Prologue 7 page

He was pleased the legend lingered.

The starstruck private shook her head and rapturously wandered back to her couch. Was it an act? He didn't know. And he didn't care.

Drinks with an attractive private who would probably be disappointed if he didn't make a pass at her. After that tragic debacle last night, he was hardly in the mood for romance right now. But weeks into a space cruise with a bunch of scientists and hardened soldiers? The dominant Grant hormones would doubtless trot themselves out into quest-and-conquer mode. A willing female partner with the requisite assets was something that cheered him immensely.

Now, though, to sleep for just a brief sweet moment.

Grant let his head flop down into the cushion, gratified at the silence that the cabin had cloaked itself in. Respectful silence.

This wasn't so bad, shipping out on a boat heading light-years away from Earth with a bunch of scientists and marines. It was his mission, after all... And he seemed to be getting the appropriate obeisance from his people.

This was good. This was very good. A kind of calm descended upon Daniel Grant. His knotted muscles unwound, and a sense of control of his environment began to knit itself around him. Yes, yes, perhaps it would work out for the best that he was coming along to supervise, to oversee... no, to control. The boys in the office knew well enough how he ran things by now. They could do exactly what he would do, whatever the situation. He didn't have to be around. Instead, he should be doing exactly what he was doing. Heading for parts unknown, spreading his influence, his dominion.

Daniel Grant... a great man, destined for the stars.

The cadences of his self-congratulations lullabyed him into that blessed relaxed land just short of slumber, where not even his mother was waiting to natter at him.

Ah...!

Sweet, gentle peace...

WOOOOOOONK!

WOONNNNNNNK!

The Klaxon rang like hell's own trumpet.

"That's the fire alarm!" cried Jastrow.

"Shit! Something's wrong with the shuttle. We gotta get out of here, Mr. Grant!"

"Please," murmured Grant. "Just let me lie here awhile. I'll die if need be. Just let me sleep."

"No can do, Mr. G!"

Grant felt himself being pulled up out of the couch, and physically carried down the ramp.

The cooler air outside was like a slap across the chops. He blinked, felt himself being jounced...

And then suddenly stop still.

"Let me down!" he demanded.

"Do what the man says, turkey! Now!"

Henrikson dropped him onto hard sheetcrete.

"Ow!" Groggily he scrambled up to his feet...

And found himself staring into the bores of 10mm blasters.

Connected to those blasters were Colonel Alex Kozlowski and a group of marines, travel sacks at their bags.

"Belay arms," said Kozlowski, striding up to them, arms on hips. If we were a group of bugs, you dopes would be bug food now! Emergencies demand emergency measures!" A toothpick stuck out from the side of her mouth. She worked it all the way to the other side of a scowl. "Isn't that right, soldiers!"

The marines, who somewhere in the midst of all this had managed to effect uncomfortable poses of attention, immediately responded.

"Yes, sir!"

Kozlowski worked the toothpick.

"Besides, I haven't assigned seats yet, have I?"

"No, sir!"

Kozlowski walked over to Grant, and stooped down beside him. "Welcome to your mission, Mr. Grant..." She spat the toothpick.

It stuck into the loose fabric of his pants.

"Welcome to my command."

Grant sighed and closed his eyes again.

This sheetcrete was actually rather comfortable...

Darkness.

Darkness and dreams.

Dream logic tangled in its own shreds and chips of reality and magic.

For six weeks, Daniel Grant dreamed or didn't dream, but in the overpowering darkness, the dreams were all he knew.

Moebius strips of dreams. Jump cuts. Swirls of victory and laughter and glory.

The depths of the past, into secret and overpowering fears.

Mostly, though, it seemed a short sleep, for the dreams were only brief releases of hypersleep to allow brain function and REM.

In the glass-case cubicle, embedded like a fly in amber, when the mechanism and gas mix slowly began to gently pry him from his slumber, Daniel Grant only vaguely sensed the springing of the lock mechanism of his case. He clung to his dreams, clung to the darkness, a sleeper drunk on sleep.

"Mr. Grant?"

A gentle female voice. Whose? It was sweet and kind and understanding. The kind of voice his ex-wife used to use, in their early love, when he gave himself only to her.

She seemed very real now, very much a part of reality in this darkness.

"Daniel?"

Martha. He'd been dating a lot back then, back in the halcyon days of Neo-Pharm, when he'd first bought it and was working on the beginnings of his empire. She was a model his ad company had hired for commercials. He'd swooped down and never come back up... not for a long time, anyway. Still, to this day, he was not sure why there had been others, years down the road. Old bad habits? Part of the life-style he'd loved? Pure stoking of an overblown ego?

He wasn't sure, and he wasn't troubled about it.

Except for moments like these, upon waking, when he doubted himself, when he felt vulnerable.

"It's time to wake up, Mr. Grant."

Wake up? Where was he?

"We've got a lot to do."

That voice. It certainly wasn't Martha's. He realized that now.

"So hop to it."

It was a hard voice now, a voice used to being obeyed.

Grant realized that he was cold. He felt quite naked. Shivering, he raised himself.

He pried open his eyes.

Peripherally, he saw the overhanging cables and cold metal of the hypersleep chamber.

In front of him, crouching, was a good eight feet worth of talons, bony notched spars and open, angry jaws.

An alien!

He screamed.

He cringed.

Then he scrabbled back, instinctively throwing up his arms in a helpless gesture to protect him from this, the deadliest creature in the known universe.

Even as he squirmed, trying to grapple over the side of his hypersleep cubicle, what shreds of his rational mind that still operated realized something.

The thing wasn't moving.

It was just hovering there, a few feet away.

And come to think of it, couldn't he barely see a bulkhead through the murky black of its articulated body?

A shudder, a zwip! of light passed through it.

It wasn't real... It was a...

From the left a woman in khaki fatigues stepped, holding a modular control unit.

Colonel Kozlowski.

The beast before him was just a hologram.

"Thought you might need to get your juices flowing." She tapped a control, and moved the hologram away. "Welcome to the U.S.S. Razzia, Phase II."

"God damn you, Colonel!"

She raised a dark eyebrow. "You want to be a part of the gang, don't you, Grant? Just consider this a very mild hazing. You're a member of the fraternity now!"

He wasn't groggy at all. The adrenaline had managed to kick weeks worth of sleepdirt out of his head. Still, his heart was racing and he was damned angry.

And, what with only a pair of briefs between himself and nakedness, damned near naked!

He hopped out of his cubicle, one of ten spiraled around a central control and supply center. All the duraplas casings were lifted now, like translucent insect wings.

They had obviously let him snooze awhile longer than normal. All the other cubicles were empty.

"Why am I the last to wake?" he said, getting up and out of the thing, steadying himself on the side.

"You seemed real tired when we left, Grant. We all thought you could use a little extra sleep."

"How far are we from our destination?"

"The gravitonic engines are cut off. We've got to use regular impulse engines to cruise among planets. We'll be in orbit around the Hiveworld in four days." She smiled. "Are you ready for some action, Mr. Grant?"

"It would appear I've already gotten some, Colonel."

"What. From Black Fang here?" She smiled. "Just a training hologram. No reason to be embarrassed. Some younger recruits have soiled their skivvies because of Black Fang. Looks like you pretty much did okay."

Grant snorted. "You have quite a warped sense of humor, Kozlowski. I guess we're going to have to talk about that, and some other things in a few hours. Right now, I'd like to get some pants on."

"Too bad. You look so cute that way." She laughed and started walking away. "Come, boy! Come! Fun's over. We've got some work to do."

The holoprojection ghosted along beside her as she walked away toward wherever.

Grant shuddered. He took a deep breath, got his bearings, and headed off in the direction of the locker room where he'd left his clothing.

In the few days aboard the U.S.S. Razzia before he was tucked away in hypersleep, Daniel Grant had had very little time to familiarize himself with the full extent of this very large ship. He'd spent some time overseeing the operations of his scientists and he'd spent time getting some natural sleep. That was about it.

However, he did make sure he remembered where he put his clothes.

He wasn't crazy about the immense and metallic coldness of the ship. The liner he'd taken from his home planet had at least catered to some human amenities. It gave some feeling of warmth and sociability. Here, aboard the Razzia, it was just a pure case of military utilitarianism. There was about as much decor inside the ship as on the outside.

All in all, Grant was just as happy to snore the time away.

What the hell was going on back on Earth now? he wondered. He'd warned his officers to stay inside, to hire security, and to reinforce measures. He'd even had them tender a small payment to Fisk's "company." Nonetheless, he couldn't help but wonder. Still, whatever was going on, there was absolutely nothing he could do out here, light-years distant in some godforsaken quadrant of the half-known galaxy.

The locker room was down a narrow corridor.

Showers, toilets, benches.

It looked, smelled, tasted, felt like something out of his high school sports hero's days. Funky, but somehow homey. Oddly comforting.

A tall blond man was in the corner, buckling the belt of his pants. Oddly enough, he was wearing dark glasses. They made him look more like the MacArthur school of officer than a corporal.

"Henrikson? You just get out of cold sleep, too, buddy?"

The corporal turned and looked at him. "Early this morning. Just finished exercising, sir."

"Just kicked my butt out of bed now. Wonder why they kept me down so long?"

"Maybe they just wanted things spick-and-span for you, sir."

"You have a first name?"

"As I told you before, sir. It's Lars."

"Oh, right. That's it. Lars. Tell you what. You can call me Dan."

The corporal nodded. "Thanks... Dan."

Grant found his locker. Racked his brain. His memory coughed up the combination. He twirled the dial back and forth. The lock snapped open. Inside were the civvie scientist grays they'd provided him with, since he hadn't brought along any of his own clothes, and the duds he'd come in with were pretty shredded.

He put his pants on.

"You know," said the corporal, "times like these make me wish I could pop a tab or two of that Xeno-Zip you make. Unfortunately, tests have determined that chances are pretty good I'd go berserk even on the regular stuff. Damned skittish metabolism."

"Oh, well," said Grant paternally. "I'm sure you're a damn fine soldier without it." He grew thoughtful. "I'll tell you, Lars. You must be pretty sick of that colonel of yours."

"Colonel Kozlowski. Our commanding officer."

"She had a bug holo waiting for me when I woke up."

"No kidding. She must like you then."

"Likeme? Scared hell out of me. Said it was some sort of hazing."

"Tough. She's pretty tough all right, the colonel is."

Grant was surprised. "C'mon. We're friends. You don't have to pull that loyalty crap with me. Tell me the truth... you've hated her for months, right?"

In a we-men-gotta-stick-together tone.

Henrikson's face was peculiarly immobile. Behind those shades, his eyes were unreadable.

"Mr. Grant. I guess you could say I feel like I've taken you under my wing. You don't know much about the military... and here you are on a military craft. There are things you have to understand about the military... and I guess it's not that much different from business life. Maybe even simpler."

Grant smiled. "Right! I knew we could be chums." He continued Velcroing his suit. Damned thing! It sure as hell chafed!

"I'm a corporal. I haven't been in the Colonial Marine Corps that long. But I have previous military experience."

"Exterminating bugs?"

"That's not all the military does in this universe, Mr. Grant... Sorry. Dan. Sir." He sighed. "Whatever. At any rate, my point is that it's dog-eat-dog, here. Domination, but in a codified, respectful fashion. I've only served under the colonel since she culled me from the ranks to be on this mission. She's earned my respect."

"Oh. But she seems to have some kind of chip on her shoulder. Think she's just trying to make up for not having one between her legs?"

"Like I said, Dan. You've got things to learn. There are codes and games. Just like everything in life. You learn the ropes..." He shrugged. "Maybe these little attitude snits... Well, I guess you've pulled a few in your time at Grant Industries."

Daniel Grant considered. "I suppose I have. In my own charming way. Good point."

"The colonel is totally in command. And she treats every one as an equal. And if she chooses to dump a little extra shit on your ears..." A brusque shrug. "Well, then like I said, Dan. She must like you."

Grant thought about that a moment.

"Fair enough, Henrikson. That doesn't mean I have to like her, does it?"

Henrikson put a hand on his new friend's shoulder.

"Any woman ever treat you like this before?"

Grant considered. "Yes. My wife!"

"And what did you do about it?"

"I divorced the bitch!"

Henrikson smiled. "Well, you'll have to marry the colonel to do that! I reckon the captain of the ship's got the legal right to do that."

"Marry... Henrikson, I wonder who's got the more warped sense of humor. You or me!"

"From what you tell me, sounds like the colonel does. I'll watch for that little holo trick. She hasn't done that number on me—yet."

"She must not like you, Henrikson."

"No, I guess not." The corporal gave a farewell nod and started leaving the locker room.

"You're a lucky man, Lars."

"We'll see, Dan. We'll see."

The big man was gone.

Grant sighed. He Velcroed his ship shoes, and made a pit stop at the head.

Next stop: his scientists, and his little secret project.

That should make him feel back in the saddle again!

“How we doing, Pilot?" asked Colonel Kozlowski.

The man was bent over away from her, obscuring the motions of his hands. Around him ranged a convex field of lights. LCD screens played spectacular spectrum games. Lume-points glittered, waiting for computer input. From this angle, she could see his bald spot, like the top of a hairy egg.

"Fine, Colonel," he said in a monotone. "Almost finished."

His elbow swiveled. His head nodded.

One last telemetry check?

The culmination of a final primary diagnostic of the Razzia's sys/ops and structural integrity after its long cruise through sub-Einsteinian planes of warped mathematics?

One more little flourish of his hand and he turned to her. "What's up, Colonel?" He'd turned so that now Kozlowski could see that his hand was nowhere near any of the controls. He held a pencil and a book of crossword puzzles. The blocks in the puzzle were all filled now.

"An interesting form of duty report, Captain," said Kozlowski coldly.

The man's lined, pale face remained impassive. He shut the book, slipped the pencil behind a large, hairy ear, and folded his arms together. "You forget, Colonel. You got a nice long snooze. I got to wake up for a few weeks, to check on things. Part of my job. Got to keep something going to prevent the ennui from driving me nuts. Little diversion of mine." He tapped the book. "Got a whole library of them. After twenty-six years in the Marines, I got lots filled, too. Next year I retire. Bought a nice little chicken ranch on the Ulna colony. And then, I don't want to see the inside of another freakin' interstellar vessel... or for that matter the inside of another crossword puzzle book again."

"Just the inside of chickens."

The pilot-captain's name was Hastings. Phillip Hastings.

Hastings shrugged. "The ancient Greeks used to study bird entrails to predict the future. Wonder what a split-open one would tell us now."

"A few tomorrows of many spilled bug guts, hopefully. I take it by your inaction that everything is functional, we're on course, minor things like that."

"We got navigators and copilots and engineers to take care of that garbage, Colonel. I just oversee and coordinate." Hastings looked like a good soldier gone to seed. Beer belly. Slack skin that had that waxen look that toned muscular bodies get when they don't get exercised for a few years. He had thinning brown hair and a network of burst capillaries in his nose. From the look of him, he wasn't just going to raise chickens upon retirement. He was going to do some serious drinking.

Nonetheless, she—and doubtless Daniel Grant as well—had been assured that he was the best in the business. That he was a burnout did not seem to be important.

"What can I do for you, Colonel?"

"I'm briefing the troops. I thought you might like to join us."

"I'm not going down to that hellhole. Why should I?"

"I thought you might find it educational. These bugs have popped up all over the universe—and they spread via ships, as you know. Thought you might like to know some tactics against them."

The captain sucked a lip. "Thanks, Colonel. You going to tape the meeting?"

"Yes."

"I'll watch it some other time."

"Miles and miles of crossword puzzles to do before you sleep?"

Hastings scratched his nose. "Something like that."

"I am in command, Captain. I can order you to be at that meeting."

"Then you already would have, wouldn't you? You gave me an option and I'm exercising that option." He leaned forward and tapped LCD displays. "Besides, we're in a planetary system now. A strange system can have all kinds of phenomena waiting. Gravity wells, black holes... as well as the usual meteor showers, comets, asteroids... I like to ride close shotgun at times like this." He tapped his book. "Besides, I've got some more puzzles to do."

She was ticked off at the guy, but he'd rummaged up a good excuse, so she really couldn't pull rank.

She just wished the admiral had given her someone with a better attitude, that was all.

"Just make sure we don't crash into any moons, Captain."

Captain Hastings turned to his left where a miniature holotank filled with blips and sparks and readings hung. "No moons in our immediate future."

He opened his puzzle book and went back to work.

Kozlowski turned and stomped away.

She stopped at her cabin first. She went inside and splashed some water into her face. Had she done the right thing? Should she have made Hastings go to the meeting?

He was right about not really having to, but his lack of interest, his insolence, annoyed her. She had the command here. He should be doing not only what she told him—but what she suggested as well.

Kozlowski wiped her face with a towel, looked into a mirror.

She had a lost look to her eyes.

Light-years from home.

She'd fought for her planet a very long time. She'd learned the basics of space travel so that she could carry the battle against these creatures to their home. Now, though, like some mythological being, she felt cut off from a source of her power.

Nonsense, of course. Foolishness. All just knots and complexes of neural patterns, easy enough to blast apart. She was a fighting machine and she was just taking a ferry to another part of the battle.

Still, why did she feel so homesick?

She'd popped out of hypersleep a full two days before the others, so she could do some work with the tactical computers as well as knock some of the stasis sleep out of her brain. Wrapped up in maps and facts, figures and projections, inventorying weapons and supplies, and rebriefing herself on the armor, she'd been in her own little world.

Now, though, with a day full of the troops waking up, the whole thing was starting to get to her.

Thirty troops were going to jump down right into the thick of thousands, maybe even millions of creatures that could give even biblical demons a scare, with only some half-proven experimental weapons to do the job.

Okay, girlie, she told herself. Just knock that look right off your repertoire. Either that, or get it out of your system, here and now.

There was no reason for this kind of doubt. The Hiveworld had been raided before. True, there had been casualties. However, there had been survivors. She'd studied their reports. Wilks. Billie whatshername. Nasty stuff, but compelling.

Kozlowski had no illusions.

You deal card hands from the bug decks, you came up holding some casualties. Now, though, here on her first big extra-Earth mission, she'd watched the troops get up today, stretch and go through their metaphorical thawing, and when she saw the vulnerability in their eyes, that moment of terror, that oh-shit-here-we-are expression, she felt what they felt.

Even with that asshole Grant.

Ever since what had happened with Peter Michaels, maybe she was just getting soft...

Of course there was a reason she'd pulled the holostunt with Grant. He'd been making noises before sleepytime that he wanted to jump down with them for the mission, to see it firsthand. She was just trying to discourage him, that was all.

Maybe, just maybe the meeting would rattle him. When she thought deeply enough about all the implications, it sure as hell rattled her.

She closed her eyes, did some inner self-composure exercises. What came up wasn't calm and a deep peace, though. What came up was Daniel Grant. She didn't feel good about him being here. Not good at all. For complex reasons she didn't care to deal with just right now.

Even though she'd promised herself she wasn't going to do it, she went to her bag and pulled out a medicine bottle full of the reason Daniel Grant bothered her.

She cut a tablet of Fire in half. She'd tried to give it up, no go. Maybe after this fracas was over.

She washed the half-tablet down with a glass of water.

Then she finished getting ready for the briefing.

The bug wavered, capered, lunged.

Drool cascaded down its mouth into the shadows.

Its exoskeleton seemed to glow with evil, spikes sticking out of its back erecting.

The thing looked like a dinosaur attempting to shapeshift into the Devil.

"Yum yum," squawked a reptilian voice. "Fee fie fo fum. I smell the blood of a bunch of bums!"

Uneasy laughter rippled among the assemblage.

"Any of you sweethearts want a date with my ovipositors?" it snarled. "Looks like we'd have a wonderful party. You all look like absolutely splendid hosts."

Groans.

Colonel Kozlowski twirled the dial of the holo-projector, and the bug program faded. She let her voice assume its normal timbre as she looked out at the group of amused, anxious marines.

"Okay, listen up, people. I promise you right now, this is going to be no party. But we didn't come all these light-years to party, did we? We came to help make this galaxy safe for peaceful, sentient life. As long as these things infest any of our planets or ships or space colonies anywhere in an uncontrolled and above all misunderstood fashion, the future of humanity is threatened."

The briefing room felt like the interior of a metal egg, subtly lit in the curved corners. All of the soldiers assigned for planetfall sat in rows of comfortable, slanted chairs, as though in some military theater. They sat at a kind of alert attention. Professionals. Damned good people all of them, and Kozlowski should know. She had helped to select every single one of them.