Читать книгу The Alien's Secret Volume 2 - Robert M. Doroghazi - Страница 4

A little more than three hours down, with five days, give or take one day or maybe even more, and about 200 trillion kilometers, to go to Earth. The Gunslinger was no longer receiving the energy boost from the Rankin Cube. Its job done far beyond everyone’s wildest expectations, the energy receptor panel folded silently back down, barely breaking the outline of the top of the fuselage, a subtle ridge barely more than a dimple on the top of the ship.

Hoken had never spent any time in the cockpit of a warplane, but he was already starting to feel comfortable and get settled in. The adrenaline rush of the seemingly long-past takeoff had faded away. Things were running smoothly; which was exactly how he liked it.

Hoken had made a nice start on his preparation for the mission before takeoff, but like all hard-working, conscientious over-achievers, he was ready to push on and get started. There was a lot more to learn.

“Computer, display my schedule for the next six hours.”

Hoken looked down. He was surprised, then actually a little disappointed, with the first thing on the list: “Optional one hour sleep period.”

Hoken shook his head. He was thinking about a lot of things, and sleep wasn’t one of them. If it’s optional, he thought, that means it’s optional, and I don’t need it. He did feel a little tired, and actually a little sleepy, but this was the most important mission of his life, so he fought the urge.

Just then, Colonel Hasemereme’s voice came over the speaker. “Major, your schedule says ‘optional sleep period.’ ”

Amazing, thought Hoken, it’s like he’s reading my mind. “I just pulled up my schedule, Sir. I see that.” With a very slight sharpness, almost a tone of protest, Hoken said, “But I feel fine. I have a lot to do. I’d like to go straight to the first work session and start on my English.”

“Nice try, Major,” said Hasemereme with almost a chuckle. “But you know one of the things we’re monitoring is your EEG, your brain waves, and the Duelloh waves say you’re really getting sleepy.”

Hoken was impressed. They could read his mind—almost, but close enough. Was there anything he couldn’t hide? But he wasn’t about to show any weakness and admit he was even a little sleepy. “Colonel, I feel—”

Atos interrupted. “Major, you’ve been up for thirty-two hours and you’ve accomplished a lot, everything that’s been expected of you and more. I’ve been up for thirty-five hours. I’m not really sleepy, but keeping on focus is getting a little more difficult. I must admit, I’m ready for a break.”

Hasemereme continued right on without interruption. “I didn’t even have to discuss this with General Ribbert. Just a few minutes ago he told me that you need to sleep. We feel the next hour can be put to best use by both of us getting a little rest. You can study English while you sleep. Put on the nasal cannula, the sleep learning device, and just close your eyes. The computer will awaken you in exactly one hour.”

“Yes, Sir,” replied Hoken, knowing deep down that Hasemereme was right, and also knowing that he got him to admit first that he was tired before Hoken said he was.

Hoken had so much to learn during the trip; his time had been scheduled to the minute. There were three main areas of focus. About half of the time he was awake, and almost all while he was asleep, would be spent learning English. If this went well, there would be a few sessions on customs, then current events, politics, and history. Even though he would do everything possible on Earth to keep personal contact to a minimum, he still had to be able to move around without raising suspicion. He had to learn enough in a week to become a functioning member of society.

He was going to the United States of America, the most prosperous and powerful country on Earth, so he had to know English. When the Orian military linguists began to study English, they were impressed with its logic, grace, and simplicity. They were able to quickly devise a program that would allow Hoken to master the language in the time required.

The Orians also had another advantage, and it was a really big one, that made this quick, intensive study possible; the Orian brain is hard-wired for language much differently, and in this case, much better than the human brain. If an Earthling isn’t introduced to a language by about age seven or eight, they will always have at least a slight, telltale accent. It’s like a tattoo on their speech; you can rub and scrape, but no matter how hard you try, you just can’t get rid of it. Orians can learn a language at any age with perfect syntax, and without an accent; just like they might learn a trade or how to swim or how to play an instrument.

But for Hoken and for this mission, the task was even greater. He must be fluent not only in English, but also basic conversational Russian. The human that Hoken would possess spoke Russian. The goal was to learn enough to carry on a basic conversation. There certainly wasn’t enough time to learn the Cyrillic alphabet. He didn’t need to be able to read Tolstoy or Dostoevsky in the original.(Who would want to anyway?) He just needed to know enough to get by.

About a third of Hoken’s waking time would be spent mastering the use of the rifle, rehearsing over and over—and over—and over and over, more than a thousand times, that fifteen-second sequence from when Rennedee came into view until he got off three perfect shots. The real winners can visualize victory long before they cross the finish line.

The rest of the time would be spent on the plan itself: how to get to the Earth’s surface, where to land, how to get to the boarding house, the layout of the boarding house and the workplace, the people he would meet, how to avoid problems with the authorities, and all of the backup options if things didn’t proceed as planned. If time permitted, he’d even learn a few more practical things that everyone on Earth took for granted, such as how to buy something at a store, how to hail a taxi, or make a call on the telephone. Less common skills, too: like how to use naphtha or fertilizer or gasoline to make an explosive, or how to hotwire a car.

The rifle practice sessions and all of the study sessions were exactly fifty minutes long. With the notable exception of Mator, fifty minutes was the effective attention span of Orians, including Hoken. It’s not like they all had ADD, but the mind can only take and understand so much at one time. The five to ten minute breaks would be to eat, perform personal hygiene, or to do anything that didn’t require concentration—such as catching up on the scores of the Wreckers, (his favorite sports team), or even to just daydream—anything to give the mind a rest, to get it ready for the next study or practice session.

Sleep was restricted to four hours every twenty-four hour period. Toward the end of the trip, the sleep schedule would be adjusted to coincide with night and day in the locale he would land on Earth. Considering the relatively short duration of the flight, and the sleep enhancers and improved sleep efficiency, this would be quite enough. Although the schedule might seem a little intense, it really wasn’t. It certainly wasn’t out of the ordinary for a soldier during a time of crisis. A week without sleep was part of the final test to make the Star Rangers.

Everyone agreed that one intense, twenty minute exercise period every twenty-four hours was enough. Hoken was already in marvelous condition. The goal was to maintain strength and agility, cardiovascular tone, and autonomic reflexes. But even that wouldn’t be dead time; Hoken would count the one-handed push-ups in English and maybe even Russian.

The illumination inside the cabin automatically increased as Hoken awakened on schedule. He took off the nasal cannula, blinked a few times, and looked around. He admitted to himself that General Ribbert and Colonel Hasemereme were right. He could tell the difference; he felt much better. Sometimes, especially when it comes on slowly, you can only appreciate how bad you felt after you feel better.

“Computer, replay any messages stored while I was asleep,” said Hoken as he took a sip of water and unwrapped a food bar.

“My database was up updated, but no messages for you, Sir.”

Hoken’s schedule was always on display just below the ship’s clock. But he didn’t need to look; he knew it was time to practice with the rifle. The inside of the fighter had undergone extensive modifications. The controls for all the standard weapons save the one lepton cannon had been removed, with the space now available to store the extra food and water, and the clothes and other things Hoken would need on Earth.

The virtual target-practice range took up what was previously the area of the co-pilot’s seat and controls. But the roof of the craft couldn’t be modified; it was barely a half-meter above his head. If Hoken sat straight up, arched his back, extended his neck and then bounced in his seat, his head just scraped the cockpit canopy. It was impossible to stand up. There was barely even room to put his arms over his head. It was a tight fit all around.

Hoken moved the seat back, tucked his knees up to his chest, spun around to face backwards, and locked the seat into place with a click that would become so familiar. As he reached for the practice rifle, he said, “Computer, initiate practice sequence.”

Rennedee would occupy the body of an Earthling who was important and prominent enough that the Orian military already knew his schedule. After examining almost five hundred options, they had decided on how and where Hoken would wait in ambush. It had to be within a reasonable distance for at least three good, clean accurate shots, yet it must be isolated enough, and provide good cover, to give Hoken enough time, (at least fifteen to thirty minutes), to prepare and lay in wait without being discovered or hopefully even disturbed.

Rennedee wouldn’t just appear. Instead, there would multiple signs that his approach was imminent. The lead time from when Rennedee came into view on Hoken’s left until the first shot would be about fifteen seconds. Hoken would be in a building looking out a window, sitting on a box or stool. While he waited, he would be holding the rifle straight up with his right hand, resting the butt on his upper thigh, so that it was hidden behind his body, minimizing the exposure of the weapon from any prying eyes. He would then drape his upper body, arms, and the rifle over some boxes or crates for support, to aim down over the ledge at Rennedee as he drove by on the street.

The target would initially come into view some distance off, about 150 meters, on Hoken’s left, take an immediate right turn, and then come straight toward him. This would provide only enough time for one shot, clearly not adequate to ensure success. Furthermore, it is extremely awkward to shoot at something coming at your feet.

Rennedee would then pass about twenty meters almost directly below and in front of Hoken, and then move slowly off to his right. This was clearly the best time for the ambush. Rennedee would be in a vehicle, but because of all the turns and his desire to be well seen and relate to the crowd, he would be moving slowly, only about eighteen to twenty kph. With Hoken above Rennedee, and the 3 percent or so decline in the street, there would be several seconds when Rennedee would appear almost motionless in the 4x scope of Hoken’s rifle.

The conditions for the first shot would be so favorable that you didn’t have to be a William Tell or Annie Oakley to score a bull’s eye. It would be a pretty easy target for any Earthman who was even a reasonably good shot using standard Earth weapons, such as an experienced hunter, or policeman, or soldier. For a superbly-trained soldier such as Hoken—who had sharpened his aim and technique with thousands of practice shots, using a high-powered rifle that had been engineered to deliver no kickback (so the target never left the scope while he was ejecting the spent casing and chambering the next round), and utilizing smart bullets that self-directed to the target—there was an almost 100 percent chance that the first shot would score and a 98-99 percent chance that the second shot would score. Kind of like “shooting tatlons on a gazone” as they would say on Auric.

The chances of a hit on the third shot were a little more problematic, a little harder to handicap, a real-life example of Bott’s Theorem: the pre-event parameters had changed. Rennedee would be farther away, he might be traveling faster, and he would be angling off to the right. By the time he was squeezing off the third shot, about six to eight seconds after the first, Hoken would have lost the element of surprise. He might even be facing counter-measures, such as return fire from Rennedee’s bodyguards or law enforcement officials, or even a bystander who had seen action in a recent war, or even someone like a real-life Clark Kent or Walter Mitty, (who just had dreams of being a hero), might jump in.

Hoken had to get into the right frame of mind for the practice sessions—concentrate—no stray thoughts. He couldn’t be thinking about girls, or whether his favorite sports team, the Wreckers, had won or lost last night. This was serious stuff; you have to get psyched up, you have to practice just as hard as for the real thing.

Hoken was on the most important mission of his life, but whenever he had to practice anything he thought of taking piano lessons from his grandmother. “This is how the professional musicians practice, honey,” she would say. “When you perform, the final result has to be perfect. Anything less is a failure. There won’t be a second chance.

“Discipline is the key,” she would say with one of those grandmother looks that means you need to remember this forever. “Slow at first until correct,” as she played the solfège scale. “If it isn’t right, then you go even slower until it is right. Then slightly faster, but never increasing speed until you can play it perfectly many times over. A mistake is a mistake.”

Hoken smiled and nodded his head. He almost said it out loud in the cabin: “A mistake is a mistake.”

Then she’d say, “Metronome, one hundred beats per minute.”

Hoken thought he could still actually hear the “tic-tic-tic-tic-tic.” “You can’t cheat the metronome, dear. It’s just doing its job. You know you’re ready when you absolutely can’t stand practicing any more.”

Hoken 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 him to blink? He must learn to ignore them and proceed on with the task. It would be one thing if Rennedee bested Hoken in a hand-to-hand death match. It would be quite another for a gnat to fly up his nose and spoil everything.

A few sequences had real surprises or serious interruptions. Rennedee had just passed in front of the building, immediately in front of and under Hoken, and would be in firing range in five seconds Suddenly there was a human voice, just meters away: “Hey you, what’s going on here. Stop!” Hoken grabbed the revolver sitting on his lap, shot the interloper dead through the forehead, turned back to his left and still got two clean shots at Rennedee. In another episode, one of Rennedee’s bodyguards was able to return fire; but Hoken didn’t flinch. He’d been shot at before; it wasn’t that big a deal. Either the man would get lucky and hit Hoken or he wouldn’t. Hoken still got off three successful shots.

As Hoken put the rifle back in its compartment, he said out loud, “What was that question I was going to ask myself?” He paused and shook his head. “You know, darn it,” he said with a chuckle, “I don’t remember now. If it’s important, it’ll come back to me—hopefully,” he added with a shrug.

Otherwise, Hoken was pleased with his progress. No doubt about it, there was a clear and consistent improvement in speed, efficiency and accuracy. He just felt more confident. By the time he reached Earth, he would be the most accomplished person in the galaxy with the rifle. Originally he thought it was a piece of junk but was quickly appreciating it more and more. And it was all because his grandmother taught him how to practice on the piano.

The Orians, and all of the races in their area of the galaxy, would chuckle at the thought of weightless space travel—of people bouncing off the ceiling and the floor and walls like a human game of Pong, unable to control themselves, helpless as babies, having to take special precautions just to take a leak—and then after a long flight, be unable to stand or even to be confined to bed.

Four hundred years ago, Gungull Ramar, (the Rankin of his day), found the secret of the graviton, the particles that mediate the effect of gravity. It was so simple: dark energy and gravity were one and the same.

Hoken had to exercise to keep fit. Twenty minutes of every twenty-four hour period was devoted to working out. With his seat turned to the rear, and in the same position as when he used the firing range, he could reach a set of fold-out foot pedals. It was like Jack LaLanne in outer space without his dog Happy, the “beginners halt,” and the commercials.

Hoken slipped his feet into the straps and started off. As soon as he began peddling, the computer said “Major, I will say something in English followed by the Orian translation. You will repeat the phrase back to me.”

“I am hungry.”

“I am hungry.”

“I am thirsty.”

“I am thirsty.”

When Hoken did anything, he did it hard. He practiced hard with the rifle, he exercised hard. Ten minutes and Hoken had really worked up a sweat. “That is enough, Major,” said the computer. “Now, ten minutes of upper-body exercise.”

Hoken folded the pedals back down and tucked them away. With the arm stand of the practice firing range pushed back as far as possible, and his seat as far forward as possible, Hoken was able to stretch out completely on the floor. He assumed the push-up position, shifted his weight slightly as he put his left hand behind his back, and counted off the one-handed push-ups in English, “One, two, three…twenty.” After the right-arm push-ups there were twenty left-arm push-ups, fifty finger-tip push-ups, and one hundred regular push-ups. He finished with two hundred and fifty sit-ups. No self-respecting Star Ranger did “crunches,” those were for the television infomercial wussies in their $600 spandex exercise tights.

“Major,” take a five minute break, finish your snack, and we will then review the personnel files of Human #1 and Human #2.”