“What’s your name, son?” Benz asked.
The marine turned a shade paler. “Uh… Corporal Manuel Gutierrez, sir.”
Benz doubted he could bust out of the trap directly. Yes, Gutierrez licked his lips as his right hand strayed down to the butt of his holstered sidearm. There would be others ready to back Gutierrez up. It would seem that Benz needed to deal directly with Anna Dominguez. If she was his secret enemy, at least he knew it now. That was good to know…provided he survived the encounter.
“Fine,” Benz said. “The Party Secretary and her aide. Bid them enter.”
The marine clicked his heels and moved aside, which was contrary to Benz’s original orders that the man escort them into the chamber.
A soft purr heralded Party Secretary Anna Dominguez as her support unit wheeled into the ready room.
The support unit was a chrome-colored chair. It supported a frail-seeming old woman. She couldn’t be more than four-foot-ten and couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds.
The chair was like a throne. Only one tube was visible as it went through a thick sleeve and disappeared into her arm. Fluids surged thickly in the tube.
Anna Dominguez had a wrinkled face swathed in black cloth. The eyes were alive, shiny dark pinholes of seething cunning. She wore a red garment and pants with black boots. The boots rested on a pedestal. The only skin showing besides her face was her hands. Each of the fingernails had been painted black.
That did not become her in the slightest.
The fingers of her left hand moved a tiny metal rod at the end of the armrest to control her chair.
She wheeled it through the hatch and moved toward the large desk before stopping suddenly.
Benz approached his desk from the other direction, nodding at her before sitting down. There was a gun in the desk—there had been a gun in the desk. It seemed more than probable that someone had removed the gun.
“Welcome, Anna,” Benz said, opening the needed drawer. Yes, the gun was gone. The plotters had thoroughly prepared for this.
Ancient Anna did not respond to his words. Instead, she watched him with ill-concealed glee.
A man strode through the hatch. He was lean like a vulture and had the same kind of hunch to his shoulders. The man had narrow features, darker than normal skin and wore a black suit. He had several black rings on his fingers.
As the hatch closed behind him, the man seemed to look everywhere at once, searching, gauging and studying. He seemed to be memorizing the ready room’s outlay, to examine the pictures on the walls and analyze what they indicated about Benz.
“You brought your assassin with you?” Benz asked Anna Dominguez.
The lean man halted, swiveled his body so it faced Benz and gave the Premier an icy stare.
“Do you take offense at my supposed action?” the old woman asked Benz.
She had a surprisingly strong voice. There was nothing ancient in it. The voice indicated iron will and certainty. There was possibly the sound of glee in it as well, but Benz couldn’t be certain.
In order to hide his nervousness, Benz put his hands on his desk as he shook his head.
“No offense taken,” he said.
“He lies,” the black-clad man said in a low whisper. “He loathes me. I can feel the vibration from his spirit.”
The black-clad man moved behind the chrome support unit. The unit began to wheel again, maneuvering before the Premier’s desk, halting an inch from it.
“You wished to see me?” Benz said, as if nothing was wrong.
“He’s nervous,” the black-clad man said in his sinister whisper. “He wants to know the worst as soon as possible.”
Benz leaned back, his mind awhirl.
“At last,” Anna said, “I meet the famous—or should I say, infamous—Frank Benz.” The pin-dot eyes seemed to burn with passion. “I do not find you to be a superman at all.”
“A pity,” Benz said. “I’d hoped to overawe you with my personality.”
“He is calculating swiftly,” the black-clad man said. “He is weighing odds. I can feel the tensions rise in him.”
Benz felt an odd sensation at that moment. He reexamined the black-clad man. The Premier understood that he’d made a mistake. The lean man wasn’t an assassin. No. He was something else.
Benz’s eyes widened fractionally.
“Party Secretary,” the black-clad man said. “He is on the verge of understanding why I’m here.”
“Ah…” Anna said. “Maybe you are as smart as they say,” she told Benz. “That is going to make the, ah…coming readjustment that much more enjoyable.”
“Is he an empath?” Benz asked.
“Very good,” Anna said. “You’ve reached the conclusion with remarkably little evidence.”
“Is that a joke?” Benz asked.
Her pin-dot eyes seemed to burn darker.
“Have a care, Premier,” she told him. “I can make this quite painful if I desire.”
Benz would have preferred to remain utterly still in order to create the illusion of power. Instead, he drummed the fingers of his left hand on the desk. He couldn’t help it. The nerves in his gut boiled too much.
“You have done me a great service,” Anna was saying. “You have done Mars a great service. Now, however—”
“He understands,” the empath said. “He is running through counter-options in his mind.”
The black-clad man put a hand on the Party Secretary’s left shoulder.
“You are in danger,” the man told the ancient crone. “It may have been a mistake doing it like this.”
Anna smiled, showing off her white teeth.
“Do you believe you can launch yourself across your desk and choke me to death before reinforcements arrive through the hatch?” Anna asked the Premier.
Benz frowned. It would seem to be an elementary tactic to knock down the empath and kill the old woman. He would have to kill the empath afterward, too. That would give him a few minutes to develop a plan. The guards and hitmen outside the ready room could pose a problem, though. He assumed such people would be outside on the bridge given Anna’s veiled boasts.
It would be a pity killing the empath, though. Benz could use someone like that on his staff—if he could have trusted the man.
That was Benz’s great dilemma. He’d escaped from Earth with precious few Earthmen in his train. Most of those people had died. The rest of the cybership crew was made up of Martians. A few might side with him in a pinch. Most of the Gilgamesh’s crew were Martians first, his people second.
He needed more time and he needed a different source for his crew in order to turn them into loyalists that would stick with him through thick or thin. If he could wrap himself around the Martian flag… For all his intellect, he hadn’t figured out a way to do that yet.
Social Dynamism on Mars hadn’t become as radical as practiced on Earth and Venus. Still, it held Martian society in a suffocating web.
“Why do you believe that removing me from office will cement your position?” Benz asked.
“It is obvious,” Anna said. “You stand in my way. Once you’re gone, I can put one of my creatures onto the Gilgamesh’s captain’s chair. With the sole cybership in the Solar System, the Mars Unity will begin an incremental assault upon the so-called Solar Freedom Force.”
“Hawkins will return,” Benz said.
“Most likely,” she said. “But he will return too late to save the Outer Planets. Once I hold them and build up, I can turn upon the Solar League.”
“Hawkins will destroy you for attacking the SFF while he was gone.”
“I seriously doubt that, young man. Hawkins is a warrior. He only wants to fight. I will make a pact with him, allowing him to fight the AIs to his heart’s desire while I rule the Solar System.”
“Is power that delicious at your age?” Benz asked.
Anna laughed.
Behind her, the lean empath smiled knowingly.
“At any age,” A
nna said, “power is the sweetest ambrosia there is. Before I pass, I plan to become drunk on power. There are many objectives I still wish to achieve. Because of Hawkins’ misstep and your wounding in the Asteroid Belt, I have been able to assemble the needed people to throw you down from the height of your alien starship. You took too long to recover from your injuries, Premier. During your deep wounding, you let slip the reins of power just enough to give me my opportunity.”
“Beware,” the empath told her. “He is readying himself to strike.”
It was true. Benz’s muscles coiled as he sat on the chair. He was going to do exactly what the old crone had asked him earlier. He was going to climb over the desk and launch himself at her.
Before Benz made the initial move, though, the old woman reached into her red garment and withdrew a compact device with a sinister nozzle poking at him. Her tiny thumb hovered over a red button, a firing button, no doubt.
“I need merely touch the button and the beam will disintegrate you,” she said.
“That can’t be a laser weapon,” Benz said. “It’s too small for the needed power pack.”
“I told you what it is: a disintegrator.”
“I seriously doubt that. No one has created the technology for such a small beam weapon.”
“I have,” Anna said triumphantly.
Benz fingered his chin as a chill of understanding swept over him.
“Is that alien technology?” he asked.
“Why would you care?” she sneered. “You’re about to die.”
Benz kept his composure as he furiously thought through the implications of an alien weapon.
“I fail to see the advantage in killing me,” Benz said blandly. “I suspect you already rule Mars, Party Secretary. I am the Premier, true enough. But I merely run foreign policy. I have done nothing to disrupt your hold on power. I have sought your advice—”
“Party Secretary—” the empath interrupted in warning.
Benz reached across the desk and picked up a fist-sized glass paper-holder. Almost nonchalantly, he brought the glass to him and then hurled it at the Party Secretary.
Benz had kept his mind focused on the political situation, attempting to simulate a pleading “tone” in his thoughts. Apparently, that had been enough to hide his hidden intention long enough from the empath. As he picked up the heavy glass piece, he reacted as instantly as he could.
“—he’s going to attack you,” the empath finished.
By that time, it was too late to warn the ancient crone. The heavy glass object had flown true, striking her against the forehead. Perhaps after 154 years, her skull had become more brittle than in her youth.
The Party Secretary of Mars sagged against her chrome-colored throne. Her arms sagged and her hands opened. The compact disintegrator fell onto her lap.
Both the empath and Benz watched the disintegrator. The lean man watched from behind her throne. Benz watched from behind his large desk.
They both seemed to move at once. The empath came around the chair, reached for the disintegrator, grabbed it, raised it and began to aim it at Benz.
The Premier was on the desk. He kicked hard, his boot connecting with the disintegrator.
The compact weapon flew across the room, striking a wall and bouncing across the floor.
The empath whirled around, racing for it.
Benz jumped off the desk, landed on the floor and followed the empath. The lean man dove for the disintegrator. Benz leaped after him, landing on the back of his legs.
“No!” the empath shouted.
Benz clawed up the man’s torso. He was going to beat him to death.
The empath twisted around. Their faces were inches apart. The man had huge dark eyes that seemed to grow larger and larger.
“Know pain,” the empath hissed.
Benz began to laugh. Then the pain struck. He cried out. The empath seemed to be more than just that. He—
Benz roared as he clamped down on the pain. His fingers clutched onto the fabric of the empath’s jacket. Benz didn’t know it, but the empath had twisted back around to reach for the disintegrator.
Although Benz couldn’t see through his watery eyes, he could still feel. The Premier slid a steely arm around the empath’s throat. He tightened his hold, choking the man. Then he yanked back as hard as he could.
The empath began to gurgle as he sought to wrench off the steely arm.
The pain subsided in Benz’s mind. Then it hit harder than ever.
The Premier groaned and slackened his chokehold.
“No!” Benz snarled.
In his day, he’d played hundreds maybe thousands of grueling physical contests, hockey, football, basketball, wrestling. In many of those contests, he had been dead tired. He’d been beat. His lungs had screamed for air and his legs had felt like noodles. In most of those instances, Benz had clamped down on the pain and pushed his body to go longer, faster and to exert more strength. That was how he’d won a lot of his games, by wearing down his opponent.
Today, in the ready room, as the pain filled his mind, Benz still forced himself to choke harder, longer—
Abruptly, the mental pain ceased. The creature was dead.
Benz crashed onto the floor as he released his defeated foe. He knew this was far from over, but he no longer had an ounce of strength left.
-2-
After an undeterminable length of time, Benz opened his eyes as he lay on his back in his ready room. He realized he heard knocking on the hatch.
“Just a second,” Benz called.
The knocking ceased. Did the others on the other side of the hatch recognize his voice? If they did—
No! He didn’t have the luxury of time to think this over. He likely had to act now to save his life. The Party Secretary had come up here to kill him, certainly to depose him from his captain’s chair. Why she had felt the need to do so personally…
Benz didn’t understand that. It had been risky. Why had she been willing to risk her life for it?
The pounding against the hatch increased.
Benz closed his eyes and opened them wide. Even if the Party Secretary and empath were dead, the others on the bridge would have to kill him in order to cover their hides. Killing him as the Party Secretary’s murderer seemed like the obvious solution for them.
What was the answer that could save his life?
Despite his aching head and sore muscles, Benz thought he saw a way out of his dilemma. While on his hands and knees, he crawled toward the compact disintegrator.
What was this thing? Could it really have disintegrated him? That seemed preposterous.
The hatch squealed as it opened. Benz twisted his head. He saw battlesuit gloves on the bottom crumpled edge of the hatch, using the exoskeleton power of the suit to force the hatch up.
Benz no longer had a choice. He picked up the compact device, climbed to his feet in a stubborn effort of will and aimed the tiny nozzle at the hatch.
The battlesuited marine opened the hatch all the way and regarded him through an armored visor.
Benz touched the red button with his thumb. An intense clear ray beamed out of the nozzle, burned through the visor and presumably melted the head inside the suit.
Yes! As Benz took his thumb off the button, the battlesuit toppled backward like a felled ancient Redwood tree.
In that instant, Benz realized what he had to do. It was a sickening solution to his problem, but he didn’t see any other way out of it.
Forcing himself to walk, he staggered to the hatch, moving out of the ready room and onto the bridge. The place was filled with personnel, many who did not belong here. Some of them were marines. Some of them had holstered weapons.
Before any of them could react, Benz raised the compact disintegrator and started beaming the coup plotters.
In this instance, he did not stop until every one of them dropped to the deck, dead.
By that time, the disintegrator was hot in his hand. A terrible burned sten
ch billowed throughout the bridge. A few of the slain had gotten off shots. One had grazed his side, exposing reddened flesh through the tear in his uniform. It was the only shot that had come close to hitting him.
Clearly, the coup plotters had hardly known what hit them.
As Benz removed his thumb from the red button, he hardly realized what had happened. The murderous attack left him shaken. But he knew it wasn’t over yet. Even this gruesome part of the solution wasn’t over.
Benz marched to a fallen marine, tore the gun from the holster and began to wade past the bodies on the floor. He started by putting a bullet in each head.
He couldn’t take any chances that any of them were still alive.
Then he realized he didn’t have the time for such luxury. He examined each person with a glance, and shot five more individuals, those with signs of life.
Benz felt terribly alone. He felt soiled by what he had done. This was murder. There was no getting around it. But it was also a political housecleaning. With these people gone, maybe he could truly gain command of the Gilgamesh.
First…
Benz paused. He turned around, staring at the compact disintegrator on the deck. Slowly, almost like a sleepwalker, he moved back to it. Stooping, he picked it up.
The thing was cool again.
This was not ordinary technology. In fact, Benz doubted anyone else in the Solar System possessed such a weapon.
What did that tell him?
With growing wonder, Benz headed back for his ready room. He was actually fearful about what he was going to find.
-3-
Benz stood in the hatchway between the bridge and his ready room. Behind him lay the many Martian dead, around half of them Martian space marines. Only a quarter of those had been wearing battle armor.
Inside the ready room lay the dead empath and Anna Dominquez in her chrome throne-like chair. Was there anything odd about their bodies?
Benz couldn’t tell from where he was standing.
He glanced at the compact disintegrator. He’d never seen or heard of anything like this.
The things he’d done with the disintegrator just now…that was potent battle tech. If the Martian Fleet were armed with large disintegrators, it could possibly stand off the rest of the Solar System by itself.
A.I. Battle Station (The A.I. Series Book 4) Page 11
