I
The bulrushes that hid him swayed gently in the breeze as toads slumped about the tiny pond that lay on the cap of the hill. There was a small parting in the reeds where his rifle lay, the metal killing device pressing down the thin plants. Frequently jets would scream overhead, he kept his head down when this happened, unwilling for a single pilot with a lucky eye to ruin his vantage point. Below him, a small guerrilla camp stood silently, its occupants either away fighting the futile war or sleeping away the terrible, inevitable reality that was so often associated with rebellion. The feeling of battling against a strong tide, when you know that no man can fight the sea and that soon you will be drawn out to sea as so many others before have been. He didn't care; he was a soldier of the emperor.
The man tensed as he looked down at the cam, a single rebel stood outside, and lit up a cigarette. He took the tobacco away from his lips and blew out a thin stream of smoke. This could be the man he thought, slowly lifting the long barrelled rifle to his shoulder; he cocked his neck and leant his head on the stock. Closing one eye the image through his targeter blurred into focus. He saw the green canvas of he combat tents through the red tinted scope, he glanced outside the scope and located the soldier, and bringing the rifle up to his eye he had a closer look. The soldier had no helmet, and parts of his armour were removed. He didn't seem to have a weapon. He flicked a switch on the scope and the image was magnified. He could see him clearly, he hadn't spotted him. With a squeeze of his index finger he could end this man's life. He could close the shark's jaws right now.
He banished the thought; this man was not his target. Just as he thought this another man came out from the tent opposite, a las-rifle was hung at his waste. The man had very short black hair, and a lean face with a nose that seemed to slice his face in two. The sniper dropped his rifle and reached into his pocket for the compact data-slate he had been given, he looked at the head shots of his target, the hair, the eyes, that distinctive nose. It was him. Lifting the rifle up to his eye again he saw the face of the man he was going to kill. Sixteen hours of waiting in the same stinking spot in the bulrushes made him almost glad to find his target. He knew nothing about this man, just like a shark knows nothing of the person it drowns and devours. It was a blessing. A sniper's job is to kill in absolute cold-blood. Otherwise it sparks off doubt and doubt only leads to one thing. Failure. His blood had had sixteen hours to cool. He was ready.
The sniper slowed his breathing and focused his crosshair over his target. The two rebels were next to each other, chatting about something he cared little about. He touched the trigger and lightly wrapped his index finger around it, still taking care to keep the rifle steady. He looked at the man and for a second his mind wandered. Tendrils of denial crept into his mind. This man is only defending his home. Doubt, he thought. In a split second the cold blood rushed through him compelling him to take his life. It was enough. There was a slight sound, and a kick of the stock into his shoulder. By the time he could register what he had done, the man's crown had been burnt open with a flash of super heated light. The man's shoulders jerked and the remains of his head fell back, his fingers went limp and his legs lost balance. For a second it looked as if the target would stand forever but in mere milliseconds he was on the descent. His torso fell back and at the last second, his legs bent. Three seconds after the shot had fired, the man was on the floor. The sniper saw the rebel soldier next to the corpse yell something; he didn't need to hear it.
The sniper shuffled backwards and felt a vaguely familiar feeling, he remembered it from when he last killed. That time had been followed by an emotional battle with himself. It made him wonder what had made him accept the transfer to this blasted unit. He remembered the major saying to him
"It's not the eye that makes a sniper, but the heart"
It was true, a trooper has raw fear to compel him, but a sniper has only his faith in duty. That was until the hunted turned on the hunters.
