Children of a Dead Earth Book One

by Patrick S. Tomlinson

  Tears ran down her cheeks. Benson got up to grab her a napkin, but she waved him off.

  “Forget it. He deserves to have someone crying over him. Never in thirty years thought it’d be me, but here we are.”

  Benson rested a hand on her boney knee. “It’s not your fault. People can surprise us.”

  “Sure can. Which brings me to you. Did you do it?”

  “You mean did I conspire with a lunatic to kill twenty thousand people and two-fifths of what’s left of humanity? No. No, I did not.”

  Devorah grabbed his chin and looked him square in the eye. Her gaze was so deep, so penetrating, he could have sworn he felt it coming out the back of his skull.

  “No, I expected you didn’t.” She let her hand drop back down to the book in her lap with a sigh. “But there’re not many people on the other side of that door who would agree. You’re going to have the devil’s own time finding competent counsel willing to represent you.”

  Benson shrugged. “I don’t care anymore. Truth is, I’m just as responsible as anyone. Kimura played me like a harp. I believed him when he told me his people were innocent. I bought his line about a terrorist that never existed, and I led Vikram and all his people straight into an ambush. My incompetence killed those people just as sure as Kimura’s bombs did.”

  Devorah slapped him hard across the cheek.

  “Bullshit. You kept on the case when the most powerful men in the universe were telling you to drop it. You ran after Kimura just as soon as you figured it out and stopped him from doing the same to Avalon. You are the only reason anyone’s left at all. Now, pardon my French, but I didn’t come down here for a fucking pity party. So, if you’re quite finished pining for the executioner?”

  Benson rubbed his cheek where she’d struck him. It was already hot to the touch.

  “Oh, what, are you going to whine about that, too?”

  Still in shock and unsure of what else to do, Benson simply shook his head.

  “Good. Now, since you’re probably going to have to prove your own innocence–”

  “I am?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “But I’m not at all qualified to represent myself in court.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me. Which is why you’re going to need this…” Devorah spun the book around so that Benson could get a look at the cover for the first time. The History of Jurisprudence. To call the book thick was an understatement. In a pinch, it could serve as a decent coffee table all by itself.

  Devorah opened the cover and turned to the introduction page. “Here. Start at the beginning.”

  “Where’s the beginning?”

  “The Code of Hammurabi, I think. Anyway, by the time you reach the end, you’ll be ready to get out of here.”

  Apparently lacking any more to say, Devorah stood up from the chair and walked back over to the door, then summoned the guards.

  “Wait, that’s it?” Benson called after her.

  “That’s it. You should probably assume the position, detective.”

  Benson plopped back down on the couch and put his hands on his head. The doors slid open again as Hernandez and his partner took up positions on each side. Devorah turned to leave, but paused just as she reached the hallway and looked back.

  “Oh, and Bryan, I trust you’re not one of those naughty boys who peeks at the last page, are you?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said, more confused than ever.

  “Good, I hate it when people skip ahead to the end and spoil the surprise. Good day, detective.”

  Hernandez gave Benson a contemptuous little sneer before pulling back into the hallway. The door shut behind him, leaving Benson alone with the book. He stared down at it and had to repress a sudden urge to kick it for fear of breaking his foot in the process. Instead, he shrugged and flipped through it. May as well do some light reading before his trial and summary execution.

  Benson hefted the book and sat down on his couch. He skimmed through the first chapter and the significance of all two hundred and eighty-two of Hammurabi’s edicts, but his mind kept wandering back to the last five minutes and the bizarre conversation with Devorah.

  The whole thing had felt strange, almost scripted. Was she speaking in code? Devorah hardly seemed the type to dance around. She was, without a doubt, the most direct person he’d ever met. And what was that line about spoiling the surprise? It was a history book, not a novel. There was no surprise twist in the plot, it just… ended.

  Benson found himself eyeing the book very suspiciously. It did seem too heavy, after all. He shifted his position so that the camera in his living room couldn’t get a good angle on the book. Odds were good they were monitoring his plant’s visual output without his knowledge, but it was a risk he had to take.

  Swallowing hard, Benson turned to the last third of the book. Starring back up at him, nestled inside a small cavity laser-cut into the pages themselves, lay an FN Model 1910 handgun in 9mm Kurz. The last gun in the world. A small note had been rolled up and stuffed inside the trigger guard.

  * * *

  So you peeked after all. It’s loaded and the safety is off. Just point it at anyone annoying you and pull the trigger. Seven shots is all you get. And don’t get blood on the book. It’s bad enough I have to tape all the pages back together later.

  * * *

  Sincerely,

  Devorah.

  * * *

  Benson shut the book and smiled.

  “You crazy, beautiful old bitch.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  When the men outside hadn’t burst down his door after the first five minutes, Benson felt confident Devorah’s gift had not been discovered by anyone prying remotely through the cameras in the apartment. He could hardly believe it worked at all. It was, quite literally, the oldest trick in the book.

  But that left him with the small issue of what exactly to do with it. His dinner would be delivered in the next twenty minutes, if they kept to the schedule. Slowly, trying not to raise suspicion, Benson took inventory of his apartment. Men had been through to sweep it clean of potential weapons or suicide methods before his house arrest had begun.

  They hadn’t left much. His kitchen knives were all gone, although for some inexplicable reason they’d left the block behind. Silverware and other utensils, all of his food, cleaning products, bedding, pillows (how exactly he could kill himself with a pillow escaped his imagination), most of his clothes, glassware… they’d left a set of plastic cups behind, but the water had been shut off to his sink, presumably to keep him from trying to drown himself in it.

  The water to his shower still ran, however. Surveying their work, Benson couldn’t help but feel as though his captors were just winging it. Maybe that shouldn’t have been such a surprise. Still, he would have done a more thorough job of it.

  Then Benson opened his pantry door and knew for certain he would have. Sitting in its place on the shelf, untouched for at least the last two years, was his roll of aluminum foil. He suppressed a manic cackle as his plan fell into place. He would get only once chance, and every second would count, but he’d get his shot at freedom.

  And one last chance to stop Kimura.

  Wearing an appropriately dour face, Benson sat down on his couch and waited for dinner to arrive. It wasn’t long before the door slid open and his meal was set on the floor. A peanut and apple butter sandwich with a side of green beans and a glass of water with a plastic fork. Somewhere along the line, his sushi order must have gotten misplaced.

  Still, it would suffice. Benson grabbed it up and sulked back to his spot on the couch. He moved his food around the plate, feigning disinterest like someone struggling to find their appetite. Eventually, he nibbled around the edges of the sandwich and ate a string bean or two, then finished it off.

  He waited a half hour until the lights outside spooled down into night before starting the really tricky part. He paced around his living room, holding his stomach and panting. Benson had to
get himself worked up without obvious exertion, to fool anyone monitoring his plant data that he was having a health emergency. Thinking about Kimura and the twenty thousand people his madness killed certainly managed to get his blood pressure up, but he needed to push it further.

  Benson staggered around a bit for the cameras before falling onto the couch. He took shallow, rapid gasps until he saw stars streaking through his vision. Wiping his brow, Benson realized he was actually sweating.

  Sensing it was time for the coup de grace, Benson struggled to get up from the couch, still hyperventilating. He collapsed to the floor in a heap while waves of spasms coursed through his muscles, playing it up for the cameras. If his acting was any good, whichever floater was stuck monitoring his vitals would think he’d been poisoned just as Edmond had been.

  The ruse worked. The door slid open as Hernandez and the other guard rushed in to check on him. Someone reached down and grabbed Benson’s neck, fumbling around for a pulse. It was the opening he’d been waiting for. His eyes snapped open and looked up on a startled Hernandez. Benson couldn’t suppress a smirk of satisfaction as his hands clamped down on Hernandez’s wrist.

  With a violent twist and a shriek, Hernandez’s wrist snapped like a twig wrapped in a wet towel. The other guard lined up a shot with their stun-stick, but Benson grabbed Hernandez’s shoulder and pulled his head down into the line of fire, forcing them to hesitate. The tiny delay was all Benson needed to pull the gun from his waist and train it on the guard’s chest.

  “Drop it!” he commanded. The constable looked back and forth between the gun and the small slice of Benson’s head that they could see.

  “Do you know what this is?” Benson twisted a little harder on Hernandez’s wrist to get a moan out of him for effect.

  “A gun?” the guard said in disbelief.

  “Very good, you’ve seen a movie. Yes, this is a gun, the last gun. The last time some idiot fired it, sixteen million people died,” Benson said, parroting the line Devorah had used when she’d first shown him the weapon. “So unless you want to be sixteen million and one, you’re going to toss me your stick and get on the ground.”

  “You wouldn’t,” the guard said, without much conviction.

  “Haven’t you been watching the news? Drop it and kick it over here.”

  He obeyed and put up his hands.

  “Thank you. Hernandez, if you would stun him, please.”

  “Drop dead!”

  Benson ground the muzzle of the handgun flush against his temple. “I’m running low on patience, my friend. Now, please.”

  Growling, Hernandez raised his stun-stick and dropped his partner to the floor in a quivering heap.

  Benson adjusted his stance and sat up. “Thank you for your cooperation.” He raised his arm, then brought the butt of his gun down hard onto Hernandez’s temple.

  “OW!” Hernandez’s hand shot up to cover the wound to his face. “That really fucking hurt, you bastard!”

  “Sorry, that was supposed to knock you out.”

  “Well, it didn’t!”

  Feeling discouraged, Benson tried again.

  “OW! Goddammit!”

  “I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong.” Benson hit him again, with the same result.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’ll do it myself!” Hernandez put his own stun-stick to his bloodied head and hit the stud.

  Benson didn’t have time to reflect on the absurdity of what had just happened. Instead, he grabbed an end table and dove for the doorway, wedging it in place even as the door slid shut. He hit the lights, hoping to confuse whoever was on camera duty. He ran for his pantry and wrapped three layers of aluminum foil around his head, then secured it with the only thing he could find: a bright pink towel Theresa had left the last time she’d spent the night.

  Benson wished Vikram was still around to show him how to secure a proper turban, but he managed to tie it off. He figured thirty seconds before the stunned guards woke from their seizures, and maybe a minute before reinforcements came pouring out of the lifts.

  He snuck a peek into the hallway, relieved to see his retinue of protestors had gone home for the night. Gun in hand, he sprinted for the emergency staircase at the end of the hall and kicked it open, sounding the fire alarm. For the first time, Benson was glad for his apartment being on “only” the third floor.

  Emerging into the night, Benson kept low and off the footpaths. Countless nights lost watching the camera feeds finally paid off. He knew right where all the blind spots in the surveillance net were, which cameras had malfunctioned or couldn’t track properly anymore. Between the dark, trees, and gaps, Benson found it unsettlingly easy to move around unseen. He even managed to dodge a pair of his own constables out looking for him.

  Despite the fact they had to know who they were looking for, they didn’t break from their normal patrol route. Benson was dismayed by their lack of imagination, even as he was grateful for it. He was starting to understand how the Unbound had managed to hide for so long and move about with such apparent impunity.

  His constables would be getting some retraining, provided by some miracle he lived through all this. Benson’s destination lay directly ahead, Edmond’s apartment. The crime scene tape covering the door still fluttered in the breeze, although with the Shangri-La refugee crisis mounting, it couldn’t be long before someone remembered it was open.

  Benson breathed a small sigh of relief when he spotted the guard standing watch outside the door: Pavel Korolev. The boy was stubborn and duty bound, but he was also loyal and independent thinking. He just had to trust that those traits won out over whatever ambition for promotion Korolev had. Only one way to find out, he thought.

  Slowly, so as not to startle the young constable more than necessary, Benson stepped out of the shadows and onto the walkway.

  Korolev’s stun-stick snapped to attention immediately.

  “That’s far enou… Chief?”

  Benson put up his hands to show he was unarmed, which he wasn’t, but some things could wait. “Yes, Pavel, it’s me.”

  “You’re supposed to be under house arrest.”

  “I got bored and slipped out for an evening walk.”

  “Slipped out, eh? And Hernandez just saluted and let you out the door, I suppose?”

  Benson smirked at the image of Hernandez pointing his own stun-stick at his head. It did bear a passing resemblance to a salute, in a cruel sort of way.

  “Something like that.”

  “Is he alive?” Korolev asked in earnest.

  “Of course he is. You know me, Pavel. Am I a killer?”

  “Floaters say you are. One of the worst to ever live, in fact.”

  Benson put his hands down flat to his sides. “And what do you say?”

  Korolev stared at him down the shaft of his stun-stick. For an uncomfortably long moment, Benson thought he was going to press the stud. With a sigh, Korolev relented.

  “I think you’re an honorable man. I think you’ve been set up. And I think that’s aluminum foil under that stupid pink towel on your head and it doesn’t actually matter what I think because my stick is useless and you’re a lot bigger than me.”

  “It’s not my towel. And you’ve already decided not to turn me in anyway.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Benson pointed at the doorway behind Korolev. “Because as soon as I stepped out, you moved in front of the door camera to keep the floaters from seeing I’m here.”

  Korolev lowered his stun-stick. “So I did.”

  Benson stepped up and waited patiently for Korolev to key open the door, then walked through into the darkened kitchen and dining room beyond. With Korolev following close behind, he moved into the living room, pausing to review the artwork that remained. He turned on the vid screen on the far wall and watched as it scrolled through the latest batch of Pathfinder images from Tao Ceti G.

  The image took on new weight now that Benson had discovered Edmond’s Atlantis obses
sion. In a few short years, the new colony could be up and running, and people would turn from growing crops to growing fortunes. Greed had always been a powerful motive for murder. Something about Atlantis was integral to long term plans already being laid out. Edmond’s curiosity threatened those plans. But what any of it had to do with Kimura’s attacks, Benson didn’t have the first clue.

  He stopped in front of the empty space where the Monet had hung before all this started. A light still shone. Standing in his own footsteps, Benson felt as though he was coming full circle. If only he could peek at the ending.

  Another light caught his eye, streaming through the wrought-iron of the spiral staircase leading up to the bedroom.

  “Is that you, Korolev?” a familiar voice called down from the room above.

  “Yes, ma’am. And I’ve brought a… guest.”

  Theresa’s head poked down through the portal and locked eyes with Benson.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she scolded.

  “I’m relieved to see you too, Esa.”

  Theresa ran down the steps, stopping just centimeters away from his face. “They let you out on bail, did they?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Of course not! They say you killed half the human race. How did you escape?”

  “I had a little help.” Benson pulled the FN out of his pocket.

  “What is that, a gun?”

  “Yep.”

  Korolev whistled behind him, impressed.

  Theresa was less enthusiastic. She slapped him on the chest. “A real gun? Where the fuck did you get a gun, Bryan?”

  “A friend.”

  “A friend with a museum, you mean?”

  Benson shrugged innocently.

  “So Devorah busts you out, and you come here with one of my damned towels on your head? What are you going to do, take a bath?”

  Benson smiled and pulled up a corner of the towel, revealing the aluminum foil underneath. Theresa took a step back as if stunned.