Prologue 6 page

"Mr. Grant... Daniel..." said Mabel. "What kind of gorilla was that?"

"Notthe gorilla of my dreams!" said Grant, scooting over to the end of the booth. "Look, I'll be right back, Mabel. Got to visit the little boys' room!"

What had happened here? Had Foxnall tipped Fisk off to his presence here? That bastard! That must have been what had happened.

Geez! There were such sharks in business these days!

He was at the edge of the booth, when he heard a click. Instinctively he dived for the floor.

An explosion of bullets whacked over the top of him like lateral hail. He could feel their heat. He hit the floor and rolled, the sound of the machine gun echoing in his ear, the scream of his secretary joining in.

He got a glimpse of the poor brunette, jerking amid the passion of the bullets, blood yanked from that sweet body, making a mess of her dress. Glass and champagne and caviar spattered every which way, in a fantasmagoric slow-mo fountain.

The will to live turned Grant away from this death dance, and he scrambled away, like a rat from a pack of cats.

A month of her life, just getting this show on the road.

Colonel Alex Kozlowski took a swig of her coffee, and watched as the last batch of supplies got loaded into the shuttle. She managed to get down to a quarter capsule a day of Fire, but she'd already taken that now, and damned herself for wanting more. The stuff wasn't like booze, you didn't see creepy crawlies if you went dry. It was like cigarettes. And just as hard to kick. She wanted to kick it, to show her own superiority to herself. Which was why she felt bad now, wanting another hit.

In just a few hours they'd be boosted up to the Razzia, stored away with the rest of the stuff Daniel Grant and his scientists wanted on this mission—along of course with the rest of the marines, her own hard ass included.

Alex Kozlowski was sitting on the apron of the ramp, the lip of which sided a wing of the shuttle that would soon trundle out of the hangar and wing up through the atmosphere. To the other side of her was a warehouse-sized security checkpoint and storage room. Dawn had just shouldered through a cloudy horizon.

She slouched in the chair, watching the crates being loaded.

Hell of a lot of stuff going up there.

She'd been in charge of everything her crew was going to need. She'd wanted to be in charge of the whole shebang. Unfortunately, that was not in the cards.

A bored-looking deliveryman walked over and handed her a piece of paper on a clipboard. "Sign please, Colonel."

Alex took the clipboard.

SUPPLIES, said the checklist. That was all.

"How can I check 'em in, if I don't know what they are?"

"Look, Colonel," said the man, "I'm just doing my job. I'd like it a lot if you could just take a crowbar and prize open a couple and have yourself a gander. I'm afraid, though, that it's all pretty insulated and locked up and you'd be pretty hard-pressed to lock the stuffing back in."

The guy was a civvy, probably worked for the government. Kozlowski could tell by his attitude. She didn't like any man she couldn't give orders to, or take orders from, and the man annoyed her. What could she do, though? Make him clean the latrines? He was the equivalent of a third-rate, truck-driving, trolley-pushing bureaucrat.

It hit her then: what was important to bureaucrats?

"Ooops!" she said, and tore the papers she had to sign into shreds.

The man looked at her, stunned. "Colonel. I'm going to have to go and get another form now! Why...?"

"File a complaint, toad-breath," she said. "But have some respect next time you give a lady a form to sign..."

The man went off, cursing under his breath, to get another form. Kozlowski went off to sniff around the crates.

TOP SECRET, they read.

THIS SIDE UP.

HIGHLY FRAGILE.

One was even fitted with elaborate refrigeration equipment.

"Oh, well," she said, drumming her fingers against a crate. "You can bet I'm going to find out what's going on when we're light-years away."

She was almost sorry she'd signed up for this gig.

Not that she minded going long distance in interstellar space. That would be fun. And the idea of blowing away xenos en masse still tickled her pink. However, all the mystery and bullshit attendant to her duties had not exactly thrilled her, to say the least. She thought that she was in charge of this mission—but over the weeks, the fact had gradually seeped through her thick skull that she was only in charge of the military aspects. Neo-Pharm's other operations on the Razzia —and there was plenty of extra room for that, which was doubtless why the ugly scow had been chosen—was strictly out of her control.

Which was one of the reasons they'd probably chosen her.

She could hear the old uniformed farts now, gassing. "Kozlowski! Yeah—she's tough, good, but she's a woman. She's got some give to her."

Alex Kozlowski smiled to herself. The preparations were only part of the whole story. She'd taken the shit dished to her, fried it up nice, and put some ketchup on it. When the Neo-Pharm boys were out there among the stars and planets and xenos, they had better just hope they'd brought some condiments along to stomach what they were going to get from her.

Yep. This was going to be an R and R trip for her, if it killed them and her, along with those bugs.

It would be nice to get away from the planet where Peter had died. Maybe, just maybe, she'd find the kind of peace—or war—she was looking for.

She was just sauntering back for another pour of coffee when a man whirled through the door. At first she thought it was Mr. Mover, pissed off and running back with that form to sign.

However, it was not the bottom-level bureaucrat at all.

It was Daniel Grant.

He didn't see her. He ran toward the gangplank of the loading car for the shuttle, looking as though he wanted to climb on along with the baggage. He looked really bad, too, fancy duds all tattered and torn, shoes scuffed, and fancy haircut all frazzled.

"Yo!" she called out.

He swirled around, and the first thing that Kozlowski noticed was how bloodshot his eyes were, how baggy. He looked like a man who hadn't slept much last night... only worse.

"Look, soldier. Tell me where I get on the shuttle?"

"Grant?" She went closer, eyeing him suspiciously. What, was the Drug King flying high or something?

"That's right, soldier. You want to help me out? I'm in charge of this mission."

"Colonel Kozlowski here, Grant—and the last I heard you were going to keep your oxfords firmly hugging ground." Unfortunately, she was a bit too astonished to be properly sarcastic.

"Oh, yes... Colonel... of course. I'm sorry. It's been a rough evening." He sighed, looking back at the access room as though half expecting something to be following him. For a moment he looked lost and vulnerable, and quite a different human being entirely than how she'd seen him before. Something troubled her deeply about him... There was an aspect here that reminded her...

"Rough evening?" But the sun was rising...

"Er—yes."

He seemed uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He kept on looking behind him.

"Don't worry, Mr. Grant. Whoever's chasing you can't get through the base's security unless they nuke the perimeter."

"Chasing?" He seemed to shake something off. "Nothing of the sort... I just couldn't sleep last night... That's all... Got a little groggy, fell down a couple times—"

"Shouldn't you see a doctor then?"

"No. No, Colonel, I'll be just fine."

Before her eyes, he seemed to be putting himself back together again. An amazing act of will. Somatic repair: straightening of poise, sucking in of stomach, stiffening of upper lip. Psychological repair: the psychic armor erected. The eyes recovered, and the willpower returned, the arrogance.

"I made a monumental decision last night, Colonel."

"Did you."

"Yes. This mission is far too important to my companies—to me —to allow... I mean, not to contribute my presence. I called both the admiral and the general last night and made arrangements. I'll be going along with you, Colonel Kozlowski, to help oversee and participate in the effort." He took in another breath, looking stronger by the moment.

"Are you." Oh, this was just peachy keen.

"Yes. Specific orders are even now being sent over. Now, if you'd kindly drive me to the passenger portion of the shuttle?"

"No bags, Mr. Grant?"

"Er—uh—no. The decision was so abrupt, I did not have time to pack. I’ll use whatever's on board. However, the admiral assured me that there are communications facilities available aboard the shuttle that I can use to let my people know what's happening—and dub someone to take my place while I'm gone."

"That's going to be a long time, Mr. Grant. Four months at least. A lot can happen to your company while you're gone."

"I trust my officers here... just as I trust you and your people on the Razzia. I'm not dealing with amateurs in either case."

"No, of course not. But don't be mistaken. It's going to be plenty dangerous out there."

Whatever danger was "out there" did not seem to phase Daniel Grant. He seemed far too preoccupied with whatever he was running away from here.

However, there would be plenty of time to find out exactly what that was later.

"Fine. We'll put you on the shuttle with your boxes and the last group of marines going up."

"Excellent, Colonel. I'm looking forward to working with you." He could not seem to help himself, looking furtively around. "Ah—perhaps you could bring me some of that coffee and one of your military style donuts... oh, and an Alka-Seltzer. That would help a lot."

Kozlowski stepped forward and poked him on the shoulder.

"Look, Grant. You're in my territory now. I'm not your slave." She pointed, cringing a bit. God, he smelled of alcohol. "There's stuff over there in the office. Get it yourself."

Then she stomped off to get on with her work... and check on the promised electro-dispatches. Only way she was going to allow Grant on the Razzia was if she was ordered to do so.

This little wrinkle in the future did not bode well.

When Grant closed his eyes, he could see Fisk's face, grinning at him.

But he was tired. So tired.

He sat in a corner grav-couch of the shuttle, dimmest part, telling himself he was safe, telling himself it was okay, that he was in charge again.

Rest. He needed some rest.

He was alive, that was the important thing, he told himself. Miserable, but alive. Why had he ever gone out last night? He knew that he hadn't made the payments to Fisk. He knew that Fisk's temper got out of control sometimes.

A mistake. A goof. A snafu. It wouldn't happen again, that was for sure. Of course, he had a few months to get the opportunity to high-life it again By then, hopefully, the money due to Neo-Pharm and thus Grant Industries and thus Grant himself—the financial entity in direst need—would have arrived. He'd just called his CEOs and ordered them to pay Fisk what they could of his blood money...

Deal with the whole disaster, weep with poor Mabel Planer's family, and make sure the insurance company paid off as though it had been on company time the girl had been shot...

And, above all, do what Grant was doing.

Survive.

He'd come damned close to falling off the edge of that state last night.

Even now he wasn't quite sure how he'd done it. When those blasts had ripped through the booth and Mabel, some auxiliary mode in his musculature must have kicked in, because he'd never scrambled and dodged and ducked so well in his life. Some survival node in his brain must have clicked on as well. He'd done exactly the right thing, headed right on down to the dance floor. The wrigglers and flailers there, doubtless thinking that the explosions above were part of the show, were still going at it to the heavy localized pounding. He hadn't dared to stop for the slightest moment. He'd dived to the exit, skipped his limo, sprinted blocks and blocks, falling down a few times, until he felt safe enough hailing a cab.

And still the chase had not been over. He'd spent most of the night hiding behind cans of garbage in an alley, waiting for one of his aides to come and pick him up. Then he'd directed him on a Toad's Wild Ride to the launchport—and thus, he'd made it to the base, after a sleepless night, grateful to be alive.

In the comparative safety of the shuttle, strapped in above the equivalent of thousands of tonnes of GeligNuke®, Daniel Grant shuddered at the thought. No, he didn't want to think about it... not for a while, anyway.

Sleep. Some blessed sleep... that was what he needed. Fisk's ugly mug or no...

"Hey there. That seat by you taken?"

Grant's eyes snapped open.

There, looming over him, was a Nordic god.

Thor with a haircut.

Well, not exactly. He was big and strapping, with blond hair and blue eyes and a smile above his square-cut chin. He looked not only damned competent, but perfectly content in that state, and perfectly comfortable in the fatigues that snugly fit his muscular limbs and torso.

Now this guy, thought Grant, looked like a leader.

"Ah—no. No... please, be my guest."

The blond god secured a carryall bag in a storage bin, and then slid into the couch, not yet buckling himself in. "Name's Henrikson. Corporal Lars Henrikson." They shook hands. "You must be one of the Neo-Pharm fellows."

"Yes. I'm Daniel Grant. I own Neo-Pharm."

Henrikson did not react immediately. He took the information in thoughtfully. "Ah. I had been told that you would not actually be on our expedition, Mr. Grant."

"A last-minute decision."

Henrikson assimilated this information and nodded, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

"I see. Well, good, I say... with all respect. It's good to see bosses take a personal interest in important tasks." A slight bend of the mouth. "Get their hands a little dirty, you know."

Grant smiled, the first time for what seemed like millennia. "Maybe I'm just trying to turn over a new leaf, Corporal Henrikson."

He closed his eyes, hoping to give the man a clue that he'd like a little privacy inside his own head, maybe rest his bloodshot eyes.

Henrikson wasn't the clue-taking kind.

"This is a special mission," he said. "I can feel it in my bones. Nine times out of ten a group of marines head out into space, all they come back with are handfuls of boredom. I've had some of that out there, let me tell you. Soon as I got wind of this mission though, special duty entailing a beachhead on the alien Hiveworld... Well, I just jumped at the chance. Jumped."

"Couldn't get your fill of bug duty on Earth?"

Henrikson shrugged. "I've killed some bugs. Europe, mostly. Special services. That's probably why I got this gig—the experience. No, that's not it though, sir—you see, I've got this feeling that the human race is destined for great things in this universe. Destined. And I'd like to do my bit to make that possible. And I guess I'm vain enough to think I'm a talented enough guy to deal with the kind of situation we've got lined up for us."

Grant expected an inner groan of cynicism to echo in his head. Instead, he found the words oddly striking a sympathetic chord within him.

"That's a compellingly homocentric view of the universe, soldier."

Henrikson nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry... I've had people tell me that men are just accidents in the scheme of things. I don't think so... Why... Because we're men. We stand for something, goddammit. We've got values and order and... hell... purpose to bring to what amounts to a lot of godless space."

"Indeed. Indeed! That kind of feeling would be a wonderful rabble-rouser... I mean, that would go a long way to heal the wounded spirit of humanity!"

"I know, sir. I know." Henrikson nodded gravely. "And that's why I'm here."

"Excellent. Well, you know, Corporal, I think we're going to have lots of time to discuss pertinent applications of that philosophy while we're on our mission. In the meantime, I think I'd like to take a little time to compose myself before the blast-off of this shuttle. You know... for meditation... a little cat nap, perhaps..."

Henrikson looked over at Grant. "Ah. Yes, you do look a little tired. How thoughtless of me. Please, close your eyes. Relax. Snooze. I have my own inner warrior's form of meditation. We shall meditate together."

With that, the corporal's eyes trained onto the front of his couch, and focused.

Well, so much for that. Rest and meditation was even valuable to big boy here. He should have tried that tactic before.

Oh, well. He knew he'd have someone of interest to talk to on the mission. He just wished now he'd brought along one of his PR men to jot all these golden thoughts down.

Grant let his heavy eyelids close.

He found peace for perhaps thirty seconds, before he heard the clamor of feet boarding the boat, closets opening, packs being stored, voices jabbering among one another.

"... look, chum. I'm telling you, that was the way it was... the music was the soul of the beats! The hot, cool black music of the streets, man. That's where the streaming ice lava of the poetry came from to begin with!" The voice was annoyingly adenoidal and high-pitched.

"Look, Jastrow! I make one single comment the other day that I enjoyed reading the old free verse of the twentieth century... and you think I'm talking about the beat poets! I'm talking about a number of writers, including William Carlos Williams..."

Grant cracked his weary eyelids.

Couple of privates in fatigues and caps. White boy, black boy. White boy was the one carping on the literary and music themes. Unfortunate, but he could tune them out.

"Williams! But Williams was John the Baptist to Allen Ginsberg!"

"Sorry. Never heard of him."

" 'Howl'? You read twentieth-century free verse, and you've never read 'Howl'?"

"Well, come to think of it... Perhaps I have... but I still don't see the connection between free verse poetry and jazz."

"Sheesh. Not just jazz, budz. Be-bop! Here, let me show you."

The conversation had become detached, as though Grant were listening to it through a tin-can telephone as he drifted into exhausted sleep.

Blaaaaat...!

High-pitched, running hell-for-leather up some spidery octave.

Bleeet... BLEEEEET...!

The sounds were fingernails and Grant's brain had turned to chalkboard.

He jumped up, awake and disoriented. He hit his head on a low overhang and flopped back onto the couch.

Honk... honk HONNKKKKK!

He looked over. Sitting on the edge of a grav-couch was a black man wearing glasses and a grimace. His hands were over his ears. Opposite him was another bespectacled guy with a pocket-protector face. His thin lips were clamped on the mouthpiece of a big baritone saxophone.

Both had boot-camp bodies, but faces innocent of the heart of war.

Blat... blat... Blat!

"Can't you hear it, Ellis?" he said, unclamping. "I have seen the finest minds of my generation—"

The natural force that was Corporal Henrikson reared up like a vengeful statue. "You guys want to give the rest of us in here some peace?"

His muscular hovering said it all. The salt-and-pepper twins blinked, flinching back.

"Gee—sorry, Corporal."

"Just playing a little Bird, man."

Henrikson stood rock-hard. "Well, I'm clipping your wings! This is not a place for that thing. Now over your head... maybe."

Ellis looked as though he agreed, but Jastrow got a hurt-little-boy expression on his face as he put his musical instrument away in its case.

"I could use a few Z's anyway, Jazz," said Ellis.

"Yeah. Maybe you're right. We'll continue this conversation later, though, huh?"

"Whatever." The man sounded resigned.

Henrikson bent over Grant. "You okay, sir?"

"Sure. My ears are still ringing and I'm wide awake. But I'm okay."

"We got a good fifteen before formal boarding, so maybe you should use them."

"I'll try, Corporal. Believe me, I'll try."

Henrikson shot one more warning look at the newly arrived duo and then resumed his grav-couch. Grant found Ellis and Jastrow peering at him curiously, obviously wondering who he was.

Grant could feel it even through his closed eyelids.

"Name's Grant. The reason you're on this mission," he said. "Mind if we meet formally later? I'm trying to get a little rest."

"Oh!"

"Oh, sure, sir. Sorry."

"Yeah. Right. We'll be real quiet." Whisper. "Sheesh. That's Daniel Grant, man! And you had to squeal that sax in his ear."

"How could I know? I didn't even see him!"

The whispers died into uneasy silence and once again Grant found himself slipping into an uneasy coma.

Which ended all too soon.

He'd been having a dream about his parents, and he hated to dream about his parents, so it was just as well. Still, it was all a little annoying.

The clump-clump of steps didn't wake him. He barely heard it: background noise.

The shifting of bags, the snap of storage cases. No problem.

However, when a body fell directly onto him— that woke him up.

"Ooophhh!" he said.

"Gahhh. Oh, dear... damned floor! All these knobs and braces. Sorry!"

That the person was prominently female mitigated the hurt and shock somewhat, and not just because of the softer bits. She looked good and she smelled good, even in fatigues. She was a busty brunette with hair about as long as the Marines would let you wear it if you weren't male, and rich dark eyes that now looked thoroughly repentant.

"That's all right," said Grant, flashing on the immediate lady smile. "I was hoping to get some rest before takeoff, but these things happen."

She pushed herself off of him with ease and a great deal more grace than she'd shown in tripping onto him. "I do better in faux grav, for some reason. And null grav? I'm a swan." She shrugged. "I'm just a space babe, that's all there is to it, and I'll be glad to lift off this—" She batted those splendid doe eyes. "Say. Haven't I seen you... My God! You're Daniel Grant, the big tycoon! I've seen you on the vids!"

"That's me."

"You look awfu—I mean, I guess you could use some rest." She hobbled over to an empty grav-couch, and Grant, despite his weariness, was unable to take his attention off her delightfully swiveling hips. She turned. "I'd heard you were somewhere behind this mission. I didn't think I'd get to really meet you though!"

"Well, get used to it, Private," said Henrikson. "He's coming along with us for the voyage."

"No kidding! Well, isn't that... Isn't that news." She swiveled back over, unconsciously smoothing her hair, and gave him her hand and a markedly breathier delivery. "My name is Edie Mahone. Private First Class—but I'm still young, and I really think I have quite a bright future with the Colonial Marines."

Grant felt a little nonplussed and couldn't help automatically turning on the charm—and wondering at the same time what this particular woman was doing in the Marines... and on this mission in particular. As he studied her though, he got an impression of strength beneath the apparent ditziness. The oh-gosh business was just an act. Beneath it, Grant could tell, was strength, and it turned him on. It challenged him.

"You have an interest in xeno development then?" said Grant.

"The bugs? Oh, no." She shook her head, shuddered. "Hate 'em. But then, who doesn't? I can see your question coming. What's a nice girl doing in a place like this?" She shrugged. "I'm just a space natural, I guess, Mr. Grant. I wasn't fooling you... And on top of that, I'm a tactical weapons specialist."

"Weapons specialist?"

"Yes, sir. Top scores." A mischievous playfulness shaded her voice.

"I'm just glad you weren't carrying any grenades when you fell over me."

"Hmmm? Oh, yes... yes, of course. Mr. Grant, I really am sorry, and it's such a surprise... maybe this mission isn't going to be such a grim business after all."

"I certainly hope not. Now, Private Mahone—I hope you'll come to my cabin sometime for drinks and we'll have a nice long chat. In the meantime, my sanity could really use a little rest before it gets rattled by takeoff."

"Of course. Of course, Mr. Grant... sir. I'll just hop into a couch over here and leave you alone... And..." She did a double take. "Drinks? Did you say drinks with a tycoon! Of course, Mr. Grant. I'd love to! I'm a regular media hound and I watch you all the time. I even bought that unauthorized paperback about you—is it true that your wife divorced you when she found you in your marriage bed with four naked women?"

Grant chuckled mischievously. "And a parrot. Don't forget the parrot, Private Mahone."