Beast

by Patrick McClafferty

  That afternoon, twenty-eight marines walked or hobbled their way into the conference room. Ever since Giuseppe had opened the doors to hiring former military, preferably marines, a steady trickle of people had arrived, looking for a job or a home. The burly Lieutenant Cesare Makris was still in charge of the military end of the household and would continue in that position until he chose to retire if Solomon had any say in the matter. Former military officers were simply hired as senior NCOs or junior warrant officers, and that was that. If they didn’t like it, then the shuttle from Earth ran both ways.

  Corporal Brigit Uí Dubháin sat at the table with her crutch at her side, a disgusted look on her pale face. The other injured marines sat in surly silence across from Elora, Solomon, Giuseppe, Lucinda, and Xane.

  Giuseppe cleared his throat and stood, waiting as silence filled the room and a marine PFC closed the door. “I have a single word to say. After that, if you choose, you may leave before we begin the briefing.” He looked at the curious eyes. “The word is coup d’état.”

  A whisper of sound flew around the room, and Xane started in his seat, his eyes wide. Lucinda simply gave him a look that might have said, “Finally.” Not a single person made any move to leave, and although it might have been his imagination, Solomon thought he saw a faint smile flicker across the lieutenant’s worn face.

  The smile that touched Giuseppe’s face was not imaginary. “Thank you all,” he said in a sincere voice. “I’ll turn the rest of the briefing over to Solomon.”

  As the other man sat, Solomon stood and looked over the room full of people he’d fought and worked with for the past few weeks. He looked at Elora’s serious face and green thoughtful eyes for several moments before he began. “I said this before to Giuseppe, and I will tell you all the same thing: the only way we can ever stop the violence against the Fontaine family and hope to survive for any extended time is to take control of the Martian government.” He waited for the surprisingly low buzz to disappear. “I would suggest hitting the governor’s palace within the next few days, and not give our opposition the time to recoup their losses from the failed attack.”

  The lieutenant looked at the table and rumbled out a reply, “We’re all with you, sir, but there’s one thing you ought to know: a troop ship with another two hundred mercenaries is due to arrive the day after tomorrow, as well as a small freighter with food and weapons. Our newest private who came aboard yesterday told us that the Martian government has barely as many men as we do, but was expecting company-sized reinforcements.” He gave Solomon a crooked grin. “He also mentioned that the Martian Army, as it were, is critically low on ammunition and is counting on the approaching ship for resupply in that department, too.” His eyes became hard. “They’re expecting a rehabilitated 2S25 Sprut-SD light tank to arrive. Although the technology is ancient history, like the Gatling in the nose of our shuttle, it is still quite serviceable and good for operation on Mars.”

  Solomon nodded to the officer, his mind working furiously, and turned to Giuseppe. “It looks like we go tonight or not at all. That tank sort of settles the issue.”

  “I never wanted it to come to this, Solomon.” Giuseppe looked at his son with a kind of weary resignation. “We go tonight.”

  “Good,” Solomon answered. “Lieutenant Makris, you know what forces we have available, and you’re probably much better at planning an operation like this than me. Ideas?”

  “Leave four marines here, in addition to the wounded to attend to household defense,” the lieutenant said in a gravelly voice. “We take the rest in by shuttle and drop in right beside the governmental dome. There is an exterior entrance that gives direct access to the palace lawn. Afterward, the shuttle will lift off and jam their communication traffic. We should, if at all possible, try for a bloodless coup.” He rubbed his square chin. “That will go a long way with public opinion and Terran acceptance.”

  Solomon nodded, and the officer looked up.

  “You will have to come with us, Mr. Fontaine, to make the public acceptance of power.” He glanced at Solomon. “You should come, too, Solomon, in case things get… out of hand.”

  Elora gave her father a level look. “I’ll be going, too,” she said in an even voice.

  Giuseppe opened his mouth to forbid it, but Solomon interrupted. “Don’t bother, Giuseppe. I’ve seen that look before, and your daughter is exceptionally stubborn.”

  The older man sagged. “Tell me about it.” He turned to Xane. “Will you be going?”

  Only one year younger than Solomon, the dark-haired Xane nodded. “Yes, Father, I will.”

  The lieutenant nodded to himself. “Getting enough body armor may be a problem.” The man frowned. “I think that there are a few sets of body armor in the estate’s old armory, and we can utilize them, especially for the civilians.” His dark eyes shifted slightly, and he gave Solomon a slow wink. The man had the best sense of situational awareness Solomon had ever seen.

  “All righty then.” Solomon stood. “Lieutenant Makris, you handle the weapons and armor while I notify our pilot of the mission. We’ll all meet at midnight at the shuttle.” A hurricane of butterflies swept his stomach. “Elora, I’d like to see you after the meeting, and all the civilians need to be fitted for body armor and wearing it by this evening.”

  People slowly drifted out of the conference room, and eventually, Solomon found himself alone with Elora. Her face was pale as she realized just what her mouth had gotten her in to. “You wanted to see me?” she asked.

  Solomon reached into his pocket, pulled out the recharged assassin’s gun, along with two unused power charges that they had found in the room of the fake waiter. Elora looked at the weapon, her eyes going wide.

  “This is for you,” Solomon said. “You may have missed it, but we are going into a battle tonight, and people are going to be trying to kill you. I can’t protect you every second, and this is the best I can do. Remember to aim for the center of body mass, so that if you should be a little off in the heat of the moment, you will still hit your target and probably knock him or her down. You can take more time with the second shot.”

  “Second shot?” she whispered, her face even paler as she picked up the gun. Solomon could see her weighing its light weight in her hand.

  “Never leave a live enemy at your back, Elora.”

  “That’s cruel.”

  For a moment, he thought that she would set the gun down. She surprised him when she put it and the two charges in her pocket.

  “It’s not cruelty, Elora. If you shoot an enemy in the shoulder and he goes down, if you don’t finish him off as you walk by, he will shoot you in the back. If you can’t accept that fact of life, you shouldn’t come with us. This has the potential to become very ugly, very fast.”

  “I thought that the marine lieutenant wanted a bloodless coup?” she said, frowning.

  Solomon sighed. “The marines have a few stunners, which I’m sure the lieutenant will issue out, and my own energy weapon has a low power setting, which I will use. That pistol of yours, as well as the assault rifles of the marines, have no such finesse. If you shoot someone with the forty-five-caliber Colt, they will probably lose an arm or leg and bleed to death before help arrives. You do the math.”

  Elora swallowed. “I’ll do as you say, Solomon,” she said in a very small voice.

  He smiled. “Good girl. Now you can leave that Colt cannon of yours here.”

  Phobos had already set, and Deimos was low on the horizon when the group started to gather at the rear ramp of the assault shuttle. The night was darker than the pit of doom, and Solomon already felt the old rush of adrenaline at the beginning of a mission. Lieutenant Makris arranged them according to who would be exiting first; thus Solomon found himself close to the debarking ramp. Looking around the dimly lit compartment, he noted that it was an odd mix of pale-faced civilians and flushed, excited marines, their faces mottled like strange demons with dark camouflage greasepaint. As the darkened shutt
le banked for its final approach to Lowell and the gubernatorial compound, Solomon removed his shirt and caused his skin to darken and harden. The marine beside him stretched out her forefinger and touched his arm.

  “Oh, wow! Can I get skin like that, too?” The young woman in question had natural blue-black skin almost as dark as Solomon’s unnatural color.

  He almost said no, then a thought came to him that maybe it was, indeed, possible. “Maybe. Let me give it some thought.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the very young-sounding voice said.

  “Thirty seconds to touchdown,” the pilot said calmly over the shuttle PA.

  With a series of sharp snaps, the marines turned off their safeties. Solomon took a deep breath, and the shuttle bumped down at the exact moment the ramp thumped open. A wave of people swept out of the shuttle, some running right and some running left. Solomon heard the soft bzzzcrack of the stunners as guards in the outside security checkpoint were taken out. From the right and left, soldiers waved and gave a thumbs-up as the doorway to the governmental dome opened. The rest of the team slid through the opening and into the dome, and the night was still silent as the last of the assault team exited the craft. Both ramp and shuttle began to rise at almost the same moment. The palace courtyard was as hushed as a graveyard.

  Solomon hissed, “the governor’s residence is this way.” He pointed, willing his body to change to its beast form as ten marines fell in to flank the party of civilians. They were halfway up their third set of wide sweeping stairs when Solomon, who was taking point, heard a low growl out of the darkness. A marine raised his assault rifle, but Solomon touched his arm then placed his fingers to his lips as he stepped forward. Suddenly, seventy kilograms of snarling canine fury was on him, fangs closing on his throat. He never had time to draw his weapon, and he had only a second to save his trachea from being crushed to a pulp by the viselike jaws. Putting both hands against the creature’s chest, he willed his own claws to extend. The great dog shuddered once in his grip then went limp. Solomon pushed the dog aside and touched his own throat, finding it wet with his blood. The thing had bitten through his armored skin! Hands helped him to his feet, and he looked at the nearest marine.

  “What the hell was that thing?”

  The marine snorted and spoke softly. “We call them hellhounds, sir. They are genetically engineered killers bred specifically for taking down large prey like humans, and they make ancient direwolves look like pussycats. Having them born and bred on Earth and then shipped to Mars with its lighter gravity makes them twice as deadly. You’re lucky to be alive, sir. They tell us if we see one to empty our magazine into it, and maybe we will live to fight another day… maybe.”

  Solomon had to shoot the next hound three times at a stun level that would drop an elephant before it went down, then he used his claws to tear out its throat just to make sure. The last hellhound came out of nowhere, clamping its massive jaws around Solomon’s leg. Both man and beast went to the floor, and Solomon winced in pain as he reached for the canine head. The claw from his index finger slid through the right eye and into the thing’s brain with a crunch. The dog whined once and was still. Solomon, ignoring the blood running freely down his leg, pried apart the beast’s jaws and slowly got to his feet.

  He pointed to a last set of ornate stairs. “That way. The governor’s bedroom is at the top on the left.” He sat down on the stairs and began to wrap a dark cloth around his bleeding leg. “I think that I’ll just sit this dance out,” he rasped, looking up as Elora sat beside him.

  “You’re a mess,” she said, a sparkle of mirth in her green eyes. “But at least you were quiet about it.”

  There was a muffled shout from the top of the stairs, then angry voices. Solomon blinked at the sharp note of a fist hitting flesh, and the volume of the conversation subsided markedly. He and Elora looked up at the sound of voices and footsteps. A pair of marines, their weapons pointed at the middle of the governor’s back, were marching him down the stairs. Solomon rose to his feet, and Military Governor Pippo Vergas, sporting a fresh black eye, stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes widening.

  “The Beast!” he gasped hoarsely.

  Solomon took a step closer to the man, growling low in his throat. “Your hellhounds were frolicsome, governor.” He held up a hand and studied his claws. “It is too bad I had to kill them. They might have made excellent pets.” A drop of blood fell from an extended claw to land on the marble step with an audible plop.

  The governor’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he fainted into a quivering heap.

  Elora looked at the bloody claw. “The dog’s blood?”

  Solomon winced. “Sorry, it’s mine.” The claws disappeared, and his skin changed back to his battered bloody normal. He wiped his bloody hands on his tattered pants and gazed down the stairs, where the marines were dragging the governor into the courtyard. “At least it’s all going downhill.”

  As they passed the bodies of the three dead hellhounds, Solomon looked up into the red eyes of security cameras mounted in the corner and swore.

  “What’s the problem?” Elora asked, her arm around his waist, supporting him. She looked up in every corner of the room. “Oh no…”

  Solomon continued his limping walk. “By tomorrow morning, pictures will be all over the news services of the Beast of Mars running amok, attacking innocent pets. The coup d’état will probably be relegated to a minor page-two story, which is just as well for our father. Those that know what they are looking at will see a single man fight and defeat three vaunted hellhounds, two of those with bare hands, and they will be very frightened.”

  They reached the courtyard, where the news services, sensing something monumental was happening, had set up lights and satellite uplinks. Giuseppe, Vergas, and a squad of marines on the far side of the courtyard were almost surrounded by lights and reporters. In the shadows of the first level, Solomon could see the other marines standing quietly, waiting and watching.

  The reporter from the Mars Sun Journal made a beeline for Solomon and Elora. The red light gleamed on the small holocamera she wore looped over her right ear, and her tone was breathless.

  “Who are you, and were you involved in the fighting in the mansion?”

  Solomon stopped, frowning. “My name is Smith, and I’m sorry, I don’t believe that there was any fighting involved here. This was, I believe they call it, a bloodless coup d’état.”

  She looked at Solomon disbelievingly. “But you…”

  “Ahhh, me.” Solomon gave her a patronizing smile. “I have a Siamese cat who was feeling frisky. We had a small disagreement, and he won.” Solomon turned away to leave the reporter openmouthed. “Those type of people make my teeth itch,” he said to Elora under his breath. “They feed on misery and disaster.”

  The gates from the outer courtyard to the street swung open, and twenty-five heavily armed mercenaries walked into the compound, weapons drawn. They stopped, and the leader advanced with a perplexed look as he noted all the reporters clustered around Pippo Vergas. Then he noticed for the first time that his squad of mercenaries was surrounded by grim-faced marines. Solomon spoke quickly into his small com unit, and in moments, the Lynx-class shuttle was hovering just outside the clear dome, the seven barrels of its Gatling gun facing the mercenaries. Being pragmatic people by nature, the mercenaries slowly set their weapons down in a neat pile, backed away, and sat down.

  Solomon waved the lieutenant over. “There must be a jail of some sort in this city,” he said, looking pointedly at the mercenaries.

  The marine smiled thinly. “Yes, sir, there is.” He gestured in the air, and four marines arrived to “escort” the mercenaries to a holding area while others picked up the discarded weapons. Lieutenant Makris was grinning openly. “That went better than I expected.”

  “It did,” Solomon agreed. “I want you to set things up with the pilot of the drop shuttle to greet the resupply shuttle when it arrives, in the air preferably. Let the equipment l
and, but tell the other ship with the mercenaries to just turn around and go home or they will be shot down.”

  “If the troop ship refuses to obey?” the officer asked in a flat voice.

  Solomon offered an unblinking stare in response.

  Makris nodded. “Understood, sir. No mercenaries will ever reach the ground alive.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Makris. I knew I could count on you. Please don’t tell Giuseppe of our little… plan.”

  “As you wish, sir.” He gave the blood dripping down Solomon’s chest a long look. “If you hadn’t taken out those hound things, the results of our little outing might have been different. You should see the medic, sir.” He made a motion with his hand, and a tall lanky marine ran up. “See to this officer, Lance Corporal. If he hadn’t taken out the three hellhounds, single-handed, your business would have been a lot brisker.”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant.” The young man snapped up a salute. He wiped at Solomon’s neck wounds and stared. “What did you put on this, sir? The wound is healing before my eyes.”

  “Just wipe off the blood then, young man. You’ve heard of the Beast?”

  “Yes, sir, I have.” The Corporal stopped wiping to stare into Solomon’s face.

  Solomon gave him a tired grin. “Yup, that’s me. I heal a little faster than normal.”

  “A little? That’s not even…”

  “Human?” Solomon filled in. “They say that my DNA is different now. Yeah, I’m not human.”

  “That’s so cool.” The medic’s awe wasn’t the reply Solomon had expected.

  “Thanks for the help, Corporal.” Shrugging on his shirt, he made his way over to the ring of people surrounding the new governor of Mars just as two marines escorted the previous administration to the “holding area.”