Читать книгу The Alien's Secret Volume 2 - Robert M. Doroghazi - Страница 5

Hoken was all sweaty after the brief but vigorous workout. He was due for a five minute cool-down, rest period, but felt so strong and things were going so well, he just wanted to get on with it. He pulled his knees to his chest, swiveled the chair around to face forward, and locked the seat with the now-familiar click in place.

“Computer, display file of Human #1.”

“Major, you are scheduled for a five minute rest period, to cool down and have a snack.”

“I understand, but I feel fine.” Hoken quickly corrected himself. “I’m okay,” he said with a smile. “I’ll cool down and have my snack while I listen. Proceed as ordered.”

Colonel Hasemereme and General Ribbert could order Hoken to do something, but the computer couldn’t. “Yes, Sir,” it replied.

Hoken unwrapped one of the green vegetable-flavored bars and took a sip of water while he started to look at the material. No matter what anybody says about Kool-Aid or Tang or Coke or Pepsi or Dr. Pepper or Vess Billion Bubble Beverage Cream Soda or IBC Root Beer or Red Bull or Gatorade or Budweiser or Michelob or the most expensive wine or whiskey or liquor in the Universe, there’s nothing sweeter than a drink of cool water when you’re thirsty.

Human #1 was the Earthling whose body Hoken would possess. Human #2 was the man the Orian military knew with as much certainty as possible that Rennedee would possess. (Rodomontade was feeding them information in real time that so far had all proven to be accurate). It was clear that Hoken needed to know as much as possible about both of them.

On the left side of the dash were the eleven available images of Human #1. There were passport photos, photos related to his service in the Armed Forces, several from visa applications (not Visa the credit card), and recent, surprisingly clear photos from newspapers. Because of his political activities, there was even a short television clip, running in a continuous loop. On the right of the dash were data files, arranged in chronological order and by subject—family, employment, education, habits, hobbies and interests, acquaintances, etc. There was also a detailed summary of #1’s personality, intelligence, and behavior—a complete psychological profile.

Hoken was not easily impressed but he was impressed by how much data had been obtained in such a short time. As always, Orian Intelligence had done a tremendous job. They had already amassed considerable data and would continually update the database as new information became available. It was truly remarkable that so much had been obtained in barely two days on an otherwise nondescript individual inhabiting a planet more than twenty light years away.

“Major,” said the computer, “I received this transmission fifteen minutes ago from Captain Gunnerr. He will narrate and explain the data to you.”

Captain Ruff Gunnerr supervised the intelligence gathering of the Special Missions Unit. Gunnerr and his people were stationed in the Intelligence Headquarters section of the Suppay Building, many floors and corridors away from the Special Missions Lab. Although he and Hoken had not personally met, Hoken could tell from the voice and his presentation that he was well-suited for his position: a well-organized, bright, competent officer.

“Major, you’re now looking at the most up-to-date information we have on Human #1. Let me tell you first how we chose this particular human as your cover. We recognized immediately that our greatest impediment to obtaining information on just about anything on Earth is their near-complete lack of computerization and the rudimentary state of wireless transmission. We’re essentially restricted to things already in the public domain. This includes television, radio, newspapers, telephone books, telephone and wire transmissions, and all types of official government-related documents and data, such as birth and death certificates, passports, marriage licenses, and school, medical and military records. Things of a completely personal nature, such as in a scrap book or diary, or personal conversations, simply aren’t available. Too bad they don’t have something like Friends, it sure would make our job a lot easier.”

Friends was an intergalactic Facebook. Active military personnel and government officials were prohibited from joining. Many employers had a similar prohibition for their workers. Friends was initially met with enthusiasm bordering on irrationality, but it quickly degenerated. Because of some real horror stories, such as criminals mining the data, or people posting things that later came back to haunt them, such as captured soldiers tortured with information about their family (We have an agent that lives only three kilometers from your sister), young, successful people rarely signed up anymore. The vast majority of subscribers were the debilitated elderly who used it as a way to keep up with their other equally debilitated friends who have nothing better to do. “Gomers Gone Wild” might be a better name, with 110-year-olds posting clips showing them trading false teeth or trimming the hair from their ears or the inside of their noses. The demented especially loved it because they made new friends every day.

“We obviously had to quickly narrow our search, so these are the criteria we used: First: Caucasian male between the ages of twenty to thirty-five. Caucasian refers to a pale, whitish colored skin. In the U.S., a significant majority of the population are Caucasians. Of more importance, there is significant discrimination against people of other skin colors. In general, the darker the skin, the greater the discrimination. This discrimination against dark skin is even more pronounced in the area of the country you are going. There was no reason to place you at such an inherent disadvantage. You could make a completely innocent comment or gesture and run into problems with the authorities just because of your skin color.”

Fortunately, we’ve progressed past that, thought Hoken, but not as much as many in our society would like to think.

“Second,” continued Gunnerr, “we restricted our search geographically to people who live within a fifty kilometer radius of the city where you’ll ambush Rennedee.

“Lastly, we searched only for those with a military history. In the U.S. there is currently a military draft. Only a few males are forced into compulsory service, but all males between the ages of eighteen, the age that most complete high school, and twenty-five, must register their eligibility.”

That made Hoken wince. Compulsory service? But he was especially appalled by the sex discrimination. The females got a free ride while the men made all of the sacrifices. On Oria, the military men were paid well, and were honored members of society. Even in war, no one was forced to bear arms. If you didn’t volunteer, however, it was a stain against your character that could never be erased. It was difficult to succeed in subsequent civilian life if you avoided military service in time of need.

Gunnerr said, after a short pause, “This was a real advantage for us because the military records were by far our best source of information. Military service also meant they had weapons training.”

Hoken finished his vegetable bar and washed it down with the last swig of water.

“These initial criteria gave us 237 names. When we added a history of behavioral or psychiatric problems, his name easily was at the top of the list. It was immediately so clear he would be your perfect cover that we stopped looking. There was no reason to check on anyone else. We have since concentrated all of our efforts on gaining every possible piece of information on him that we can.”

Hoken looked at the pictures and was almost immediately disgusted. It was clear even to an extraterrestrial, a man from another part of the galaxy, from more than 200 trillion kilometers away, that the human whose body he would possess was physically unattractive. But even more striking than his physical features was a general impression that conveyed an obvious lack of integrity, of something almost sinister or even malevolent. Humans from different cultures, races and ethnic groups usually agree on what represents beauty. There are pretty birds, and ugly birds, pretty dogs and ugly dogs. To borrow an expression from Earth: Human #1 was butt-ugly, like he had been beaten with an ugly stick after walking through a forest of ugly sticks.

People can look at a picture and instantly recognize the face of happiness, sorrow, grief or disgust. The man whose image was displayed on the screen was clearly one of the lowest representatives of humanity. Although Hoken could just shake his head, he had to admit that the Orian military had clearly chosen his cover very well.

Hoken continued to stare at the images. The earlier pictures, the passport photo and military pictures from his late teens, showed a well-groomed young man, of average to aesthetic build, not muscular; but he appeared fit enough, with wide shoulders and a flat stomach. In the more recent images, although only a few years had passed, he had a base, almost disheveled, appearance. The beady eyes reminded Hoken of the flattl, the most vicious and rightly feared snake on Oria, a serpent that could grow to five meters or more, which preferentially avoided the strong to take the young and plump and tender as its victims. The drooping eyelids and somewhat small, low-set ears, further highlighted #1’s seedy appearance.

But what really caught Hoken’s attention was the mouth. Especially the mouth. The thin, slightly pursed lips caused the corners of the mouth to turn slightly downward, almost like a continuous scowl. When Hoken tilted his head one way and then the other, he was sure that sometimes it made the look on #1’s face appear more like a smirk than a scowl. The pursed lips caused an almost dimple-like appearance around the corners of the mouth. With his chin held firmly down and pointy, it looked like the perfect embouchure of a good clarinet player, only without the clarinet.

Hoken shook his head. He wanted to say, What have I gotten myself into? But almost as quickly, he decided to just let it ride and was back to the task at hand—namely, the mission, which was how to kill Rennedee.

Hoken worked on holding his lips exactly like that, so it would eventually be automatic. But however much he tried to interpret the man behind the pictures, it never suggested anything pleasant, happy, care-free, generous, intelligent, or trustworthy. It was clear that Human #1 was not just physically ugly but also emotionally ugly.

“From the available information we’ve been able to construct a 3-D image of him,” continued Gunnerr. The other pictures were minimized to one-half size to make room for the 3-D reconstruction. The image was rotated through 360°, first clockwise, then counterclockwise. Then he was seen from above, showing the top of his head. Hoken quickly noticed the hair pattern, which would be very atypical for an Orian but which was not uncommon for a human male. His brownish, slightly wavy hair showed a minimal receding in the area around the temples, resulting in an almost isolated island of hair at the front, top, and center of the forehead.

Hoken had seen enough of Human #1 for a while. He began to look over the data files, starting at the reader’s left and moving to the right (Orian was similar to most Earth languages: read from left to right, and top to bottom. Even maps were displayed the same, north on top and east to the right. It seems that the same general algorithms and brain hard-wiring for basic intelligence and processing of information are fairly similar throughout the Universe.) Everything was displayed in both English and Orian; the former so he would be learning the new language, and the latter so there was no misinterpretation.

“Human #1 was born in the city of New Orleans, in the state, similar to our provinces, of Louisiana,” said Gunnerr. “We have no pictures of his family. It’s very unlikely you’ll meet any of these people, but if you’re questioned by acquaintances, or especially by the authorities, you obviously have to know some details about your family,” he said as if Hoken had already taken over the body of the Earthman.

“His father’s name was Robert. His mother, Marguerite, worked as a practical nurse. He has a brother, also named Robert, and a half-brother, John.

“His father collected insurance premiums, and from everything we’ve found so far, was a hard working man. Unfortunately, he died two months before Human #1 was born, causing a permanent strain on the family’s finances. As a result, Human #1’s handling of money went far beyond frugality, even far beyond cheap, to the point that he won’t even spend money to provide basic food and shelter for his wife and children. His wife is often forced to live off the kindness of others—to mooch. Sometimes she’s even reduced to begging to keep their children fed and clothed.”

Hoken just shook his head. How pathetic. This man is scum. After hearing that Hoken would never underestimate the man’s vileness. Whenever Hoken saw something like this, it just made him appreciate that much more the great family he was blessed to have.

“His mother’s financial problems sometimes became almost desperate,” continued Gunnerr. “For a short time she was forced to place him in an orphanage. By his early teenage years there were recurrent disciplinary problems at school. He was often truant, either staying home by himself to watch television, read, or go to museums.” Hoken could just imagine Gunnerr shaking his head as he said, “Everyone found this so paradoxical.”

No kidding, thought Hoken. He could hardly believe it. You played hooky to do bad things—to goof off, to get into trouble, to chase the girls—not to read and certainly not to go to a museum. Human #1 was a strange man indeed.

“His behavioral problems became so acute that he was once remanded for psychiatric evaluation and observation at a youth facility. The psychiatrist described him as tense, withdrawn, detached, and evasive. He often related fantasies of omnipotence and power which the psychiatrist felt were an attempt to compensate for his frustrations and shortcomings. Throughout his life arrogant is the one term used by all who know him to best describe his personality, strange indeed for someone who has nothing to be arrogant about.

“Because of these problems, intelligence testing was performed. On Earth, there is a test to measure intelligence called Wechsler, which is similar to our Arshadish Mental Performance Examination.”

Gunnerr paused. Hoken could actually appreciate the near-disbelief, with a hint of sarcasm, in his voice. “Everyone was stunned. The test is calibrated so that one hundred is the average. He scored a 118, which is almost two standard deviations from normal, and indicates intellectual function in the upper end of the bright normal range. Everyone—the psychiatrist, his teachers, the people at the orphanage—everyone, actually, except his mother—thought he had somehow cheated, but a repeat test under continuous monitoring showed an almost identical score.”

Hoken thought, Nobody could make this stuff up. Truth is always stranger than fiction.

“He is innately intelligent,” said Gunnerr, “and because of his reading, possesses an extensive vocabulary and a significant knowledge base. Yet in spite of this real, sometimes almost flashy, intelligence—which comes off as being little more than a pedantic façade—his thinking, his thought processes, are invariably described as shallow, rigid, and lacking insight. It appears that he can adequately assess and assimilate the facts, yet invariably draws the wrong conclusion. Again, a man of paradox.

“At first it was thought that his problem was just being lazy and indifferent, but further observations and studies showed that his relatively high intellectual ability was burdened with a not-that-subtle reading/spelling disability. He is dyslexic as they call it on Earth. Examples from various forms and applications in his early adult years include, but are not limited to: ‘sociaty’ for society, ‘opions’ for opinions, ‘esspicially’ for especially, ‘nuclus’ for nucleus, ‘disere’ for desire, ‘allys’ for alleys, ‘acept’ for except, ‘negleck’ for neglect, and ‘insurean’ for insurance.”

Looking at the Orian equivalent of the butchered words made Hoken wince.

“Just think, Major,” said Gunnerr, “on Oria, the magnetically-directed virus-vector gene substitution technique would have cured him as soon as the problem was detected. And if that didn’t work, with even a rudimentary computer program to correct his spelling and grammar problems, to allow his obvious innate strengths and talents to show through, he very well may have turned out much differently.”

Hoken was always a little more pragmatic. Maybe—and maybe not—he thought.

“He left high school prior to graduation and enlisted in the Marines just before he turned seventeen. He never rose above the rank of private first class and displayed continuous, pervasive,” said Gunnerr as if to emphasize its inevitability, “and an ultimately crippling resentment of authority. Again, Major, a paradox—he hates authority, yet joined an organization that demands authority.

“He was court-martialed not once but twice!” said Gunnerr so forcefully that Hoken could almost see the exclamation point. “In the first incident, he was in possession of an unauthorized weapon and accidentally shot himself. He’s not exactly a ‘missile scientist,’ as they say on Earth. In the second incident, he purposefully spilled an alcoholic beverage on a non-commissioned officer, and then abusively challenged him to a fight. At the time of the trial, he lied and tried to explain away the incident with falsehood.”

Hoken just shook his head, looked through the canopy in the general direction of Earth, while being sure to all the time practice that pursed-lip, smirk/frown look.

“While in the service, he of course received routine training with all standard weapons, and, fortunately or unfortunately,” he added, “is very good with them. On the rifle range, using a weapon similar to yours, he showed considerable proficiency, scoring in the sharpshooter range. Major, we would have chosen this man even without this, but being a marksman is a nice extra.

“He was discharged from the service several months short of his commitment on the false pretense that his mother was ill and he had to help her and care for her. He was originally given an honorable discharge, but because of subsequent events this was later changed to undesirable—something very uncommon—even on Earth. Major, he is a pathological liar who has added the U.S. Armed Services to his list of mythical persecutors.”

Hoken looked at the discharge documents. Serial number 1653230. He obviously needed to know that number. “1653230. 1653230,” he said in Orian. Just a couple of more tries and he’d have it. “1653230. 1653230,” he repeated in English. Caucasian male, brown hair, height 1.8 meters, weight 68 kilograms, date of enlistment, date of discharge. It was all there, including a copy of his Selective Service System Registration Certificate. His Social Security number was 433-54-3937.

“1563230, 433-54-3937,” Hoken said to himself. He closed his eyes and said out loud, “Serial number 1653230. Social Security number 443-54-3937.”

He opened his left eye to check. “Oops,” he said. “433-54-3937.” He repeated three times.

Gunnerr continued his seemingly never-ending narration of #1’s perpetual failures. “Shortly after his discharge from the service he suffered a significant personal failure that caused him to emotionally unravel; he just couldn’t cope. He attempted suicide by slashing his left wrist.”

Gunnerr paused, and said with a quick, cynical laugh. “Fortunately for him and for us, although unfortunately for everyone else, the attempt was foiled by acquaintances.”

Gunnerr stopped. “Sorry about that, Major. I shouldn’t inject this personal opinion, but the guy’s such a failure he can’t even commit suicide and get it right.”

A little macabre humor in situations like this just can’t be avoided, thought Hoken. And he’s absolutely right; this man is scum. And I’m going to assume his existence.

“After this,” continued Gunnerr immediately getting back to business, “he spent considerable time in a hospital recuperating.

“After two years of what can only be described as just existing, he married a woman from an authoritarian country much poorer than the United States. It was, as they say on Earth, a situation where they used each other. What he gained was a women more handsome and intelligent and with empathetic qualities than he could otherwise ever hope to attain, and with the marriage, she was able to immigrate to the United States. They have two female children, June and Audrey, the latter born just one month ago. As with all of the personal relationships in his life, his marriage is a failure. Major, everything this man touches turns to saud (sxxx in English).”

Hoken just shook his head, and nodded silently in agreement.

“Major, we’re starting to assemble some information on his neighbors, acquaintances, and co-workers. You can see the files and pictures of Michael Paine and Buell Frazier on your console. We’re sure we’ll have images for other people important in his personal life, such as Gladys Johnson, Earline Roberts, Ruth Paine and Lennie Randle, before you reach Earth.

“Now that we know which individuals to monitor, we should be able to pick up a few personal conversations.

“Getting back to his wife,” said Gunnerr. “They quarrel frequently. She has no respect for him. She probably despises him. I really don’t blame her, but that’s what happens when you do things for expediency, rather than because they’re the right thing to do. They’re currently estranged; an arrangement that makes them both happier, although that’s kind of stretching that word. He provides little to no financial support, forcing her to live with and on handouts from friends, because they feel sorry for her and the children. By mutual agreement, they see each other only on weekends. He currently resides at a boarding house for young males at 1026 North Beckley, not far from his place of employment.”

The border of one of the screens flashed to show Hoken what would be discussed next.

“He has held one menial, unsatisfying, boring job after another,” said Gunnerr as he continued on with the seemingly infinite detailing of #1’s faults. “He leaves after several months or is released, fired. Once, he was escorted to the door by security and literally thrown out. There’s no stability, only continued wandering, looking for something he will obviously never find.

“He’s never happy with his job, and I assure you, Major, the feeling is mutual. His employers and supervisors are never satisfied with his performance, and for good reason. His work is slow, inattentive, and sloppy. The product is always inadequate. He’s uniformly disliked by his coworkers, at least in part because he continually harangues them with his extremist political views and criticizes their religious beliefs. In spite of being a loser with a capital L, he feels the world owes him something.”

This man has all of the faults, and even more, and none of the positive qualities of Rennedee, thought Hoken.

“Because of his activity and involvement in several political fringe organizations, we’ve been able to obtain about five minutes of an audio, which on Earth they call radio, transmission of his voice. Major, these transmissions are via electromagnetic radiation, a technology we’ve not used on Oria for more than five hundred years, since we developed virtual photon transmissions. Earth’s radio transmissions are either by amplitude modulation, called AM, or frequency modulation, called FM. In the U.S., the radio transmission stations are identified by three or four letters of the Roman alphabet.

“Major, we’re really lucky that we were able to obtain a five minute clip of his voice from a broadcast three months ago from a radio station with the call-letter designation WDSU. The first voice is the interviewer, the second is our man.”

Hoken now had a voice to go with the picture. To help himself get even more in the mood, he set his face with the smirkish frown. He listened intently. There was an intermittent crackle—like rubbing your hair right next to your ear—but the recording was otherwise clear, the words easily understandable. After the interviewer, speaking in the typical staccato Walter Winchell newsman style, provided some background and introduction, he asked, “How long has your group had an organization in this area?”

Human #1 responded, “We have had members in this area for several months now. Up until about two months ago, however, we have not organized our members into any sort of active group. Until, as you say, this week, we have decided to feel out the public, what they think of our organization, our aims, and for that purpose we have been, as you say, distributing literature on the street…”

Hoken shook his head in disbelief. He was stunned; stunned because he was so impressed. Since Hoken’s father was the chief political officer of the planet, he had heard hundreds of interviews. For a man in his early twenties, #1 could hardly have done a better, more polished, job. He was composed; he answered the questions quickly, accurately and succinctly, with obvious forethought. He had a solid vocabulary and a wide knowledge base. Questions that were clearly asked in a way to throw him off guard or probe for weakness or that were even meant to provoke him were easily, almost effortlessly, handled. Hoken admitted to himself that #1 did a better job at the interview than he could have done.

Hoken would replay this clip as many times as possible over the next three days on the trip to Earth—while he ate, while he exercised, sometimes even during his formal English lessons. He wanted to quickly memorize the content so he could talk along with the recording. This is where the computer’s voice recognition program would so useful. It could display visually the entire sound context of Hoken’s pronunciation of a word next to that of Human #1’s, and then give instructions, such as use a higher or lower tone, roll the R, don’t pronounce the T as hard, etc. He had to be able to mimic every intonation, every inflection, so that by the time he reached Earth, he would sound as much like Human #1 as possible. He would never be able to fool the computer, all he needed to do was to be able to fool co-workers, friends and family.

Everyone has “catch phrases,” things that for whatever reason they use over and over, as fillers for the conversation, such as “and so on and so forth.” Hoken noted #1 would often say “as you say.” He wanted to say as little as possible, but when he had to talk, he’d try to add “as you say” to the conversation.

“Major,” continued Gunnerr, “we’ve spent as much time analyzing #1’s personality as we have gathering facts on him. You can’t succeed without understanding the essence of this man. You’ll be in his body, so you also have to be inside his head.”

The previous information was replaced by his personality profile.

“Everything about him is a paradox. His areas of strength, and he does have some—as I know you appreciated from the interview—are like islands surrounded by an almost infinite ocean of weaknesses and failures. A variety of tests demon-strate above average, even bordering on superior, intellect. As I already mentioned, he scored in the high upper-normal range on their standard intelligence tests. When it’s his desire, and obviously when it’s to his advantage, he can appear erudite, logical, and intelligent. As you heard from the tape, because he is so well read, he can provide alert, detailed replies to almost all questions.

“But in his personal contacts, and thus in his functioning in society, he is an utter failure. The most telling and chilling observation that we could find was that he was ‘a puppy that everybody loved to kick.’ ”

Ouch, thought Hoken, as he visibly winced. He even mouthed, “How pathetic,” as he cringed at the thought. He had never really heard that type of a comment applied to anyone. He was going to have to think about that for a while.

“He’s never really satisfied with anything—his situation in life, his friends, or his coworkers. He is completely alienated from the world. His entire existence is characterized by isolation, frustration, and failures—almost all of his own doing. Of course, everything that goes wrong is always someone else’s fault, never his. He lacks introspection, compassion, empathy, or guilt. In spite of being married and having two children, a mother and brothers, he has no personal relationships of significance with anyone inside or outside of his family. He demonstrates perpetual hostility to his surroundings with ideations of grandeur and thoughts of oppression. He likes no one and distrusts—really despises—everyone.”

Hoken just shook his head as Gunnerr continued on with the narrative.

“We thought there would be nothing that surprised us about this man, but there actually was one thing we all expected and didn’t find: substance abuse, drug addiction. Fortunately, on Oria we’ve almost done away with that, but as you know, in less advanced, more backwards societies, it is much more common. Substance abuse on Earth is rampant,” said Gunnerr is a not-so-disguised disdainful tone. “Not only are illegal drugs easy to obtain, but two of the most addictive, namely nicotine and alcohol, are legally available—and are even promoted. Human #1’s personality seems to beg that he would be addicted to something, but from all the data we’ve gathered so far, he’s, as they say, clean, and always has been.”

“Huh, thought Hoken with a laugh of resignation. I might end up being a real jerk, but at least I won’t be a junkie.

Gunnerr continued on. “He continually, routinely and habitually rebels against authority, yet he feels he should be able to exercise it. His entire life—in school, in the Armed Services, in his employment—is characterized by disagreements with his superiors, with anyone in a position of authority. In almost every circumstance it is initiated by him. He seems to know no other way. He is a truly disagreeable man.

“In spite of this, he has fantasies of power. Although he is at the lowest end of the socioeconomic scale, he is sure he will have a place in history. He’s even gone so far as to state, to proclaim, that in ten thousand years he’ll be considered a man ahead of his time.

“Lying is an integral component of his personality. As already mentioned, he left the Armed Services under false pretenses. He lives almost in a fantasy world, like his life is part of a “cops and robbers” movie, as they would call it on Earth. Although to our knowledge he is not being actively followed or pursued by any government agency, law enforcement, or any others who might wish to do him harm, he routinely employs aliases. So far we’ve been able to document five, although, of course there could be, and probably are, more. These include A. J. Hidell, Alex J. Hidell, he has a second passport in this name, L. Osborne, D. F. Drittal and O. H. Lee. He’s registered under the last alias at the boarding house.”

Hoken continued to scan the data as Gunnerr talked.

“Many of the official government forms he has completed are riddled with falsehoods. It’s clear, Major, that these are not errors due to his spelling difficulties and dyslexia; they are overt, intentional lies. Even when he doesn’t make an outright lie, he exaggerates or doesn’t describe events accurately. To take this even further, many times, in situations or circumstances of no significance whatsoever—where there is nothing at all to be gained by lying—he still lies.

“We’ve come to the conclusion that he has the capacity to risk all in cruel and irresponsible actions, anything to gain his place in history. He is intelligent. He handles weapons well. Lying and deceit are part of his personality. He was chosen as the one whose body you will possess because his personality is so contradictory and unpredictable, sometimes bordering on the bizarre, that no action you take prior to ambushing Rennedee will surprise anyone. Everyone avoids him because he is so unpleasant. He is the perfect cover for your operation on Earth.”

“Computer, pause transmission,” said Hoken.

Hoken remembered General Ribbert’s comments from the Special Missions Lab when they originally discussed #1. “Major, this man’s an idiot. You must look stupid, act stupid, and say as little as possible. You must act dumber than you ever imagined you could be. Fortunately, it’s infinitely easier for a person of intelligence, dignity, and civility to act beneath themselves, to be coarse, uncouth, and uncivilized, than it is for a stupid person to raise themselves to a higher level. Just as you must not allow your super-human strength and senses to betray you, you must not allow a show of intelligence to raise suspicion. In addition, an act of compassion or empathy, anything suggesting consideration for the feelings of others, would be so out of character for this man that it would blow your cover completely. Major, this man is a stupid, dumb, cruel, worthless being. You must act the part.”

When I decided on a military career, thought Hoken, I would have never believed I would receive orders like that.

“Computer, resume report from Captain Gunnerr. Display files of Human #2.”

“Major, this is the information on Human #2, the human that Rennedee will possess.”

Even before Hoken could question in his mind how and why Gunnerr knew this would be Rennedee’s target, Gunnerr said, “Major, General Raton himself told me this would be the person that Rennedee possessed; this was where we were to direct all of our efforts. He didn’t tell me how he knew and I wasn’t about to ask any questions. He told me just to get to it. The minute we started to investigate #2, we knew the general was right.”

(The information was from Rodomontade, Rennedee’s number two, himself. Part of the deal for his “Get Out of Jail Free Card,” if Rennedee failed in his mission to Earth, was that he had to cough up the name of the human that Rennedee would possess.)

The files and pictures of #2 came on the screen.

“What a difference, isn’t it, Major?” said Gunnerr, “He’s at the opposite end of the spectrum of humanity from #1. He’s literally the flower of manhood. Born into a good family. Bright. Successful from the beginning. He is intelligent and ambitious. He attended the best schools. Distinguished military career: he received one medal for bravery and one for being wounded. From our study of the action, he deserved them.”

Hoken of course, was impressed with that. This man risked his life for his country—for the men he commanded, and what he believed in—just as Hoken was doing.

“He is married with a loving and very sophisticated wife and two lovely children,” continued Gunnerr. “Because of his family’s position, and because of his ability and his hard work, he has risen quickly in society. General Raton was right; #2 now holds a position that is perfect for Rennedee’s aim of causing political and military instability.”

Hoken looked at the data. There were many images of #2, from the tiniest baby to one from within the last week. The largest one, in the center of a group of twelve images, was a straight-on bust photo. Handsome, well-dressed, slight smile, a strong jaw, and eyes that twinkled brighter than the stars outside the Gunslinger. The picture radiated self-confidence and epitomized the success he had already achieved.

As Hoken looked into the man’s eyes, he saw him for what he would be in less than a week. Just another casualty of war, of a bloody, terrible revolution on a distant planet he never even imagined existed. This man’s existence would disappear from the Universe as soon as Rennedee took over his body. Hoken would not be killing this good, successful, hard-working man, he would be destroying the shell that encased an intergalactic war criminal, who had already caused tens of thousands of deaths, and who was willing to inflict billions more on two planets in his own personal lust for power.