Prologue 3 page

The gray eyes sparked with anger. It was a sore subject with all career military sorts. The general had taken the bait. Now all Marshall had to do was to reel him in.

"Public sentiment is also very antiwar machine. I think it's a historical distrust of power. The media tends to think that if the military has too much resources in a time of peace, they get antsy and take over the government. So the other extreme occurs. The military gets weak. And so when the country needs us, we get thrown into the fray, unprepared... and get clobbered. That's provable history, General."

The general nodded, anger etched into his face. He picked up the cigar, stuck it into his mouth. Marshall happily relit it for him.

"What can we do about it? We're not getting the funds to build new and improved equipment. So... why not build a new and improved soldier?"

General Burroughs squinted suspiciously. "What? Synthetics? Cybernetic? DNA jobs? That costs a pretty cred, too, Marshall."

The old boy wasn't following the line of reasoning. That was one thing about Burroughs, he was a little thick sometimes, a little bullish. But like a bull, if you pointed him in the right direction, all you had to do was grab the tail and he'd take you where you wanted to go. That was why Marshall had cooked up his little exhibition. In show-and-tell, the "show" carried the greatest weight.

Marshall smiled. "How about if you could do it for just a few bucks a head, General?"

General Burroughs barked a growly laugh. "Pull the other one, Colonel." He pushed out a stream of smoke and palpable disbelief.

Marshall checked his wrist chronometer. The players in the game would be just about ready. "General, if you'd care to step out on my balcony, there's a little demonstration I'd very much like to show you, courtesy of some of the men in my company."

Burroughs shrugged. "I'm here. I've smoked your cigar. I've listened to your curious nonsense. And I must say, you must have used some of the government money I'm responsible for to throw together this bit of research. So I guess you've put me into a position where I don't have much of a choice in the matter." He took out the smoking cigar and pointed it gruffly toward the colonel's nose. "But let me tell you, Colonel. I'd better see some serious justification for the use of this taxpayer's money."

"Naturally, sir." Marshall got up and marched over to a side wall, hung tastefully with mementos, weapons, and equipment. He pulled out two pairs of electronically enhanced binoculars from rechargers and handed one to the general. Then he pointed toward the sliding glass doors and the open spaces beyond.

"Come on, General. Wait till you get a gander at this."

The "balcony" was actually an extension of a catwalk and stairs system that connected a number of buildings in the newly built assembly of offices, barracks, and warehouses that comprised this portion of Quantico.

Beyond, a bank of obsidian-bottomed clouds hung on the horizon. A storm was brewing. Nothing unusual on Earth now, storms. Marshall shivered a bit at the prospect. They moved fast, those storms. Dark battalions of weather, phantom marchers left behind after the war. But there would be time for the exhibition.

Marshall picked up a walkie-talkie from the desk.

The two officers walked to the edge of the balcony. Marshall leaned against the railing and pointed down at the open yard below. Some yards away, a group of enlisted men seemed to be milling about, up to nothing much more than loitering.

The general glowered. "Looks like a bunch of men goofing off!"

"If you'll just direct your binocs toward that lone private over there in the corner, sir..."

General Burroughs harrumphed. But he angled the cigar off to one side of his mouth and put the binoculars up, finger expertly adjusting the focusing vernier. "Looks like just a normal grunt. And a mighty doofy one, come to think of it."

Marshall brought up his glasses and took a look. Yes, there he was, the poor guy, looking a little lost and oblivious as usual. Gawky. Geeky. Big Adam's apple, tiny brain. Colonel Marshall was a collector of mid-twentieth-century cultural remnants and he remembered one of Edgar Bergen's puppets. That was who the guy reminded him of.

Mortimer Snerd.

"That's Private Willie Pinnock. And if I may say so, your assessment is right on the money. Private Pinnock barely made it through boot camp. His reflexes are slow, his IQ is low. He can barely handle latrine and KP duties... but he can, which is why he isn't booted."

"So what's so special about this particular private?"

"Just a moment. You'll see." Marshall opened up the walkie-talkie he'd taken with him. "Corporal Glen. Can you read me?"

The walkie-talkie sputtered and spat back. "Roger. I read you, Colonel."

Marshall pointed to where the corporal was standing on a crate, snapped to attention, waving at them. "Our referee, if you will, General." He clicked the channel back on. "Corporal, you may proceed with the exhibition."

"Yes, sir," spat the walkie-talkie.

Up went the binoculars.

Corporal Glen, a well-built specimen who looked good even in fatigues, semaphored to the private off to one side of the courtyard. However, Pinnock did not respond.

Glen signaled again.

Nothing.

General Burroughs arched an eyebrow.

Cripes, thought Marshall. This had better come off or my butt is cooked.

"What's wrong with that soldier?" he barked into the walkie-talkie.

"Off in his own little world, sir."

"Well, drag him out of it and let's get the show on the road. The general hasn't got all day."

Glen "yessirred," then trotted quickly off to where Private Pinnock stood, spinning rainbows. He tapped the nerd on the shoulder, flapped his gums in traditional mad army Drill Instructor fashion, and Marshall didn't need binoculars to see Pinnock jump, flinch, and generally cringe at the chewing out. A bob of head from the private, and then Glen trotted back to his monitoring duty.

Pinnock's shoulders were slumped. He looked quite hesitant and more than a little frightened at the prospect before him. Nonetheless, he slipped his hand into the pocket of his fatigues and drew something out.

"Get a close-up on what he has in his hands, sir," suggested Marshall.

"A bottle of that drug... Xeno-Zip."

"Yes, sir, that's right."

Pinnock visibly drew a deep breath. He turned toward a wall, as though he were doing something shameful, and then dragged a shaky hand through his blond short-cropped hair. He opened the bottle of Fire, poured out three tablets, then choked them down, without the benefit of water.

He stiffened, and visibly shuddered.

"Doesn't look like he's having much fun, Colonel."

"No, sir. May I give you a brief personality profile? Pinnock is a meek fellow with a minimal aggression quotient. His adrenaline levels are low; he doesn't get mad when the other soldiers tease him. They generally just put up with him, since he tends to do the distasteful chores for them."

"With no resentment."

"None that is reported." Marshall looked at his chronometer. The increased dosage in the subject was his order, to increase the speed of release of the chemicals in the bloodstream. The last thing he needed was an impatient general. The results were going to have to be fairly immediate, or Burroughs would just about-face and leave. A minute since ingestion. That would be about right.

"Glen. Next step."

"Yes, sir," snapped the walkie-talkie.

The colonel signaled the milling group of men. They loosely ordered themselves and began marching toward the lone private like a gaggle of surly Teamsters headed for a manager. They were bulky lads, with rock muscles earned by constant drilling and exercises. Marshall could hear a couple of them, joking with one another. They had no weapons, only their fists. Marshall had planned it that way. He didn't want to see Pinnock or anyone get hurt, exactly. Scuffed up a bit, that was all. A little red on the turf was always a dramatic underline.

Besides, these barracks bullies might be in for a little something they hadn't bargained for.

The frontmost of the group, a beefy tower of a man, stepped up to Pinnock, grabbed him by the shoulder, and spun him around. A few obscene motions and words were made. Pinnock did nothing. Another man stepped forward and shoved the private. Pinnock shuffled backward, still not reacting. Not even cringing, which was a good sign.

Then another grunt snuck up behind him and got down on all fours. Big Pecs stepped forward, executed a sharp, swift push. Pinnock tumbled onto the ground. The smallest of the men, a little guy with a rat face, stepped in and gave a sneaky kick to the private's backside.

"What the hell is going on?" said the general. "This is absurd!"

Marshall tensed. There should be some reaction here by now. Was all this going to be a ridiculous fiasco?

The ratty-faced man sneered and went in for another free kick. However, this time, he did not step back after the blow was delivered. And the sneer melted into a look of alarm.

Something snapped. There was a scream, and Rat Face was flung ass over elbows backward. He was slammed into the corrugated metal of a barracks wall and left a smear of blood as he poured onto the ground, out for the count.

The burly bully boys took a step back.

Private Pinnock jumped to his feet.

"Holy shit," said General Burroughs.

The officers' binoculars leapt to their eyes.

Pinnock's eyes seemed to glow.

"Three tablets of the synthesized version of Fire," said Marshall. He brought up his walkie-talkie. "Okay, Glen. Have the boys subdue the private."

The corporal barked out orders. The men stepped forward again, looking quite a bit more tentative now, and probably a damned sight startled. Still, they were good military men and they followed orders.

They advanced, closing in on Pinnock on all sides. There would be a wonderful tussle, but there were a good eight tough boys there and they'd pin the guy down and then they'd get in the restraining leg cuffs and force jacket and let Pinnock burn off his sudden energy.

"We did a genetic workup on the men, and Pinnock proved to be the most susceptible to the effects of the drug," Marshall explained. "Of course no one understands what the hell happens, really, or what's likely to. Sometimes it appears to have no effect at all. Pinnock is a most suitable specimen, don't you think, sir?"

"He's outnumbered... but what's happening to him?" said the general. "This is remarkable!"

Up with the binocs. Down with the jaw. It wasn't just the man's attitude and spirit that had changed. His whole physique seemed—altered. Latent muscles seemed pumped up, and the whole face seemed chiseled purpose and resolve. And those burning eyes...

Pinnock grabbed the first of the men and with lightning speed lifted him off his feet and hurled him back, knocking over five more Army men.

... those burning eyes. His face seemed twisted into a mask of hatred and anger.

From Mortimer Snerd into Superman...

"Amazing," said General Burroughs, echoing Marshall's thoughts. He had no idea...

Pinnock didn't give the others a moment to rally. He charged in, punching and throttling. Gobbets of blood flew into the air, along with shrill shrieks and gurgles.

Maybe he shouldn't have used three pills...

Glen's voice erupted over the walkie-talkie, but the device was hardly necessary. Marshall could hear him yelling desperately down in the courtyard.

"Colonel! Pinnock's getting out of hand!"

Pinnock leapt onto the back of Big Pecs, and grabbed ahold of the man's neck. Big Pecs tried to throw him off, but Pinnock was as firmly planted on him as the Old Man of the Sea. The crazed private gripped the head, and wrenched, his tendons standing out from his neck. A loud snap!, a pulse of arterial blood, and the big man wilted to the ground, his neck broken, his head almost torn from its mooring.

The other soldiers had watched this, stunned and stuck in indecision. The bloody demise of their fellow soldier sent them racing away.

Pinnock, grinning like a death's-head, caught two and slammed their skulls together. He raced and tackled another, pummeling him into a pulp with fists.

Perhaps, thought Colonel Marshall, I should not have chosen a soldier with such understandable resentment buried in him.

The walkie-talkie spoke again. "Colonel! He's out of control. We need armed soldiers out here. We—"

"Oh, my God!" cried the general. "Behind him!"

The crazed berserker that had been a meek private leapt upon the corporal, grabbed the walkie-talkie, and slammed the hard metal-plastic over and over again into the man's face, until it was a bloody mess.

Colonel Marshall did not pause long to watch. He was screaming into another radio channel for backup. Armed backup. There'd been absolutely no indication that this exhibition would get this far out of control.

Two soldiers, one with a machine gun, one with a blaster, raced into the courtyard.

Somehow, in the sudden blur and explosion of fire and bullets, and despite a bullet wound and the loss of part of an arm, Pinnock managed to wrest the machine gun away and use it on the backup soldiers killing them instantly.

Amid the decimation, Colonel Marshall watched with horror as the bleeding and burnt chemically charged maniac slowly swiveled around like a gladiator surveying his kill—and seeking out the emperor...

"Christ!" said General Burroughs. "He's looking at us!"

... and not for approval.

"General. Quickly. Back to the office!"

Even at their first step, a hail of bullets splattered over their heads; Marshall was stung with flying cement chips. Ducking, they lunged through the office doors, and the glass windows exploded. Burroughs took cover behind a desk, and Marshall leapt for his wall of weapons. He tore two loaded semiautomatic Hyper machine guns from their racks and threw one to the general.

"I haven't used one of these in years!" moaned Burroughs.

"Watch!" Marshall clicked off the safety. He ran to the billowing curtains, took cover, and squeezed off a salvo at the approaching maniac. No hits, but he got the feel of the thing. He dodged as another hail of bullets crashed through the door, tearing up a wall of certificates and pictures. Marshall retreated, letting off two more burps of fire.

There was a moment of silence, and then Pinnock marched in like he was Superman. He gripped the gun and the grin on his face was like an ax wound. One eye was a bloody gouge, but the other gleamed like diamond. Blood rivuleted down his face. One whole side of his body was burned.

He lifted up the machine gun, like a crazed zombie with firepower.

Burroughs had figured out how to use the Hyper and he ripped off a clip. However, only a couple of bullets hit their mark, the others splattering along a wall. Pinnock was knocked off his feet, falling back onto the balcony. But with iron determination and a brain burning with chemicals, he began to get up.

Marshall lifted his gun to fire again, but it jammed. He did not waste time on the weapon, flinging it down and leaping to a rack. The nearest weapon was a bazooka. He tore it off the wall, grabbed a shell, loaded up, and ducked back behind a chair just as a new hail of bullets chunked and screamed into the weapons wall.

A pause. Pinnock was out of ammunition. He had to be.

Marshall thumbed off the safety, checked the go-light of his weapon, thanking the Powers That Were he'd kept up on his weapons training. He brought the short barrel of the mini-bazooka up and gave himself only a fraction of a second to aim.

Private Pinnock, smoking and smelling of burnt flesh, still grinning, walked toward him, death glaring from his one good eye.

Marshall squeezed the trigger.

The shell whooshed out of its pipe and whacked directly into the maniac private's chest, pushing him back through the door into the balcony before it detonated. The explosion of the shell blasted the private and his gun to pieces, not even leaving smoking boots behind.

Marshall gasped and collapsed, dragging ragged breaths into his weary lungs. What a fiasco! A catastrophe of the first order! Support from the general? He'd be lucky now if he didn't get his chops busted, didn't get demoted or sent to deal with some alien infestation in northern Alaska.

General Burroughs cautiously poked his head from behind the desk. His uniform was torn and he had a stunned look to his eyes. He regarded the tattered gore, the remnants of Private Pinnock spread over the balcony like an explosion in a butcher shop.

He smiled slowly. "I believe, Colonel, this drug bears some further investigation. But please—not while I'm around."

War is good business.

War is even better business after the war is over, especially if there was massive destruction on the order of the kind administered by the alien infestation. When humanity fought off its enemy it found many of its cities ravaged. But like London after the Nazi air blitz of World War II, this was not necessarily a bad thing. Sure, some good buildings were destroyed by bombs in that case—but also destroyed were massive numbers of creaky docks and ancient buildings that should have met the wrecking ball years before.

The result of the devastation: reconstruction and a better city.

Such was the case with the alien infestation.

Take New York City. Manhattan in particular. It had been rotting for years, its roads and subways tottering on the brink of disaster.

The extermination of the aliens had left behind many ruins and much potential. Nothing on the order of Los Angeles, which was still pretty much a smoking ruin with odd nests of the creatures still needing to be wiped out. But the Big Apple needed a big overhaul.

The U.S. government, weak but still there, brought in two traditional weapons in this particular struggle: free enterprise and deregulation. Any entrepreneur, any company that had the stomach for it, were awarded the privilege of going in and wrestling with the wreckage and the building.

A man named Daniel Grant not only had the company and the willpower for such a job, he has a cast-iron stomach and platinum business nerves as well.

Now, Manhattan's towers were shiny again, and majestic bridges spanned the East River and the Hudson. Its subways were streamlined and the aliens were all dead here, though not necessarily all the vermin.

Rats, like Daniel Grant, were survivors.

Although his chic East Side penthouse was only ten blocks away from the infamous Grant Tower, Daniel Grant always had himself driven to work in one of his sleek fleet of robo-chauffeured turbostretch limos.

You had to put on a show.

You needed leverage for business deals. Flash and illusion and glitz helped gain leverage. Sometimes, when the numbers in your bank account were either preceded by negatives or promises, flash and illusion and glitz were all you had.

This was why Daniel Grant always made sure that he entered his building through the front door, so that the spectacle was available to the local media.

Today was a brisk spring day in Manhattan and Grant had his window open so that he could see his tower as he approached. God, it was gorgeous! A hunk of gleaming obsidian thrusting up toward the sky from the famously firm island bedrock, Grant Tower dwarfed its surrounding midtown neighbors. Of course a lot of these were still in twisted ruins, which gave Daniel Grant's skyscraper the edge. In fact, it looked like a streamlined monument in an urban cemetery. Still, Grant only had to look at it to feel like the Top Dog, the King of the Hill, the Duke of New York.

"Nice day for a skyscraper, eh?" he said to his female companion, tucked away in the plush, dim corner.

Candy (or was it Bambi?) barely looked up from her compact mirror. "Very impressive, Mr. Grant." She glanced at the erect structure, nodded, and winked coyly. "Reminds me of last night!" She extended a long, sleek leg and teased his ankle lightly. Grant smiled, glorying as much in his own manly scent as in the mists of perfume and femininity that wafted his way from this choice little bundle of boobs and buttocks and blond hair he'd bedded down with last night, after the de rigueur champagne, caviar, and camera clicks. Hopefully, his nightclub antics would make Spy Sheet again this month. Let his competitors think he had money to burn—which, of course, he didn't. These days, though, the newshounds checked your clothes and your chicks—not, fortunately, your checkbooks.

"You're the best, honey," he said as the limo smoothly cruised up to the new permacrete fronting of the G.T.

"You won't forget my number, will you, Danny?"

Grant tapped his sternum. "Your digits are stamped in my heart, babe." He pulled out a microC-card, tapped in a five-hundred-cred-buck limit for the day, and tucked it into her sweet palm. "Go buy yourself something nice, sugar cheeks."

"Oh, Danny, thank you." He got a face full of lips and bosom for his effort.

"Gotta be at Lipshitz and Garfunkel's in Brooklyn Heights, though, sweet cakes. The car will take you there and back to your digs." He puffed up importantly. "But I'm going to need it at twelve-thirty for an important date."

Actually, he had the thing leased out through his car service then, but an important man had to look like he had full use of his limo, right?

"No problem."

"And remember what I told you if you see any signs of aliens?"

She nodded her head importantly. "Call you!" Her voice was slightly and unpleasantly squeaky, and as he began to open the door and some sunlight got at her, he realized it didn't flatter her as much as candlelight did.

Unlikely she'd see any aliens. But you never knew. "That's right, darling. Last night was wonderful. I wish our time had never ended. But even billionaires have to work... probably harder than most people!" He swept off the seat carefully so he wouldn't crease his trousers. "Ciao, baby!"

She blew him a kiss just as the clatter and flashes of cameras began. Nimbly, he jumped so that a few photographic images would record decolletage and blond tresses (for his ex-wife as much as envious male competitors) and then shut the door.

The robo-limo smoothed off toward Brooklyn Heights and the perma-thrift department store he owned. Fortunately, Candy (Bambi?) was far too dumb to know the difference between new merchandise and restructured merchandise.

Daniel Grant swiveled around to greet the chroniclers of his arrival, trying to looked annoyed.

"Can't a busy man have any privacy?" he groused, straightening his power neck jewelry so that it would look right in the pictures. Daniel Grant was sheathed in his usual sartorial splendor. His tailored camel-hair coat hung over his tailored suit perfectly, every angle and nook and color complementing the jut of his square jaw, the tilt of his brain-filled brow, the steely slate of his penetrating eyes. Even the tousle of his hair was follicle-calculated to be photogenic.

Today, even Grant was surprised.

There were usually one or two people here to record his arrival and ask a few questions.

Today, there was a mob.

From the corner of his eye he caught a reporter with a new face and an old question. "Mr. Grant. How do you account for your meteoric rise to success? What's your secret?"

Grant paused, lifted his hand like a heckled but patient monarch requesting heed for his proclamation. He went into automatic speechifying mode. Mental tables appeared before his eyes. He chose from column A and column B.

"No secret! I just make a point of proving an old saying: 'You can learn something new every day.' "

Whew. What did that mean? Sounded damned good, though.

"Mr. Grant, what led to the recent split between you and your last wife?"

"No comment."

"Can you confirm rumors that you are planning to enter politics?"

"Of course not."

Loved those kinds of questions. You give a definite answer that didn't mean a goddamned thing.

"Who was that young lady you drove up with?"

A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "A friend."

"Is it true that your financial empire is in trouble?"

He feigned total astonishment. "Where did you hear that one?"

"Mr. Grant, could you comment on the alleged lethal side effects of your new wonder drug?"

Oops. Time to check Column C.

As there was nothing appropriate there, he just had to wing it. "I'm unaware of such reports." A lie. But he honestly didn't think the "wonder drug" actually was lethal. But these impromptu news conferences were no place for complex ethical and biochemical delineations. "I have full confidence in all my employees. Especially those hardworking people at Neo-Pharm."

Yes, that good old tried-and-true method. Head 'em off the track with a statement. In a legitimate question and answer session, Grant could keep up the palaver for so long, a reporter was lucky to remember his name, much less his original question.

Still it was an alarming question, one that he really hadn't been ready to deal with, despite the news reports.

Time to beat the retreat.

He spun around on the sole of his spit-polished wing tips, again a busy businessman, immersed in the burdens of accruing riches, and stamped away, letting the hail of further questions slip off him. He dodged between two uniformed, sunglassed guards into the building, waggling the finger of command. The thick-necked men stepped between the press and the door, preventing them from further pursuit.