The Alien's Secret Volume 2. Robert M. Doroghazi
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blinked and shook his head. That was almost three decades ago and he still felt like he was sitting next to his grandmother on the piano bench. Sometimes it takes a long time for kids to really appreciate how smart their parents and grandparents are, but later is better than never.
Hoken locked the seat into place. He took a deep breath, nodded, and said, “Computer, initiate rifle practice sequence at zero-point-six normal speed.”
Outside the sleek Gunslinger, it was silent, blacker than the deepest, darkest coal mine with the lights off, two hundred degrees colder than a July midnight in Antarctica and the closest microbe of life almost a billion kilometers away on Comet Arp-115. All Hoken could see was the twinkling of an uncountable number of stars. Even the magnificent Rankin Cube had long passed from his view.
Then suddenly, quicker than a fly can blink its six thousand eyes, the inside of the tiny fighter came alive. The exact scene of where the ambush would take place on Earth was recreated as accurately as possible.
The time of day was just after noon. The sun was almost straight up, making the shadows short, even close to the tallest buildings. Hoken would always be in the shade but Rennedee never would be; an important advantage, as things moving from light to dark or vice versa can be difficult or almost impossible to follow. Scattered white cumulus clouds, a few streaked almost with the colors of the rainbow, dimmed the sun hardly at all.
The clouds made Hoken think of a question, but it could wait until the end of the session. He was in the mood to get started; he didn’t want to interrupt his train of thought.
During the sessions, the weather conditions were changed at random, an average of three times per session, approximating the various conditions on Earth: 14.4° C., wind at 3 kph from the west; 18.1° C., wind of 6-8 kph from the northwest, and light rain, temperature of 15° C. with wind gusts up to 35 kph.
There were the routine Earth city background noises: cars starting and stopping, with an occasional screech of a tire or a horn blasting away from an irate motorist who had just been cut off. There was the unmistakable (but new to Hoken), intermittent wooo-wooo of the train whistle coming from an orange-red diesel locomotive with KATY spelled out in red letters on a golden background on its side, chugging along the railroad tracks just a few blocks away. Birds, including sparrows, starlings, blackbirds, blue jays, and of course the king of all big city buildings, the dappled gray, dark-green, light-green, and blue freckled pigeons, were making their living—and leaving the results—from the scraps dropped or sometimes fed to them by the crowd.
In the park across the street, a mutt-looking dog started barking and ran for a gray squirrel that was digging a hole to deposit an acorn for the fast-approaching winter. Quicker than the eye could see, the squirrel stuck the acorn between its front teeth and was up the nearest tree. By the time the howling pooch got to the base of the oak, the squirrel was on the lowest branch having a snack. With a teasing, taunting arrogance, the arboreal rodent let some pieces of the shell shower down on the still-barking, increasingly-irritated dog.
Many of the people in the crowd were talking. In one of those things that everyone sees one time or another yet no one can explain, Hoken looked at one of the people in the crowd and could actually appreciate what they were saying through the cacophony of the background noise. “I sure hope he gets here soon, because I really have to go to the bathroom.”
Hoken chuckled to himself, Is there anything that Ribbert and the boys haven’t thought of?
Hoken would have plenty of warning to know when Rennedee was about to enter into view on his left. Rennedee’s vehicle would be preceded by other vehicles and various local police and his personal bodyguards. Hoken would watch the crowd, which numbered hundreds, or maybe even several thousand, because they could see Rennedee before he could. There would be an obvious sense of anticipation and excitement, as the cheers and hoots and even loud whistles made their way like a wave through the onlookers to herald his imminent presence. There were police sirens, flashing lights, a car honking, even a few transistor radios. Some men took off their hats to wave; a few women used their hankies. One boy about eight or nine years old said with obvious excitement, “Look Mom! Is it really him? Yeah, it is. I can see him. Wow! Too bad Dad’s not here. I can’t wait to tell him at supper tonight.”
Rennedee’s vehicle had just come into view. As it took a right turn, Hoken wrapped the gun strap snuggly around his left forearm, put his right cheek loosely up to the rifle stock, and sighted through the scope. Of the scores of people in the entire expanse of the scope, Rennedee was the only person surrounded by that almost beautiful, luscious apple-green glow.
Target acquired.
In one sweeping motion, Hoken flipped off the safety, turned to his right, and draped his body and the rifle over the boxes. With the stability provided by the sling and the boxes, control of the weapon was rock-solid. The barrel of the rifle would be just over the windowsill, pointing downward and to the right. Only now would the weapon be visible to anyone on the street, and they would have to be far away. Someone close to the building wouldn’t have the right angle. In any regard, all eyes would be at street-level looking at Rennedee; no one would be looking up at Hoken. But by then it wouldn’t matter. It would be too late. By this time no one could react quickly enough to stop Hoken from completing his mission.
Hoken took in a barely audible breath and held it. As for marksmen all over the Universe, both eyes were open (except for species such as the Ateplarians, who don’t have convergent vision). Hoken had already aimed the rifle to the exact spot he knew Rennedee would be in less than two seconds. He looked through the sight. Also as a good soldier, only now did he put his finger on the trigger, when he was ready to fire. Rennedee’s image, surrounded by the green glow, was now in the scope. The smart bullets were programmed to lock on target in 0.05 seconds or less. Hoken squeezed off the first round. BOOM.
Another tremendous advantage the Orians gave Hoken was the that the stock of the rifle was actually a synthetic rubber/plastic-like material to absorb the shock. Instead of having to deal with the kick of the rifle, it didn’t move a millimeter, more like shooting a pop-gun or the light pistols used for video games than a high-powered rifle. Hoken could chamber the next round while the target never left the scope, his gaze never left the target, and the next smart bullet already locked on target.
Click-click. Spent casing ejected. Click-click. Second round chambered. The computer even simulated that metallic tinkle sound as the phantom spent brass casing hit the floor.
Rennedee already back in the crosshairs. Smart bullets locked on target. BOOM.
Click-click. Click-click. BOOM.
Hoken leaned back and took a breath.
“You are making nice improvement, Major,” said the computer in what Hoken thought was almost an encouraging tone. “Three direct hits in 10.6 seconds.”
Because Orian particle weapons produced little to no sound, on the first practice sequence of every session the simulator produced the full “kaboom” of a high-powered rifle so Hoken would know what to expect. To save his ears the pounding, the sound was muffled for the remainder of the practice session.
“Computer, initiate next practice sequence in ten seconds.” Hoken looked to the right, then slowly to the left, then back over his shoulder at the dashboard with one of those glances not intended to see anything although sometimes it unconsciously does. He took a breath and let it out.
The crowds were again cheering. Rennedee had just come into view on Hoken’s left.
Hoken could complete almost one practice sequence a minute, with each session a little different. The only scenario the team hadn’t figured out yet was if there was a heavy rain at the appointed time. That would be a tough one, most of all because Rennedee probably wouldn’t be in the open. But they were working on it.
Problems, interruptions, or just nuisances were introduced at random. The smells of auto exhaust, cigarette smoke or even garbage—all unknown on Oria during Hoken’s lifetime—came and went. There were flies and mosquitoes. What if, just as Hoken was ready to pull the trigger, a bug would land on his forehead or nose or touch an eyelash and cause