Beast

by Patrick McClafferty

  “Adele,” he said to the air. “Would you happen to have two or three empty tin cans, liter sized or smaller?”

  Fifteen minutes later and just after midnight, he stretched out on his bed, his weapon close to hand, and turned off his light. The suite was silent; Elora, Jax, and Mila were fast asleep, he hoped. He would have put even money on his guess that whatever was going to happen would happen that night. He shut his eyes.

  The clatter of falling cans woke him from a light sleep, and he was already moving, weapon in hand, when the discharge of an energy weapon cracked in the small room. It seared his face as it passed the place his head had been an instant earlier and blew a smoking hole in the bed. Solomon fired at the muzzle flash and was rewarded with a deep grunt of pain. He squeezed the trigger twice more, following the falling body in the muzzle flash of the previous shot. Charred and still smoking, Rolf had a look of surprise etched on his face. His breath came in bubbling rasps. Like Solomon, he had been wearing body armor, but as good as it was, it couldn’t withstand three point-blank shots from a military-grade weapon.

  Solomon squatted next to the dying man. “Why?”

  Rolf, his face waxy and gray, almost managed to smile despite his obvious pain. “I’ll give you ten million reasons,” he wheezed, “but it’s nothing personal.” He chuckled, and the laugh rapidly turned to a ragged wet cough as Rolf’s eyes closed in pain.

  “Who paid you?” Solomon hissed.

  “Screw you,” Rolf replied in the same tone.

  Solomon sighed, pressing the scorching barrel of his pistol against the side of the man’s head.

  Rolf’s scream was a thin whimpering sound.

  “Who?” Solomon demanded. He could smell burning skin.

  The man’s voice was a bare whisper. “The UN Special Operations Unit funded this. They’re afraid of the Beast and…” Rolf’s breathing shuddered to a halt, and his eyes glazed over.

  Solomon was just telling himself how screwed he was when a small scream made him whirl to see the three Fontaine children clutching at each other as they stared at the body of the Fontaine security chief. Solomon picked up Rolf’s energy weapon, checked the charge, and handed it to Elora.

  “Take this and guard your brother and sister. Don’t let anyone other than your family—and me—back in. Understand?”

  She just stared at him, her green eyes wide.

  “Understand?” he barked.

  The girl flinched and nodded quickly.

  “Good.” He flipped the power switch on and was pleased to see the steady green light. “Just point and squeeze the trigger.” He looked at the air. “Adele, where are the rooms of the rest of the family?”

  Silence.

  “Adele?” He looked at Elora. “Where are your family’s rooms?”

  She blinked. “We’re currently at the far end of the east wing. The rest of the family is at the far end of the west wing.”

  “Fuck!” Solomon growled. “Stay here and lock the door, not that having locked doors seems to help.” He bolted down the hallway, his bare feet propelling him soundlessly.

  He was just entering the shadowy west wing when he heard the gunfire, both the heavy thud of slug throwers and the sizzling crack of energy weapons. A terrified shriek coming from a small bedroom was suddenly cut off by the harsh crack of an energy weapon. Zhutov Mitrofan Leonidovich stepped out of the room with a gun identical to Solomon’s hanging loosely in his hand. Solomon shot him in the abdomen, and the man fell, howling in pain, trying futilely to bring his own weapon to bear on his attacker, but Solomon was ready and took the man’s arm off neatly at the elbow. Picking up the fallen energy weapon, Solomon stepped over the sprawling form of the assassin and into the bedroom. The energy blast had caught Novalie in the chest, blasting open her rib cage. The room was covered with red gore.

  One man farther down the corridor was holding off two attackers, and seeing red, Solomon drew both his weapon and Zhutov’s and lay down a deadly curtain of fire. The two attackers were down in seconds, and Solomon took a deep breath, his hands shaking.

  “Giuseppe!” he called out into the smoke-filled room. “The three attackers here are dead, and Elora, Jax, and Mila are safe.” He sat on the floor, the room suddenly swirling. “You can come out. You’re safe, I think.”

  A cultured English voice called out, “Who are we speaking to?”

  “Solomon Draxx. Is that you, Jacob? Are you all right?”

  “I’ll survive.” The owner of the voice groaned. “I don’t shoot with that hand anyway.”

  “How about Tobin Horowitz?” Solomon called, struggling back to his feet.

  “Dead,” Jacob said bluntly. “And we can’t even turn on the bloody lights.”

  Solomon sighed as other figures moved into the hallway. “Someone got to the AI. It was probably Rolf. He’s the one who tried to kill me.” He touched the side of his face that was flash-burned by the near miss of the energy weapon. He looked up as Giuseppe stopped before him. “I’m sorry, Giuseppe. Zhutov killed Novalie before I had the chance to stop him. As far as I can tell, the rest of your family are safe.”

  The elder Fontaine looked as though he’d been punched in the gut, while Lucinda clung to his arm as if she might fall. “Did I hear you say that you killed Rolf?” Giuseppe asked slowly.

  “I did, Giuseppe. It was probably Rolf that discovered the new sensors I placed, because the alarms never went off. I used the oldest trick in the book, and it saved our lives.” Solomon chuckled dryly. “I piled tin cans inside the door. When he opened the door, the cans fell over and woke me up. The green glow in his eyes told me that he was wearing the latest night-vision contacts. Whoever wants you dead has some pretty heavy backing. With a little persuasion, Rolf admitted that he was funded by the UN.”

  “I suspected that much, Solomon.” Giuseppe put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

  The sound of footsteps made Solomon whirl, bringing both guns to bear on the three figures walking slowly down the dim smoky hallway. The lead figure held a gun, but Solomon was already holstering his weapon.

  “Who is it?” Lucinda asked from behind Giuseppe’s back.

  “Elora, Jax, and Mila,” Solomon replied sourly. “Despite the fact that I told them to stay where they were safe.”

  “How can you tell, old man?” Jacob mumbled. “I can barely see them at all.”

  “All of Giuseppe’s children have a distinctive… odor,” Solomon replied. “I could smell them coming. What the hell are you doing here?” he called out angrily. “I said for you to stay in your room until someone came for you.”

  “Did you really think that I would obey?” Elora answered in an exasperatingly even voice. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

  Solomon growled low in his throat. “Is that so?” he said menacingly, taking a step forward and plucking the weapon from Elora’s hand. “Why don’t you go tell that very thing to Novalie?” He nodded to the open bedroom door.

  The girl frowned and slowly turned to the doorway.

  Solomon touched Giuseppe’s arm and whispered, “I’m sorry, Giuseppe, but she has to learn that this isn’t a game or a tri-dee adventure.”

  Giuseppe Fontaine shut his eyes as his daughter Elora screamed over and over.

  Services for the Fontaine children were put off for a day so that the number of caskets and burial plots could be increased by one.

  Jacob Eales’s left arm was in a white sling, while the side of Solomon’s face reflected the angry red of a flash burn. Xane and Hepzibah, the two eldest surviving children were both armed with heavy slug throwers. Jacob wore one of the remaining energy weapons, while Solomon wore two. Every person was dressed in deepest black, and every face was grim. Solomon and Jacob watched the crowd of Fontaine personnel for signs of trouble, but the service went without a hitch as the lesser guards doubled up estate patrols. Solomon stood stone-faced as the last body, that of Novalie, was lowered into her grave while red sand swirled around the gravestones
and the attendees’ feet. He had seen too many friends lowered into graves in his lifetime, and his mind drifted as he tuned out the minister’s saccharine words of consolation.

  Adele, the estate AI, had been reactivated just that morning and, at Solomon’s insistence, was thoroughly swept by computer experts from Lowell under Solomon’s watchful eye. After they were done, Solomon hired the top hacker on Mars to check the system again. When he was done removing the last of the viruses, back doors, and hidden key codes, the AI was declared operational. Much to his embarrassment, access to the AI was limited to the Fontaine family only and Solomon.

  After the long and tear-filled service, Giuseppe drew Solomon aside to ask him if he would please consider taking over the duties of security chief until a new candidate could be hired from Earth. Solomon accepted reluctantly, knowing full well that once he had the job, no candidate would ever be found, on Mars or Earth… or even looked for. Strangely, Giuseppe never once mentioned pay or financial remuneration. He didn’t even blink when Solomon requested that Jacob Eales be offered the position of deputy security chief. With Adele’s assistance, Solomon was confident he would be able to find and hire five former marines living on Mars, who would be more than willing to jump at a good-paying security position, no matter who they were guarding.

  Elora touched his arm, and he started. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I was daydreaming.”

  She snorted a laugh. “The family is leaving now, and you are expected to travel with us.”

  Solomon frowned. “But…”

  She smiled, pulling him along. “No buts, Solomon.” As they walked, she looked at him curiously. “How come you don’t need a mask to breathe?” Like the other Fontaine children born on the red planet, Elora needed no mask to breath.

  He shrugged. “I really have no idea.”

  “Were you born on Mars?”

  Solomon laughed. “According to my papers, I was born in Bennington, Kansas, just north of Salina, population 1,185, the only son of Emelia and Joseph Draxx. It’s about as far from Mars as you can get, and people there have very little imagination.”

  She bit her lip. “Papers can be faked,” she pointed out in a flat voice.

  Solomon opened the door of the limousine for her. “The papers were good enough for the marines.”

  Her laugh sparkled as he sat across from her. “The marines are only interested in you if you can see lightning and hear thunder.”

  He let a totally counterfeit look of pain cross his face. “It’s not that bad. You have to be able to sign your name or, at worst, make your mark.”

  She chuckled lightly as the heavy car rolled down the dirt road toward the main estate compound.

  Dinner that night was a quiet somber affair, with a main course of mild fish rather than the usual red meat. Beside him, Elora stared across the table at the empty seat where Novalie normally sat, her lip quivering and her eyes filling with tears.

  “Of all the Fontaine children, I loved Novalie best,” she whispered, not looking away from the vacant chair.

  Solomon moved his seat a little closer to the girl—and found Giuseppe’s eyes on him. To his surprise, Giuseppe gave him an imperceptible nod.

  “She was the second child of Lucinda and Giuseppe. I was the first, and we were only a year apart in age. She was my best friend, and we shared all our secrets with each other. I’m going to miss…” Her shoulders began to shake, and she buried her face in her hands.

  Solomon slid to his feet, touching the distraught young woman lightly on the shoulder. Suddenly, she was in his arms, weeping wildly, her tears soaking his shirt. Slightly embarrassed by the display of affection, Solomon looked up to see Lucinda regarding him with the faintest look of satisfaction on her face. Glancing across the table, she caught the eye of Hepzibah, who immediately rose to her feet and came to Solomon’s assistance. She gave him a wide smile and mouthed the words thank you as she led the still-weeping young woman away.

  When the interminable dinner finally ended, each family member seemed to head off in separate directions. Giuseppe turned directly to Solomon. “I would like to thank you again for what you did to save my family, Solomon… and what you just did for Elora.” When Solomon gave the man a flat look, Giuseppe continued, “You actually care for Elora.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

  Solomon sighed. “Giuseppe, despite all I’ve read about the Fontaine family and all the negative press, I find myself coming to care for you all.” He frowned. “Isn’t that odd?” He looked up into matching gray eyes. “I’m also coming to like and respect you—and your wife—very much, Giuseppe.” He grinned. “I suspect that the entire story of the Beast was a simple fabrication used to damage your reputation.”

  Giuseppe looked as though he wanted to agree, but what came out was, “The Beast is quite real, my boy.” A strong hand squeezed Solomon’s arm. “Quite real.” The elder Fontaine turned away, leaving Solomon standing alone in the empty dining room, a hundred unanswered questions running through his mind.

  Chapter 4

  SUSPICIONS

  “Ugh!” Elora grunted as she pulled at the lower edge of her advanced 5.11 Tactical Body Armor. “How can you wear this stuff? It’s horrible. It’s uncomfortable, and it smells.”

  Solomon checked the fit of the body armor, trying to ignore the fact that Elora Fontaine was a damned attractive young woman standing before him in a skintight suit that made a racing maillot look thick and bulky. For some strange reason, Giuseppe trusted him around Elora. It was too bad that he didn’t trust himself, especially since Addy was two hundred twenty-five million kilometers and the better part of a year away. Luckily for Elora, the armor wasn’t a one-size-fits-all variety. It even came designed to be worn by either male or female and so was shaped and curved appropriately. “You will wear this because both your father and I say so. This uncomfortable and smelly stuff can save your life.”

  Elora dutifully pulled and tugged, wiggled and scowled. “I hated you after what you did to me, making me see Novalie butchered like that. You had no right—”

  “I had every right. I wouldn’t see you hurt or killed, and you had to learn that this is a deadly serious business we’re dealing with.” Solomon took a step back and looked at Elora critically. “Good. Bend over and touch your toes.”

  “What!”

  Solomon winced at the tone of her voice.

  “Are you insane?”

  “I have to see if the suit fits you, and my armorer in the marines told me that this is the quickest way. I did it, and for men, it’s a little more… difficult.” He blushed.

  She gave him a long look then bent over and touched her toes. “There.” She crossed her arms and glared at him. “Satisfied?”

  He smiled. “Yes, I’m satisfied. You can take it off now.” His shoulders slumped. “Now I have to fit your mother, father, brother, and sister. Joy. You can help me with the ladies.”

  Elora scowled at him a moment longer before she turned and left the room without another word.

  Solomon sat back in a soft chair, drinking deeply from his water bottle as he reflected on the gunfight in the west wing. The gnawing worry returned almost immediately that he actually enjoyed killing the attackers, seeing their bodies blown to smoking shards by his ravening energy weapons. He shuddered as he realized it had happened before, during his last tour to the Middle East. His legs had been shattered in the end, but he’d killed the six men threatening his squad with his bare hands. His squad-mates had later told him in confidence that when he fought, his eyes seemed to glow a sullen deadly red, lighter than the color of blood. The color of Mars.

  After the battle, doctors had assured him that he would spend the rest of his life confined to a wheelchair. Solomon smiled to himself when he recalled walking out of the hospital unassisted six weeks later. The doctors wanted to keep him for further studies, but he politely and firmly refused. He looked at his lean form in Elora’s mirror. Despite his chosen occupation and multiple operations o
n his legs and other places, he bore not a single scar on his body. Oh, he’d been injured, and had even received numerous stiches, staples, and patches to several gunshot wounds. One by one, the stiches had fallen out as he healed, and eventually, the scars themselves had faded from existence. Elora interrupted his musing, giving him a sidelong look and crooked smile.

  “Papa said that you wouldn’t even talk about money for babysitting the lot of us. Why are you doing this, then?”

  Solomon opened his mouth then shut it. “I suppose that I’ve come to realize I shouldn’t believe everything I’ve read about the Fontaine family.” He met her eyes. “I like you all, and I don’t like bad things to happen to people I like.” His grin was thin. “If your father pays me what we agreed on to take care of you, I’ll be happy. Although…” He stopped, unable to prevent the frown from creasing his face.

  “What?”

  “I’ve got a feeling that this whole business will get much more complicated before we can sit back and sigh with relief.”

  Elora looked at him with wide eyes for a moment.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever see Earth again,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

  ~~~

  The two-hundred-kilometer-wide Lowell Crater looked somewhat like a crater within a crater bull’s-eye. Covering a sprawling area of seventy square kilometers in the innermost crater, the city of Lowell was a working-class city composed of both old and new structures. Several hundred airtight domes of different dimensions and colors dotted the frosty floor of the central crater while larger domes in the center were obviously government and administrative buildings. From a distance, Solomon thought he saw a mall, complete with several dozen scattered stores of various sizes all set in one large festively decorated dome. An enormous central dome, which Solomon guessed was easily a kilometer in diameter, shielded a lush green park. All of the domes were connected by clear winding transit tubes in widths from ten to twenty meters, surrounding the central hub of the park. Mountainous crater walls protected the city from the worst of the howling Martian winds and also generated a healthy income from the many Fontaine-owned mines that dotted their steep slopes. Sheltered between the inner ring of mountains and the outer ring squatted the small public spaceport, complete with its own eight-kilometer runway built to handle oversized shuttles. From the window of the Fontaine shuttle, Solomon could see the scorch marks burned into the smooth Martian soil, marking the arrival and departure of numerous spacecraft. Perhaps ten kilometers distant from the spaceport, scores of blocky automated warehouses rose dozens of meters into the Martian air. As the shuttle banked for a landing, Solomon saw driverless vehicles ferrying cargo to and from the spaceport. He turned to Giuseppe. “Are those all yours, Giuseppe?”