Prologue 9 page

"Yes. I have given it a great deal of thought. Any ignorance on my part could spell a danger to my troops and this vessel."

"I thought the captain was in charge of the actual vessel. He doesn't seem to care much what's going on on Decks E and F."

"The captain? He's a burnout. He does just the minimum to get by, counting things out by crossword. I honestly wonder why he was given this particular duty."

"He seems quite competent to me..."

Nonetheless, Grant did not say no.

Instead, he pushed a button that depressurized the seal on the champagne. He tagged another switch. Armatures extended and made short work of the cork.

Pop!

Kozlowski jumped despite herself. A brief spurt of white stuff ran down the upright thing. She licked her lips, a sudden tingling running down her spine.

Coolly, Grant went to a cabinet, pulled out two glasses. He poured these glasses full of the drink, and then carefully slipped the bottle back into its frigid place.

"I'll tell you what, Colonel Alex. Have a drink with me, I'll give you the Grand Tour."

He tapped the side of the glass closest to her. Ting! The liquid effervesced delightfully.

She made her decision. It was an easy one. She took the glass and drank a swallow, letting it drift through her teeth a moment. It was strong, but it was the lightest, tastiest champagne she'd ever experienced. Fruit vapor, dancing pirouettes on her tongue.

She glowered. A thought occurred to her. "You bastard. You were going to show me anyway, weren't you?"

He picked his own glass up, sipped it. "You'll never know now, will you?"

"Damn you." She couldn't help but sip the glass again. If anything, it tasted better on the second go.

"But here—I happen to have some pate. Crackers, too. French and English, respectively." His hand motioned toward a tray of condiments. "So why don't you have a seat."

She finished the glass of champagne in one guzzle.

Heaven.

Her toes seemed to curl.

"Okay! If you pour us both another!"

"Absolutely!" He poured. "So nice to have company."

She sat and she sipped. She sampled the crackers and pate. After what seemed like a lifetime of reconstituted Marine chow, it tasted like ambrosia. More champagne. Ah. Ambrosia and nectar.

"So then," she said, "I have two questions.

"Number one. What the hell is going on down on those decks? I saw some of the strangest apparatus being boosted off for the Razzia."

"You're just going to have to wait until tomorrow for the answer to that," Grant said. "Then, though, I promise that all will be explained."

"Fair enough. Question two—" She drained her glass of champagne. It exploded inside her like a depth charge of flowers. "Have you got another bottle of this stuff around? This is the best alcohol I've ever had!"

Grant grinned widely. "I think that can be arranged!"

Daniel Grant listed. His eyes were half-closed, and his face was mashed against a cushion of the couch.

A half-filled glass of champagne wobbled in his hand.

"... I should have never let her go," he mumbled.

Clear-eyed and feeling very good indeed, glass balanced on a raised knee, Alex Kozlowski regarded the scene. Totally in charge. Grant had extra champagne, all right. He'd had it trotted on up to his cabin, no problem. A strategy meeting, she'd explained to the surprised ensign sent to deliver it. A tumbled line of dead soldiers lay on the floor.

"Your wife?"

"Yeah. She was... she was the only person I ever really loved." He sighed.

An Interesting evening.

Halfway through the second bottle of champagne, he'd put a hand on her left breast.

She'd cold-cocked him.

He'd flown across the room and landed on the couch fortunately, then lay semi-conscious for a few minutes, while Kozlowski thoughtfully nibbled at crackers and sipped the champagne, enjoying the silence and the boost to her ego. It had been a while since a man had been arrogant enough to make a pass at her, much less trespass her body. She enjoyed it.

She got some ice, wrapped it up in a cloth, and gave it to him. He thanked her and asked for another glass of champagne. The pain seemed to have leeched the randiness out of him, and the champagne helped with his sore jaw. He apologized and they drank more. Kozlowski finished off the pate and crackers. Grant just sipped.

She wasn't going to be able to drink any more before the mission. Drinking now was stretching things. But she figured she might as well enjoy it—and enjoy this first-class liquor—while she could. Might as well have some sound effects while she did so, she'd told herself—so she pried Daniel Grant's life story out of him. Easy, since he was really getting snookered.

Pretty queasy stuff.

Cold mother. Distant father. Money the end-all be-all in the family. No love and affection. A football team approach to sex and affection as conquest. Massive insecurities covered over by efforts and dominance, arrogance and control.

All in all, fairly predictable. Textbook even, she'd imagine. She'd not read much psychology. Hell, most books and computer information had been destroyed.

She'd more or less drunken him under the table. Either that, or her fist had knocked something loose in his brain. Unlikely. Grant looked like he had a pretty hard head.

She'd lifted the rock up and found a mass of worms and nightcrawlers.

The great man wasn't much different, deep down, from her. A few less nightmares, a little more civilized on the surface. But deep down—the usual writhing stew of human troubles.

"So," slurred Grant. "Your full name is Alexandra Lee Kozlowski."

"You did your homework. Yes. My parents named me after two famous generals."

"Grant and Lee. No wonder the antipathy. Hope we can smooth things out."

She shrugged. "We both want the mission to succeed."

"Yes," he murmured. "This trip succeeds, my company succeeds. I'm in the black, debts are paid off, I'm competing effectively against MedTech again, the mob gets paid off, and I get free of their contract—"

"Which you presume you're safe from out here."

He'd spilled the beans on that one under her probing questions, proving her suspicions correct. He'd come along on the mission because it was a convenient way to get off Earth, away from certain deadly factions. Now she knew why. Simple enough and understandable.

Only she honestly wondered if Grant knew that he'd jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. And there were a lot of nasty bugs in that fire, you betcha.

Grant didn't seem to hear her last comment. He was just rambling on. "I get things on track," he was saying. "God, the world is my oyster, I just got to get through the shell. When I get straight with everyone... I'll ask her back. I swear I will. That's what I'm pushing for... Can't live the life I've been living so long... So empty... So useless..."

"Fast track. Candle at both ends. Strive strive strive so you can build yourself a fancy coffin. Dominance and dominoes—both falling-down games."

"Gotta stay on top. Gotta flash the smile. Gotta work, gotta survive," Grant mumbled.

"Gotta drink the best champagne," said Kozlowski. "Eat the best pate." She downed the last bit of stuff in her glass, clapped it back on the table, and stood up. "I guess that's as good a goal as any. Thanks, Grant. I had a good time. Tell you what. We get back to Earth, we have a little party. You supply the champagne and eats, and we'll have a good time."

He looked up, bleary eyes startled. "Don't go!"

"Right. I'm gonna tippy-toe out of your place in the wee hours... or worse, at the beginning of first shift. Won't that amuse the troops?"

"None of... their business..."

"True, but it's also a good excuse to slip the noose here, Grant."

"I just... I just don't want to be alone."

"Yeah. I've heard that one before." She found herself angry for no explicable reason. "Take a snooze, guy. Let your dreams keep you company."

She half expected him to suddenly jump up and run in front of her, begging her to stop. She made a fist. Yeah. Just let the lecher try.

But he didn't. She stopped at the door and listened.

Peaceful, content snores.

She opened the door and stormed out.

Now she knew why she was ticked off, and it absolutely annoyed the hell out of her.

She was attracted to the jerk, dammit.

Daniel Grant didn't look so good.

He was sipping at what passed for coffee when Kozlowski found him on the observation deck, looking out at the specks of stars and planets in the vast blackness of space as though searching for dawn.

"Hey there," she said. "Captain told me I'd find you here."

"I'm trying to soak my head in the Big Dipper," said Grant, gazing out into the vastness.

"I'm here for my tour."

"So you are. So you are, Colonel Kozlowski."

She considered telling him to call her by her first name. He looked so... lost and vulnerable, a wisp of steam winding up from his coffee and misting a piece of the view. She decided against it. She didn't want to give him the wrong idea.

Silence slid between them, which surprised her for a moment. Silence didn't seem in Grant's lexicon of communication devices.

She coughed encouragingly.

Nothing.

Finally, she said, "I did earn my tour, Grant."

"So you did, Colonel. However, I wish you'd said you had a hollow leg."

She shrugged. "You were drinking before I got there. Head start. Besides, I really don't care for your sexual preying before a mission."

"All's fair in love and war."

"Foxhole love. I've had some of that, nice if you like watching your partner in the deed die the next day."

Grant nodded. Managed a smile. "You're far too dramatic, Colonel." He shrugged. "Severe hangovers have a way of putting things in perspective. I guess I'm a bit of the predator. I apologize."

"How's your jaw?"

He rubbed it gingerly. "I can still speak and I can still think. However, I believe you've actually improved my looks."

"You've lost me on that one, Grant."

"I think my face was a little irregular before. You appear to have whacked it back into proper symmetry. Doubtless hundreds of nubile young ladies will come to thank you."

"You know, Grant, if I didn't detect a little self-mockery in your tone, I think I'd deck you again."

A flash of alarm in his face. That immediately retreated into an accepting nod. "I'm an energetic son of a bitch, aren't I?"

"I guess there's a reason you got where you got. But now we're just short of our destination, a par-sec and some change from home. And I need to see some more of exactly why we're here."

"Very well. Let me scrape some of my brain off my throat and reassimilate." He sipped some coffee.

She had a notion. "Here you go. I think I've got something that will help." She fished a small container from a pocket.

"Oh. How do you know?"

"Believe it or not, I've had a hangover or two lately." She did not get specific. She just snapped open the top and displayed the pills, neatly cut into halves and thirds and quarters.

"Pills? What are they?"

"Fire, Grant. Your own poison. Works damned well in this kind of situation. Check it out."

He shook his head. "Thanks, but no thanks. I never touch my own stuff. But please... don't let me stop you."

She'd been thinking of taking a quarter but now, instead, she snapped the container shut and stuck it back in her pocket, feeling annoyed, feeling like a junkie getting the brush-off by the pusher himself.

"Just show me those decks, Grant."

"This way, Colonel."

Corporal Lars Henrikson waited for them at the turbolift.

Kozlowski was taken aback. "Henrikson? What are you doing here?"

Henrikson remained stoic. "Mr. Grant called. He asked me to meet him here. I'm here."

Grant put a hand on the big guy's shoulder. Patted. "My kind of man, Colonel. Henrikson here's going to get a look at what we've got inside, too. Why? I'm glad you asked that question. Henrikson's probably wondering, too." He punched the button for the 'lift. The door slid open, and they all stepped inside. Whir of lights, compression, off for another level. "I'm not an elitist. I want to show what we've got here, to give you an understanding of what's going on. That knowledge on your part may come in handy later on. Helps us a lot. It also gives you a better idea of what we're going to need down on Hiveworld."

Kozlowski was a bit irked. First, because from the sounds of it, Grant had always intended to show her what was going on here. Second, because of Henrikson. He was a first-class soldier. During training, he'd come up as number one at all levels. His abilities were unquestionable. Plenty of references, and one of the troops she'd had no problem at all deciding should go on this mission. However, now it seemed as though Grant had taken him under his corporate wing—a corporal!—and was squiring him about, giving him the treatment that she as the commander alone deserved. True, Grant claimed that of all the regular troops Henrikson had the most actual combat time with the xenos. But still...

Basically, she felt a tad jealous, as though this selection of Henrikson was a male thing, some off-handed way of slapping the fact that she was a female.

"One little condition," said Grant as they walked along the catwalk on Deck E, approaching doors that looked like the entrance to a bank vault. "What I'm about to show you two is strictly hush-hush. I don't want anyone to know about this, especially not the other men—or women. That's why I'm just showing it to you two. I feel as though you can handle it."

Without further explanation, Grant cycled open the door and led them through. The lights were more muted here; it had almost a submarine quality. Aquas and red and shadows. As her eyes adjusted, Kozlowski immediately noticed the equipment.

Banks of it, spread along the ways. Tubing and bulking computers and flanges. Cables and glass and blinking lights. A number of men were clustered at the far end in front of a window that looked like something out of an aquarium. Grant's scientists, doing their geeky scientist thing, mystery wrapped in machinery and mundanity.

It smelled in here. Acidic. Oil, electricity, coffee... and something more.

Something that made Kozlowski's hackles rise.

She recognized it. Faint, but there.

Bugs.

No, she told herself. That can't be right. What would bugs be doing down here?

"Isn't this supposed to be a storage chamber?" she said lamely, trying to get Grant to talk, trying to get the creepy feeling out of the pit of her stomach.

"Oh, yes," said Grant, leading them down some stairs. "And in a way, it still is. But the cargo! That's what's a little unusual."

The steps clanged and echoed.

"So, Grant," said Henrikson. "Why all the secrecy? Why just us?"

Nice of him to echo her own thoughts.

They were walking forward, and through the murky light in the glassed tank she was able to pick out a few details.

Cables, dangling equipment.

Something bulky and organic in the very middle.

And by it...

An egg sack.

And the discarded shell of a face hugger.

She walked up to the window in a haze, astonished, looking in upon the gruesome scene enclosed in metal and glass.

"Well, Corporal, I know most marines have come to really hate the aliens," said Grant. "I'm afraid that what we've got down here would really hinder the morale necessary for the operation."

A thickset man with a boyish face and a cowlick in his mass of blondish hair scuttled up to Grant, lab coat swaying about his ankles. In whispers they conferred together in the corner. The man produced a clipboarded chart that Grant nodded at and then pushed away. He took the scientist gently by the arm and pulled him over to meet his guests.

"This is Dr. Murray Friel. He's in charge of this project down here—the science part, anyway."

"Yes—I've met the commander, but not the corporal," said the doctor.

Kozlowski remembered now. There had been introductions and handshakes on Earth, and then the batch of docs, including Friel here, had been swallowed up on these decks. Brief glimpses in other parts of the ship—that was all. She'd met a lot of men like Friel. Plump red-cheeked guys, smart, but with no real experience. They all seemed to have the same arrogance as Friel here had. He was in his own little world—and owned every corner of it.

But it wasn't Dr. Friel that preoccupied her now.

She was looking at something else.

It looked like a misshapen excuse for a body, but with limbs and head cut off and lengths of esophagus and intestine connecting it with organic machines nearby.

Liquids pulsed through these, feeding it.

"What is that thing?" said Kozlowski, recovering her aplomb, overcoming her initial horror.

"Friel... care to do the honors?" suggested Grant.

"Certainly. It certainly isn't very attractive... but then, neither would your interior bits, awkwardly displayed. You must excuse me, but I feel rather proprietary toward it. You see, in a way, it's a part of me." He stepped forward, a pudgy palm placed up against the glass. He gazed at it with an odd kind of pride. "You see, it's a donor clone, DNA clamped so that it would grow simply the torso, no brain, limited nervous system. A machine regulates it. These things are usually produced for the purpose of organ and tissue donation." His fingers drummed on the glass thoughtfully and then he turned back to look at her. "I'll admit, it isn't the most attractive creature, but it's proved useful." He tapped his arm. "I'm proud to say its cells of origination were retrieved from my wrist."

The odd, smirky fellow who had been introduced before to her as Dr. Amos Begalli sidled up. "We had a little coin toss. We all wanted to be the one... Dr. Friel won. He's like a proud father now, waiting for a son to be born."

Friel shrugged. "It's an interesting experience, I must say."

Kozlowski shook her head. She was finally allowing herself to assimilate the evidence presented here to her. She turned to Grant. "I've seen this before," she said through clenched teeth. "You're breeding one of those damn things!"

"Take it easy, kiddo!" said Grant. "First, everything is quite secure here. The torso is in special suspended animation. It can't blow until the right switches are hit. There are reinforced windows. Special alloy cages. Alarms and an automatic laser lattice should something unforeseen happen."

"But that thing in there... it's living..."

"Only on the crudest terms," said Dr. Friel. "It doesn't feel any pain. It doesn't think. It's just basically a mass of tissue that serves a purpose."

"But if a xeno gets loose on this ship..."

"Colonel, Colonel—the dangers are well known and plenty of precautionary measures have been built into the fail-safe system, I promise you!" said Grant. "Believe me, at Neo-Pharm we've been doing this kind of thing for years... And that woman Ripley did it years ago successfully. Our technology is far superior now. We know how to deal with it."

"But why are you bringing along something like this when we're going to a planet full of them?"

"An experiment," said Dr. Friel. "Naturally, we'd like to come back with necessary alien DNA and queen mother royal jelly to create our own colony for purposes I've been told you are acquainted with. Also perhaps even captured eggs. But we want to work with the product of our own DNA manipulation. To create our own kind of queen, utilizing the necessary royal jelly from what you good soldiers are going to retrieve for us. We'd like to work with some different material than we've had on Earth."

Dr. Begalli beamed. "Yes! You see we've got everything thoroughly regulated here... Metabolic control. We've got it set up so that baby won't pop until we've got the jelly we need available for her queening."

"Lovely," said Kozlowski. "Just lovely."

"In addition, of course, on these decks we've got the necessary tanks and holding pens for the jelly and captured eggs, refrigerated alien DNA... Oh, all manner of good stuff, Colonel. But you can see why your troops might be a little upset."

Friel shook his head. "It's understandable why people are so afraid of these things. However, with the proper applied measures of science, Neo-Pharm is proving that what has up till now appeared to be a threat to humanity—can in fact be a great help. We've just begun our work in the area of drugs and medicine... Heaven alone knows how our understanding of the alien DNA will help us in the future." He sighed happily. "And to think... I'm to be like a father to a whole aspect of what may be the most significant advance in human evolution. Its chemical interaction with xenobiology! Who knows what wonderful new vistas await us!"

"Try horrible pain. Try death. Try species extinction!" said Kozlowski.

Dr. Friel flinched with the intensity of Kozlowski's response. "I don't think, Colonel, you appreciate the beauties and intricacies of the alien genetic gifts."

"I don't think, Doctor, you appreciate the threat these things are—" She paused, calmed herself down, took a gulp of air.

Grant seemed taken aback. "Colonel... Alex. You were there at the initial meeting. I saw you there... you heard everything. You're aware of our ultimate goal. You know what you're here for."

She swung on him, outthrust finger just short of his nose. "Make no mistake, Grant. I may be here to head up this mission to facilitate your personal and professional goals. That's secondary to my duty to the armed forces I serve—and my own purpose. Which is, quite simply, to do everything I can to make sure these bugs are either rendered into a threat equivalent to cosmic cockroaches—or thoroughly exterminated." She lowered the finger. "Any bugs crushed underfoot along the way are all the better."

With that, she turned and stalked the hell away from this charnel house in the belly of a starship.

Everyone knew that service chow sucked.

You didn't join the Colonial Marines for gourmet food, that was for certain.

Still, as Kozlowski accepted the food dumped unceremoniously on her plate at the cafeteria line, her stomach cringed at the lumps of colorless, reconstituted whatsits her meal comprised. She well knew that all the food groups were represented, that this was vitamin and nutrient rich stuff. There just wasn't much taste or appeal to it, that was all.

Still, the gig was two days away.

Gotta carb up!

She stepped over to push a button that would put a dollop of what the machine claimed was mashed potatoes on her plate. She positioned the plate under the nozzle, still not quite there... She'd been a bit preoccupied ever since she'd seen that cloned torso down on Grant's deck. The merging of alien and human to her had always been the height of obscenity. Eradicating that threat had been what her life had been about now for over twenty years. Her use of Fire she'd rationalized as an exercise of dominance over the aliens... Now, though, she wasn't so sure. Unfortunately, she suspected she was hooked on the stuff. She'd been okay this morning, no bad champagne headache, just a chemical pall of gloom riding her. A quarter pill wouldn't banish it. A half pill didn't give her the buzz she realized she wanted to get through the day. She'd taken what amounted to an entire pill, something that she'd only done before in battle exercises and war itself.

And the stuff had unwound in her, like the talons of a bug, zapping her neurons...

She shuddered, tried to forget about it. When this mission was over, she was going to throw her pills in the garbage. Clean up her act. live clean and healthy. But she knew that she needed the Xeno-Zip to deal with what was coming up in her life—and it pissed her off. Especially with her conflicted feelings about Daniel Grant. Especially after what she'd seen down there.

She tried to tune out the chatter in her head, to focus on getting some of this food down, despite her lack of appetite. She took her tray and sat down, alone, at the side of an unoccupied table.

In another corner of the room, Jastrow was noodling on his saxophone. The man didn't play well, but he didn't play badly either. At least, if it wasn't exactly melodious, it wasn't that grating either. However, his buddy, who was sitting beside him as usual, didn't seem to appreciate it.

"Could you give it a rest, Jastrow?"

"What's wrong, Ellis? I thought you liked music."

"I like music fine. But not blaring in my ear while I'm eating."

Kozlowski listened to them bicker. Better than concentrating on this crap that she was stuffing into her face. Jastrow stopped playing and they talked. They talked about Henrikson, who had just come in, walked through the cafeteria, taken his food, and was walking out again.

"Hey. Check it out," said Jastrow. "Henrikson's doing it again. He's taking his food to the room. Oh, man, the bet's still on here... I say he's a synthetic!"