Feeling as though he’d been punched in the gut by a huge fist, he picked himself up from the far side of the dune, trying to shake the ringing out of his ears. Standing took a distinct effort, as did the long climb back to the top of the dune. Below him, where there had once been a neat orderly camp, pandemonium reigned. A smoking crater sat where the munitions dump had once been, and an ill-placed communication van lay on its side, burning brightly. Two of the APCs were piled on top of each other, while drivers were running for the rest. Bodies lay everywhere, and he guessed that perhaps as few as five hundred leaderless men were left. It was still too many.
He stood for a while longer, wondering how long it would to take them to finally see him. Flames from the burning munition dump lit the area like daylight, and still, he waited. Finally, he raised his heavy military energy pistol and sighted in on a corporal who was giving orders. Solomon squeezed the trigger. In a boom of sound, the corporal’s head evaporated. Solomon had to shoot three more men before they finally saw him. He’d worried for a moment that he was going to have to dance and sing to get their attention.
A shot screamed over his head and off into the night, and Solomon Draxx decided that he’d had about enough fun for one evening. Leaving a clear, easily seen trail for the mercenaries to follow, he turned toward his waiting marines and set off at an easy lope.
He touched the sentry’s shoulder, and Corporal Brigit Uí Dubháin jumped.
“Cac!” she spat. “You scared the hell out of me, Solomon.” She glanced at the light on the horizon. “What did you do? It sounded like World War III.”
“Blew up the ammo dump for the brigade they had waiting for us, after I killed the leadership, of course.”
“They have a brigade set to come against us?” Her eyes widened, and she bit her lip in fear.
“Had,” Solomon replied gravely. “I’d guess that they’re down to about five hundred leaderless men right now, who are probably considering their own mortality and the chances of ever seeing Earth again.”
Brigit snorted. “Something like you?”
He laughed without humor. “I already know that I’ll never see Earth again.”
Brigit touched his arm. “You’re a pessimist.”
He smiled. “I’m pragmatic, and thanks to Mars, I’m not even really human any longer.”
“Ahhhh, but you’re lucky, and that makes up for a lot, ye know,” she murmured, her Irish accent quite pronounced.
“You’re irrepressible, Brigit.” He grinned. “I have to get down and tell the others what happened. Keep your eyes open. I think they’re finally coming after me.”
Twenty scared mercenaries clustered around a sputtering APC that trailed a cloud of smoke as it slowly crested the sand dune. Their megawatt flashlights strobed the darkness—and also blinded them to what was moving in the night. The APC reached the bottom of the dune, began to struggle up the next, coughed once, and died. The men bunched a little closer to the limited protection of the APC as the vehicle’s spotlight fell on Solomon. The starter on the APC ground one last time and lapsed into silence. Solomon waited on the dune, unmoving.
“You might consider surrendering,” Solomon said conversationally as a shot rang out from the darkness and the spotlight sputtered and died. “We have you surrounded.”
“The rest of the battalion will get you,” one of the encircled mercenaries called out.
“What’s left of your battalion couldn’t find its ass with both hands. If you surrender, you may even see Earth again. If not, then I guarantee you’ll be buried here on Mars.”
The mercenaries stopped moving as the hatch to the APC creaked open. Holding a small handheld flashlight, the driver exited. The mercenaries huddled for a moment before the original speaker called out, “We surrender,” and tossed his rifle well away from him.
Solomon made no move. “Corporal,” he called out, “do you have them in your sights?”
“Yes, sir,” Brigit answered from the darkness.
The surrendering mercenary seemed to sag. “Fucking marines,” he said in disgust. “They never told us that we’d be fighting fucking marines.” He reached behind his back and drew out the heavy pistol that had been tucked into the back waistband of his pants, tossing it to join the rifle in the sand. “Do as he says, and we may live to see home,” he growled to the other mercenaries. “Try anything funny, and I’ll kill you myself.”
“There’s a certain amount of rough-and-tumble politics in mercenary units, isn’t there?” Brigit said, still cloaked in darkness.
“There certainly is, especially when said mercenaries find out they’ve been sold a faulty bill of goods. They were probably told that the compound only had a half dozen rent-a-cops that couldn’t fight their way out of a paper bag.”
Brigit snorted a dry laugh. “They were probably not told about the first disastrous attack to take the estate either.”
“There was another attempt to take the estate?” The mercenary suddenly sounded angrier with his employer than with the people who had been about to kill him.
“Yup,” Solomon called back. “They lost ten APCs and nearly three dozen men, although to be fair, our side had an armed Lynx-class drop shuttle.”
The mercenary sat down in the sand, dropping his head in both hands. “We are so screwed.”
Solomon smiled slightly and called into the darkness. “Lieutenant, they’re all yours. Disarm them, then assign one marine to stand guard until relief arrives. We should be able to handle the remainder with seven marines.” In the night someone laughed.
The merc just groaned.
The mercenary camp was still in disarray. From his position on the top of the tallest dune overlooking the camp, Solomon could see mechanics working feverishly on the remaining APCs. A heated debate seemed to be going on in the middle of the camp, with several members pointing back toward Lowell. One man, an officer with glinting metal on his collar, was literally jumping up and down in his anger. Solomon grinned to Brigit as he removed a grenade from the box of ten they had found in the APC, and pulled the pin. The first grenade landed among the debaters, who didn’t realize a thing until the explosion went off, cutting down half their number. Then the other grenades Solomon had thrown began to go off, throwing the camp once again into chaos.
When the screaming had died down somewhat, Solomon rose to his feet. “Hello in the camp,” he called out in a loud voice. A bullet whined off the sand at his feet, and he flinched. A replying shot came from the darkness, and the first shooter fell back and didn’t move.
“Now,” Solomon called, “with that unpleasantness out of the way, I call on you to surrender.”
There was silence from the camp.
“I can keep throwing grenades down on you all night if you like, and then my marines can pick you off one at a time as you try to crawl back to Lowell.”
The silence deepened.
“Oh dear, you didn’t know that you’d be fighting marines? How rude of your employers.”
Somewhere, one of the marines laughed.
“I call on you to surrender.”
Solomon dropped to the sand as from the camp a Gatling gun whined to life before spraying the dunes with a leaden hose of death. He picked up three of the half dozen remaining grenades and threw them. The tent where the heavy gun had been hidden had been marked with a red cross. Tent, gun, and crew exploded into the night. The marines replied with everything they had. The torrent lasted for fifteen minutes before a shout came from the camp. A bleeding man stood, a bloody white rag tied to the barrel of his rifle.
“We surrender,” he cried to the Martian night. “We surrender.”
The toll for the one-sided battle shocked even the marines. Of the 822 attacking mercenaries, 287 survived. Sixteen of the score of captured APCs were still serviceable. Three of Solomon’s seven marines had been killed by the hidden Gatling gun, and three of the four remaining marines were wounded. Solomon himself had been struck in the left biceps and grazed on the
left ribs by Gatling rounds, though he hadn’t known it until the battle was over. As far as Military Governor Vergas was concerned, Mars had opened up and swallowed his entire army.
Working tirelessly, Fontaine employees removed the bodies and wreckage before burying all that remained quickly and neatly with excavators brought out from the estate. The evening shuttle that left from the Lowell spaceport and flew directly above the battle site saw exactly nothing out of the ordinary. The surviving mercenaries who were fit were transported to the mining town of Reinhold, some one thousand kilometers from the estate, and put to work in the Fontaine Bauxite mine. While it was long and hard work, the former mercenaries were well paid. According to Lucinda’s plan, their payment was put directly into a fund to pay for their tickets to Earth.
Solomon was out of his sling in two days, and after four, the amazed doctor pronounced him fit. The marines, now up to two dozen in the Fontaine household, with one or two coming in each day, took a little longer to heal.
Giuseppe looked up from his imported mahogany desk and smiled. “I’m glad to see you feeling better, Solomon.” His smile wavered and vanished. “I thought that we might discuss our plans for the future.”
Solomon sat and crossed his legs. “I’ve given that some thought, Giuseppe. With the governor’s army disposed of, I think that you should initiate a coup d’état and take over the government of Mars.”
Giuseppe snorted. “That wasn’t my intention, Solomon.”
Solomon gave him a sour look. “I’m serious. If you do nothing, then the military governor will keep trying to kill you or your family until he eventually succeeds. The next time, he will probably have air support and pound this estate from a distance. Put an end to it once and for all.”
“I believe that you’re serious.” Giuseppe stared at his son.
“As death. We could go in tonight, about one o’clock in the morning. By morning rush hour, we could tell the news services that there is a new sheriff in town. Inform the Terran governments that you have seized power, and any attempt to retake control will result in the total cessation of trade. Mars is nearly self-sustaining for food, thanks to those huge farms in the Galle and Kepler craters, while Earth relies on Martian-grown exotic foodstuffs, like your steaks, pharmaceuticals, and processed ores. More important still are the rare earth elements found on Mars like scandium and yttrium, which Terra has little of, but which they desperately need for the computer industry.”
“And then what, Solomon? Suppose we do mount a successful coup d’état—then what?”
Solomon leaned back. “You’re the businessman. You tell me.”
Giuseppe steepled his fingers and gave Solomon a long look. “I’m getting a little long in the tooth, as they say. I’m thinking about passing the reins of power to my son.”
Solomon never missed a beat. “Xane would make a good governor, and don’t look at me like that, Giuseppe. I’m not gubernatorial material.” He smiled gently. “And I have a definite lack of patience for idiots. I can lead a unit into battle, but I can’t manage a world.” His smile turned to a grin. “Anyway, would you really want the Beast running Mars?”
Giuseppe sighed. “Probably not, Solomon, but I would see you rewarded for what you’ve given to this family.”
“Being able to call this my family is reward enough.” Almost to his own surprise, he found that he meant it. “What did you think of my idea, Giuseppe?”
The older man gave him a knowing smile, as if to say that he was well aware of Solomon’s attempt to weasel his way out of discussing an uncomfortable subject. “Let me sleep on it. I’ll let you know tomorrow. Pippo Vergas isn’t going anywhere.”
Midmorning the next day Solomon was breakfasting on waffles with thick slabs of the local Martian sausage when Giuseppe tossed a newsfax on the table beside him. “It seems that I should have listened to your advice again, Solomon.” His voice was tired and apologetic.
Sitting at his side, Elora glanced at the newsfax and gasped. “Oh no!”
Solomon looked down at the headline, which read: “Martian Beast Ravages Home Guard Unit while on Training Exercise!”
Below the lurid title was a slightly fuzzy, obviously hastily shot picture of Solomon as the Beast, standing atop a tall dune, his dark-red skin glistening in the light of the burning ammo dump, his eyes glowing crimson. The photo had been edited to show him with long gleaming fangs and claws, while at his feet lay several out-of-focus bodies that had been cut and pasted from pictures of mercenaries killed during the subsequent fighting. He shut his eyes for a moment. Well, it had to come out of the closet sooner or later. Opening his eyes, he snorted a laugh and glanced at Elora. “Great! Now I’ll never get a date.”
The young woman gave him a startled wide-eyed look then began to laugh. “You won’t have to worry about that as long as I’m around. You don’t scare me.”
“You seem to have forgotten that you’re my sister,” Solomon replied flatly. “And that I have a fiancée back on Earth.”
“Hush!” she said in a level voice. “I’m working on it.”
He shook his head. “Which one are you talking about?”
She just smiled, and Solomon looked up at Giuseppe. “It would probably go a long way if you were to say a few words to the family. After that, I’ll introduce myself and put on a little demonstration. I think that’s the best we can do on short notice.”
Giuseppe touched Solomon’s shoulder. “I agree,” he said softly as he stepped up on a chair then onto the heavy table.
Elora looked up at her father and groaned as Giuseppe took a deep breath.
“I’d like a few moments of your time, please.” He nodded for Solomon to stand. “I would like to introduce you all to Solomon Draxx.”
Brows furrowed around the table. Everyone knew Solomon.
“You probably don’t realize that Solomon is, in reality, Malachai Fontaine, my eldest son.” He looked down on Solomon and smiled proudly. His face hardened as he looked up. “You also may not realize that Solomon is, in reality, the creature they call the Beast.”
A fork clanked loudly on a plate, and Solomon doubted that anyone was so much as breathing. With the exception of Elora, Giuseppe, and Lucinda, the Fontaine family looked shocked and more than a little scared, as did a number of family retainers and hired help. Every single one of the marines sitting at the table gave him a calm unruffled stare. Solomon turned a glare on Brigit, who just happened to be staring intently at the ceiling.
Giuseppe continued. “When he was eleven years old, Malachai was infected with something while exploring a cave well to the north of here. This infection caused certain changes in his appearance and behavior, and we were finally forced to send Malachai to Earth to grow up, in the hope that the removal of the Martian influence would aid his healing. I succumbed to recommendations to have the boy’s memory erased, so Solomon has no memory of his childhood. Although he was on Earth and I was on Mars, I followed his development with great interest, and when the latest round of unpleasantness began, I recommended that Solomon be recruited to ensure the safety of my family.” He chuckled dryly at the rich irony of the situation. “To my best count, he has saved the family no less than four times since he has been here.” He looked down on Solomon. “Your turn, son,” he said loud enough for all to hear.
Solomon stepped up on the table beside his father and slowly began to unbutton his shirt. “Back on Earth, I was not a stripper.” He grimaced. “I’d like to clarify that point.”
A woman laughed gently.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Beast,” he said quietly, looking down and willing his body to change. His skin reddened, darkening past the color of spilled blood to a deep red-black. He knew that his eyes were glowing red when he raised his head and looked around the table. One of the younger women let out a little shriek. As he had done once before, he conjured a claw on his index finger, which turned into a screwdriver. “I believe that whatever infected me is, in some way, like a to
ol belt. My eyes can act as magnifying glasses and night-vision goggles, and my fingertips can turn into tools.” He held up his arm. “My skin in this form is impervious to punctures, along with heat and cold, and I can go several minutes without breathing.” He looked at each person in turn. “Although while in this mode, I am several times stronger than a normal man, the Beast did not kill the men sent to attack us. I simply used their own weapons, grenades, and explosives against them. And I used their fear.” He smiled, and one or two people moved back, slightly. “The news media did the rest.” The colors on his skin faded back to normal, and he began to slip on his shirt.
Giuseppe gave Solomon a long look then said, “After breakfast, I would like to meet with all the marines in the large conference room.” He turned to Solomon. “You, too, son. You will be giving the briefing, after all.”
Elora looked from her father to Solomon. “Mind if I tag along, or is this a macho all-male sort of thing?”
Solomon snorted. “Feminist! If you didn’t notice, young lady, half of our marines are female.”
Giuseppe’s face darkened. “No, Elora,” he said in a hard voice.
Solomon sighed. “It would be better if she knew, Giuseppe. Elora is a bright girl, and I value her input.”
Elora stared at Solomon with surprise at first, then with something else.
“I’m not saying that I’ll put her in harm’s way, but she should know the details.”
The elder Fontaine’s jaws clenched for a moment then relaxed. “I don’t agree, but she can come,” Giuseppe finally said.
Solomon sat down and continued eating his now-cold breakfast, which suddenly tasted of ashes. The thought crossed his mind that in all likelihood he’d already lost the option of returning to Earth when the coup was over, and if things continued the way they were headed, Mars wouldn’t want him either. Chewing his cold sausage, he wondered if he could find a job opening on the Moon or asteroid mining.
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