the Sonali if it wasn’t so damn hilarious. They probably figured Terrans should die trying to clean up the mess made by a Sonali. Well, guess what? Right back at them. Ha!

  “Computer, what’s the status of the integrity of the Temple?” I ask.

  “Checking…”

  “While you’re doing that, connect me to Armada Intelligence Operations Command via remote slipstream for an emergency status update meeting. I want to talk to the Director himself.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Seconds later, I hear, “The Temple is structurally sound. The blast did not damage any of the foundational structure. I should inform you that the cops have set up a one-kilometer wide perimeter around the Temple.”

  “Are they planning on moving in?” I ask.

  “Not yet,” the computer replies. “They have orders to only prevent people from going in until you die in the collapse of the Temple or come out a hero.”

  “I like the sound of coming out a hero,” I say with a smile.

  “Live slipstream link to the Director of Terran Armada Intelligence Service Operations Command, Admiral Shane Pierce has been established. Please activate your portable holographic device.”

  I pull out a small cube from my pocket, walk about three yards away and set the thing on the nearest stable pile of rubble.

  I return back to my seat and say, “Put him through.”

  A thin blue light shoots out of the cube before spreading in all directions to form the projection of a conference room.

  Sitting at the head of the table is Admiral Shane, a muscular man in a boxy face and a charming spray of white hair. He’s in his mid-fifties and has a distinguishing career in Intelligence. There are a couple of other agents—all in the top management of TAISOC. The cube projects in such a way that I’m right at the other end of the conference room, which is unfilled in the projection.

  Admiral Shane, who is now able to see my surrounding, looks surprised.

  “Are you well, No One?” he asks.

  “Well as can be, sir,” I reply.

  “What’s your location?” he asks.

  “I’m currently in the Temple of the Sacred Combine,” I reply. “It’s like the Holy of Holies of the Sonali. It is strictly forbidden for a non-Sonali to come upon its grounds, talk less of walking its main worship hall.”

  “And you are there how?” he asks.

  “By trying to save their sorry asses is how, boss,” I reply.

  “Is it safe to talk?” he asks. “Aren’t there people lurking around?”

  “Computer says I’m the only one around,” I say.

  Satisfied with the initial round of questions, the TAISOC director says, “Okay, go ahead and tell us what’s happened.”

  “So, you all know about the Origin Movement and the Pro-Ascension opposition?” I start. “Well, it turns out that the High Cleric of the Temple is not so concerned about the cultural differences than he is about Terrans.

  “His plan was to blow up the Temple with a supposedly Terran manufactured and planted device. The plan was to blame the Terrans for bombing the most sacred building in Sonali and therefore spark an outrage against us, thereby seeing diplomatic ties severed and a possible regress back into a state of war.”

  I let all the information I’ve just given them sink. I see someone in the background take notes on a tablet, while others nod, mauling over what I told them.

  “Why would he want such a thing?” Admiral Shane asks. “We haven’t influenced them in any way. We aren’t stopping them from being who they are. We certainly aren’t coming to their worlds and taking their jobs like they are coming to ours and causing all sorts of troubles for us. No One, you should remember Lucien Parker, you’re the one who brought him down.”

  I nod my acquiescence. “You’re wrong sir,” I say.

  “How so?” Admiral Shane asks, without taking any offense at my impudence. Well, we go way back.

  “The Origin Movement is basically inspired by us,” I say.

  “I didn’t know we could
inspire such a movement,” says one of the members in the room.

  Everyone laughs, I included.

  “Well, we did,” I continue. “The Terran Union. Humanity.”

  Admiral Shane looks at me as I continue.

  “Our entire culture is built on free will and self-determination, and it flies right in the face of Ascension for the Sonali. We let our people choose what they want to do with their lives, including how they wish to live it. We don’t judge based on personal decisions a person makes. The idea is anathema to the traditionalist Sonali, but it’s something that the younger generation is latching on to.”

  “And the best way he thought to stop us is to destroy his temple and pin it on us?” Shane asks incredulously.

  I nod.

  “Well, that’s just bad,” he replies. “Was it a suicide bombing attempt or was he planning on getting away?”

  “I’m not sure, sir,” I reply. “I caught him in the act of setting the bomb to go off. By the time I accosted him, he started firing on me. I can’t be sure he had an escape route.”

  “Was there a timer?” asks another person.

  “Yes,” I reply before I realize the reason for the question.

  “That’s your answer, Commander,” Admiral Shane says. “He planned to escape. If not, he’d have just detonated the blasted thing, giving his life in the process and letting the authorities pick the remnants and body parts and figure that it was the Terrans who did it.”

  I think about it for a moment.

  “I suppose so, sir,” I accede. “In the heat of the moment, I didn’t have time to think through his future plans. He had a rifle, and I had a pistol.”

  “You’re an excellent agent, No One,” Admiral Shane says. “Nobody is disputing that. We just need you to know that this might not be over. Hell, it may actually be very far from completion.”

  And as though to support his point, my computer quips in my ears. It’s the kind that means there’s an emergency somewhere. It only really happened during the war. It’s the kind I have to respond to even if I’m in the President’s office or in the arms of my lover.

  “Put meeting on hold,” I subvocalize and the projection freezes.

  “Computer, go ahead,” I say.

  “Reports coming in indicate that all over the Capital Grid,” the calm voice says to me. “Alert level Alpha. Native population is displaying signs of en masse asphyxiation...”

  Well, there’s just one word to describe this day.

  Shitty.

  Chapter 24

  Master Merchant Byuren

  “It’s almost over,” I mutter to myself.

  I am right in the control center of one of my fleet of merchant vessels. We are orbiting Sonali Prime and have just received permission to enter the atmosphere. Such permission is rarely given to large merchant ships. Large ships are relegated to the dockyards orbiting Sonali Prime. Small ships are able to land on the land-based docks on the surface.

  Small ships like the Terran agricultural ship. So central to my plans.

  However, true to his word, High Cleric Szaad succeeded in getting me the permission I needed to fly my large merchant ship into the homeworld, maintain a high altitude above all air lanes across the Capital Grid to one of the mining facilities on the other side of Sonali Prime, where I’m supposedly going to pick up a massive quantity of ore to sell to the Tyreesians on behalf of my company and the Sonali government.

  This is what the official logs say, for which Szaad and I signed.

  However, Szaad and I planned for the mission to go sideways. The vessel is supposed to be hijacked by a group of Terran Nationalists just after it’s been cleared for re-entry. Then it’s supposed to drive its way into the Capital Grid and smash into the densest populated area, where hundreds of thousands of Sonali will die.

  This was the plan up until three minutes ago when I received notification that High Cleric Szaad had been found and a Terran lady was about to take him out.

  Good thing we also built a contingency.

  And it’s my job to carry out that contingency.

  The plan? Kill everyone.

  I am alone in the vessel, and I am the only one who understands what needs to be done. I alone understand that except a statement is made the arguments would just keep on rolling out of the mouths of the unlearned and untaught. The argument that the Terran scourge is anything but a scourge.

  The Sonali race was never meant to born side by side with any race, especially not the Terrans. We are superior to them. Oh, vastly superior. Now, the blasted government and military that lost the war have us serving them. This is not the design of things.

  I remember once when we would meet a species for the first time. Our tests that determine their worthiness would dictate just how superior we were. Because Sonali are always superior—in every way. I remember going over the logs of how we responded to The Seeker and its captain, Jeryl Montgomery. How he quaked in his boots at the superiority of our vessels and the inferiority of his.

  Those were the days when we were truly completely Sonali, not these days where we have been corrupted by the Terran. Not these days when our children have become unnatural to the extent of even dreaming of changing a biological and spiritual process that predates spacefaring. Not these days that the brutal laissez-faire Terran Union corporations are making short works of Sonali businesses, including mine, and putting us out of business.

  The spread of Terran culture is a blight on our society. It has to end. Terrans have to be really seen for who they are. If it takes the death of the entire population of Sonali Prime to see it, then so be it. We will repopulate. We will grow. And we will be stronger again.

  “Merchant Vessel MMB 012, you are cleared for departure and atmospheric entry,” says a voice over the comms.

  “Roger that,” I reply.

  The magnetic clamps disengage, and the vessel is let loose in space. I engage the thrusters, guiding the ship away from the space dock towards the planet.

  “Computer, set course for the Industrial Layout,” I say.

  “Be advised,” the computer replies, “the approved flight plan does not pass over the Industrial Layout. Shall I contact the Docks Authorities to request a change in flight plan?”

  “Negative,” I say. “Just take me there.”

  The vessel pierces through the atmosphere and before long we are accelerating under the gravitational pull of the planet.

  The strap of the captain’s chair holds me still, though digging into my skin. The ship’s main engines come online as soon as we are in the lower atmosphere. With a jerk, our free fall is arrested. The computer plots the course, and we begin towards the Industrial Layout.

  “Computer, check our cargo’s structural integrity.”

  “Checking…” After a few seconds, “Terraformer is structurally intact. Ready for drop down activation.”

  “Okay, standby,” I say, remembering the pain it took to get this infernal device. Anyone who doubts how godless and deserving of death the Terrans only need to look at their terraforming technology. They take nature’s creation—the way it was supposed to be according to The Way. And they change it. Entire worlds are changed. To suit the Terrans. Atmospheres are changed. Mineral composition is changed.

  It’s worthy of extinction of their race.

  And they shall all die once their evil weapons are exposed to the galaxy.

  We’ve planned this for a while. I think back to how I had gotten my hands on Terran bombs. I had gotten information from a space pirate of some world near the Terran’s border with the Outer Colonies that the Terran explorers had failed to terraform. The space pirate had also told me that the Terrans had abandoned most of their medium to light ordnance because it was damaged. Their plan, however, was to come back for the weapons later. They just never did.

  I immediately assembled a team to go steal it. The space pirate had glossed over the important fact that there was a small ten-man outpost on the planet. My team dispat
ched of the Terrans quickly, though had lost one Sonali. They brought the stolen piece of ordnance aboard this vessel, where we spent the better part of one month fixing for eventual use.

  Then we used it on the land-based docks. My security clearance had gotten us the cover to plant the Terran bombs. Sonali police forces—though dimwitted—were able to see the clues we left. They did exactly as we wanted, locking down all vessels and allowing us access to their cargo. This gave us the chance to “borrow” the terraformer and bring it aboard as well.

  The hope was never to use it. But should the eventuality arise, we wanted to be ready.

  It appears this eventuality is around the corner.

  “Computer, how long to the layout?” I ask.

  “One minute,” the computer replies.

  “Why am I not getting hails from the authorities?” I ask. “Are we yet to deviate from our laid out course?”

  “We have sir,” the computer replies, “But it appears the police officers are all focused on some incident on the Sacred Temple. No one is looking at you.”

  “Great,” I reply, “But we will still need a distraction. Get ready to self-destruct.”

  “Complying,” the computer says. “Self-destruct in five minutes.”

  “I unstrap myself and hightail it out of the control center. I make my way to the main entrance bay. In one of the racks is a breather, which I grab in one hand.

  “Sir, we are getting a transmission from space dock,” the computer says over the overhead speakers, “they want to know why we have deviated from our charted course.”

  “Ignore them,” I say and get ready to release the Terraformer the moment we are flying over the Industrial Layout. I want the terraform in the epicenter of the layout. Otherwise I will not be able to achieve total perfusion of the terraformer’s activity.”

  “Affirmative,” the computer replies.

  The terraformer is a massive piece of technology that occupies the central hold of the haulage vessel. It occupies the entire hold, which is about the size of a stadium.