A.I. Assault (The A.I. Series Book 3)

by Vaughn Heppner

  He sniffed again, and the idea struck.

  Benz smiled as he set the glass on the table. He was in Paris, sipping wine, and there was a redheaded beauty at a nearby table. Could not even a smart Inspector General lose his mind over a woman? That would even explain why he’d followed her here.

  Content with the premise of the plan, Benz now worked on devising the essence. He would not introduce himself yet. That wouldn’t work.

  Hmmm…maybe later today—

  No. It would have to be this evening. He needed to discover her itinerary first. He picked up the goblet and the tablet and moved to another wrought-iron table, this one in the shade. It also happened to be beside the redhead and the older major.

  Benz studied his tablet, all the while listening carefully to the couple’s conversation. He was sure he would learn something in the next half hour that he could use for his master plan tonight.

  -3-

  Benz was something of a historian. He believed history—the stories of men and women in countless different venues in the past—was one of the best guides to human behavior. Various behavioral sciences claimed a better understanding of the human heart. Benz did not agree. History was really nothing more than humanity’s collective memory. To say that history didn’t matter was like saying memory wasn’t important to an individual, that the moment the individual happened to be living through was all that mattered. That would be absurd.

  One thing Benz had always supposed in his study of history was a pall of gloom on the general society during major political purges. The Stalinist purges of the 1930s and the later Maoist purges had led Benz to believe that those societies had been grim and humorless.

  According to this belief, Justinian’s increasingly paranoid and savagely thorough purges of the military and Social Dynamism Party members should have led to a cessation of fun everywhere in the Solar League. Earth should have been even harder hit—given the correctness of Benz’s assumption, of course.

  That was not true this evening here at the old Versailles Palace. People by the thousands flocked to the gala event, a costume ball. Surprisingly, mostly military officers and higher Party members were in attendance. These should have been the last people to party hearty, as they were in the category most likely to face a coming tribunal and a firing squad.

  Yet, as Benz laughed at a joke an under-secretary of True News told to those circled around him, he realized why his former assessment had been incorrect. Many of those partying here tonight, dressed up as courtiers and ladies of the Sun King, Louis XIV of France, were doomed to die in the next few weeks. Therefore, the obvious course in their minds was to eat, drink and be merry, for literally, tomorrow they might die.

  Benz excused himself from the group. He was wearing a heavy wig, finery, hose and buckled shoes like a fop from that period. He held a stick with a mask on the end to disguise his eyes. It was all quite ridiculous. He would never have come to such a foolish event except that the redhead and her major were supposed to come. Such he’d overheard from their lunch conversation.

  “Here now,” Benz told a waiter. “Wait a moment, you.” He took a flute of champagne off a passing tray and appeared to dash the contents into his mouth. Soon enough, he poured the sparkling drink into a potted plant. It was an old ruse, likely first practiced in an ancient Egyptian court before the Pharaoh.

  In any case, Benz made the rounds, searching for the redhead. He pretended to drink several more glasses, and he carefully playacted the part of a man growing increasingly drunk.

  The GSB agents assigned to watch him had made their appearance. There were many other secret police agents mingled among the laughing, drinking, dancing and singing throng. Benz wondered if some of the secret police enjoyed themselves by joining the festivities. He suspected so. Tyrants could issue their decrees. Some people listened, of course. Some simply modified such decrees to suit their normal behaviors, as was the wont of most people throughout the ages.

  The very issuance of laws implied something broken inside man. Why give laws to perfectly behaved people? They would not need laws. But ah, the heart of man was hidden away from prying eyes. In the dark, beetles could crawl and hide and worms could wriggle. In the dark, a heart could plot and fantasize to its own delight.

  But what did dramas, holo-vid shows and songs declare? They almost uniformly urged people to follow their heart.

  Murderers followed their hearts’ delight. So did thieves, liars, adulterers, rapists, drunkards and porn addicts.

  Benz sighed. Man was man. He had been man during Noah’s departure off the Ark and when old Noah had gotten dead drunk, when Achilles slew Hector beside the walls of Troy, at the coronation of Charlemagne, at the battle of the Bulge when an officer shouted, “Balls!” and during 9/11 when a handful of Saudis smashed jetliners into the Twin Towers, and on and on and on. Laws, decrees, social experiments and purges could not change the essence of man.

  According to the reports from the Saturn System—from the hidden GSB agents there who had learned about the actions in Neptune System—the alien AIs physically modified people and turned them into something else entirely.

  That’s why I’m here. That’s why I have to play the part of a buffoon. And that’s why I helped Justinian become the Premier.

  Benz felt that he was directly responsible for the reign of terror presently taking place on Earth. It was so hard to believe those killings were taking place given the party tonight. And yet…the excesses of these people showed that they knew they lived on the knife’s edge.

  “Wait,” Benz told a waiter. His hand seemed to have lost some of its coordination. It took him two tries to grasp a glass, lifting it off the tray.

  The Inspector General raised the glass in a salute to the waiter. Naturally, most of the champagne sloshed over the lip, dripping from his hand onto the floor.

  Benz laughed and appeared to toss the rest of the contents into his mouth. He staggered off afterward. Where was the damn woman? Where—?

  He stopped short, blinking as if it took an effort of will to think straight. What would Justinian make of the GSB reports later of the Inspector General’s unseemly drunkenness? Likely, the reports would please Justinian. Rulers seemed to uniformly love a weakness in their subordinates, something they could use as a lever against the person.

  Like an old bull, Benz began moving again. He lumbered onto the dance floor. The redhead was dancing with the major. Both were wearing period-piece costumes, the woman showing her cleavage to great advantage. The major, despite his age, had a decided lightness of foot.

  “Do you mind, dear fellow?” Benz said with a slur. “I’d like to cut in.”

  The major had to turn to look at Benz. “Get out of here,” the major warned with a scowl.

  Benz lowered his mask.

  The major continued to scowl. Maybe he didn’t recognize the Inspector General of Earth.

  “Don’t worry, Heinz,” the redhead told the major. “This is Frank Benz.”

  The name rang a gong in the major’s mind, as he appeared startled. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “No matter,” Benz said, putting a hand on the major’s shoulder. “Just leave,” he said, pulling the major toward him and then shoving him to a destination farther away.

  He didn’t look to see what the major did. Instead, Benz clumsily took hold of the woman, grinned drunkenly and attempted to twirl her back to dancing.

  She stumbled.

  “Pardon,” he slurred.

  She recovered quickly, giving him a careful scrutiny. Then she matched his jerky manner of dancing as they moved among the more practiced couples on the dance floor.

  “You’re a good dancer,” Benz said, as if he were a fool.

  “Thank you, Inspector General.”

  “It’s Frank, please,” he said, tightening his hold on her.

  “Thank you, Frank,” she said with a delightful laugh.

  Benz grinned at her, adding a drunken leer at her cleavage.

 
; She laughed again with seemingly greater delight.

  She’s an easy lay if I want it, Benz realized. Yes. Maybe that would be the best approach. That should cover his tracks. It wouldn’t make the major happy. And normally, Benz did not indulge in one-night stands. Still, this was for Earth, for humanity as a whole.

  And thus, I prove that my heart is as dark as any, he thought.

  Benz burst out laughing, as if he were laughing with the redhead. In reality, he was laughing at his willingness to bed the redhead and call it duty.

  She feels good, and she likes this. I’m doing it because I can.

  That was a lousy excuse. But he did need to question the redhead, and he had to do it in a way that aroused the least suspicion. People often spoke about strange things while aroused.

  “I have an idea,” Benz said, leering at the firm cleavage before his eyes.

  “Yes?” she asked, with arched eyebrows.

  And so Benz launched onto a perilous path, searching for a helpmate against one of the most insidiously tyrannical political systems ever imposed upon humanity.

  -4-

  Benz learned what he needed to know from the redhead. He had to spend three days and nights with her to gain the knowledge. She proved to be an active and vigorous woman, and Benz realized the GSB had turned her into an informant long ago.

  That was fine. He indulged himself with her to the fullest. He enjoyed the lovemaking, and he felt tremendously guilty about it afterward. In this, he could not overcome his upbringing.

  His parents had been Christians, belonging to an underground church. Benz held many of their beliefs, although he hadn’t practiced much of what he believed. He wondered if that made him a hypocrite. Probably in some ways it did. If one listened to people long enough, it was clear they accused others of things they were perfectly fine doing themselves. Things like cutting in line but getting mad if someone cut ahead of them. Maybe everyone was a hypocrite to one degree or another.

  Benz also wondered if trying to fight the current at least a little was better than simply drifting along and doing every wrong he wanted.

  Yes, he slept with the redhead many times during the three days and he probably shouldn’t have. During one of the last periods of lying around and watching a movie afterward, he’d gotten her to tell him a seemingly ridiculous story.

  It was what he had been fishing for, as he’d heard a rumor of the incident some time ago.

  The redhead had been riding a horse on the last day of the former Premier’s administration. She had found Justinian in a park, having non-consensual sex with his latest victim. Benz learned that the former Chief Arbiter had actually intended to ride nude to the conference on the redhead’s horse.

  Benz shook his head in wonder, although he had the wisdom not to laugh. It was possible the bedroom was bugged, and it was possible GSB interrogators would force the redhead later to recount the Inspector General’s exact responses to the nakedness story.

  Benz had lain close to her then, and he’d whispered a few questions. She had smelled so good as she lay there looking up at him.

  The woman in the park with Justinian that day had been a military linguist. She’d said an amazing thing after Justinian rode off.

  Benz raised his eyebrows.

  The redhead lowered her voice, repeating the linguist’s wish to kill Justinian for raping her.

  At that point, Benz made his greatest dare. He hinted around as if he’d like to know the woman’s name.

  The redhead squinted at him, thought about it and shook her head. For a moment, she seemed about to say that she didn’t know the name. Instead, she said, “Vela Shaw.”

  Benz had gotten the name at great political and personal risk. No doubt, the Premier had already read a report about the Inspector General’s short vacation in Paris. If Justinian hadn’t read the reports written by the GSB agents and the redheaded informant, the new Chief Arbiter would have read them.

  Had Benz committed enough strange behaviors these past few days to bring the secret police to his door?

  So far, so good, and Benz believed he still had more time left. At least, such were his calculations. And in the last three years—since his rise to inhuman intelligence—the calculations had only been wrong three times.

  Benz presently walked through a munitions factory several kilometers from a northern suburb in Rio de Janeiro.

  It had been a week since his dalliance with the redhead. She’d attempted to contact him. He had not responded. That would make her angry. That might change some of her informant responses to her GSB case officer.

  Benz shrugged. That couldn’t be helped.

  “Sir?” the munitions chief asked in dismay. He was a well-fed man in his fifties with three chins and a growing look of concern. He’d been explaining why he’d failed to make quota for the second month in a row. Clearly, the chief had taken Benz’s shrug the wrong way.

  “Continue,” Benz said curtly.

  The munitions chief did, his voice cracking at times and his concern obviously growing.

  Benz terminated the inspection two hours later.

  “We’re working overtime, Inspector General,” the chief said in a whiny voice. They stood beside Benz’s air-car in the official parking lot.

  “Do you think the State is made of credits?” Benz demanded.

  “N-No,” the chief stammered.

  “The People’s labor creates wealth. When you squander credits, you squander the People’s hard work. Do you despise the People, Chief?”

  “N-Never,” the munitions chief stammered.

  “There will be no more overtime. You will reach your quota. If you fail this month…” Benz let the threat hang in the air.

  “But Inspector General…” the chief pleaded. “How can I encourage my workers to work harder? They yearn for credits—”

  “How dare you?” Benz said in outrage. “Do you claim your workers are traitors to Social Dynamism?”

  “N-No. Y-You misread my intent.”

  “You claim I’m an ignoramus like you?”

  “Inspector General,” the chief declared in horror. “N-No.”

  Benz turned abruptly. He had no desire to torment the plant manager, but this was the kind of response the chief would expect from him. The man worked under considerable strain. Ever since the Nathan Graham had torn the Saturn System from the Solar League, the populace had labored overtime to build up an ever-greater military.

  Benz opened the door to his air-car, waving his hand as the manager pleaded for an extension. Benz could not give the manager one. The Solar League was preparing for space war. The hour of decision against the Nathan Graham was fast approaching.

  Benz slid into the air-car, pressing a button that shut the door. He didn’t look at the three-chinned plant manager. Activating the machine, taking it up, Benz decided it was time to make his play.

  Vela Shaw, here I come.

  -5-

  Benz reached the Language Institute in the middle of Rio de Janeiro. It was a vast building in one of the most beautiful cities on Earth. Rio also happened to be the capital for the Solar League.

  Benz walked into the grand lobby in time to see four black-uniformed GSB agents escorting a startling beautiful woman. She had long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. She had green eyes that showed her anger and sadness mingled together.

  People in the lobby avoided looking at the GSB agents. A few men glanced sidelong at the blonde with the gorgeous legs. Her heels clicked on the marble flooring as the four burly agents escorted her. None of their shoes made a sound.

  Benz’s right hand actually strayed to his holster. That was Vela Shaw. It could only mean one thing: the redhead had talked too much. The redhead must have recalled what she’d told the Inspector General after having sex.

  Instead of drawing and firing his gun, Benz avoided looking at the group as they marched past him for the lobby doors. He would have to forget about Vela Shaw. She was going away. She would soon be de
ad. She had uttered a death threat, and now she was going to have pay for it with her life. Likely, nothing would have happened to her if Benz hadn’t attempted to track her down.

  He looked up and turned around, staring at the four GSB agents. The first one opened the door. Two grabbed hold of Vela Shaw’s arms. She looked back with terror etched on her incredibly lovely face. Her green eyes scanned the lobby. Maybe she was remembering for later in case they stuck her in isolation. She might have felt Benz’s stare. Vela Shaw looked at him, their gazes meeting.

  One, two, three seconds passed. In those three seconds, something went from Vela Shaw and hit Benz like a sledgehammer to the heart, causing him to take a step back. He could actually feel his heart thudding in his chest. It was positively crazy, but it was quite real.

  Vela Shaw stumbled as the two agents thrust her through the exit. She had to look forward again. The glass door swung shut, and Vela and her escorts headed for a GSB heavy lifter.

  Benz blinked, and it felt as if grit had been poured into his eyes. He had to save Vela Shaw. It was that simple. He had to follow his heart.

  Benz looked down. The agents would take her to the dreaded De Gama House. The vast building took up several blocks of Rio. It was more than likely that Vela Shaw would go downstairs to the most loathsome part of De Gama House.

  Benz closed his eyes so that he could think for a moment. When he opened them, Benz seemed like a different man, an avenger who had spread his wings to swoop down on his enemies.

  This was going to be tricky. Benz walked briskly toward the exit. It was time to act.

  -6-

  For three years, Frank Benz had known he’d become a mental superman. At first, it had been a heady feeling. Later, it started constricting his spirit. He’d invented so many things he could never use. Well, he was going to use one of them in the next half hour.