Prologue 4 page

Grant stepped into the marbled halls of the first floor and made a hasty hop and skip for his special turbo-elevator.

He put his face up against a window for a retinal read, even as he placed his thumb into a hole for a quick DNA check.

In this kind of political and economic atmosphere, you just couldn't be too careful.

The car closed behind him and he punched a button. Thus, he was zoomed down to the basement offices and labs of his principal company, the foundation from which Daniel Grant had boosted into the wheeler-dealer stratospheres.

Neo-Pharm.

When he'd sent the message via sub-space to his folks on Beta Centauri colony that he'd used the money they'd given him to purchase a little-known drug company, his old man had thought he'd said "bought the farm"—and thought he was dead. From a friend back on the colony, he'd heard the old fart had just shrugged and poured himself another boost of booze. Fortunately, his mother had replayed the message and gotten the true gist of the message before she poured herself another drink. Then, in celebration, they'd bought everyone at the bar a drink and promptly gotten stinking drunk.

Of course, with the Grants, that was nothing new.

They drank so much at the New Town bar, the old man went ahead and bought it to minimize expenditures. Daniel Grant had to convince his father that the loan was a good business investment by sharing several bottles of cognac with the man. Over multiple ounces of the gut-searing stuff, Grant had pointed out that the alien-torn Earth, now in reconstruction, was ripe for business opportunities. A man who had vision there could have immense power. Old Man Grant wasn't so sure of the financial soundness of his son's plan, but he did have money. Money that he wasn't sure what to do with. Lend me some of that money, Pop, said Daniel Grant, and let me show you what I can do.

Daniel Grant had the money transferred to an Earth bank before his father sobered up, and then followed immediately thereafter, by a slower route.

The New Earth was violent and exciting and dynamic, a phoenix rising from ashes. World governments bent over backward to encourage growth. Restrictions were cut. Regulations either forgotten, ignored, or repealed. It was the freest market imaginable, and Grant studied it. He decided that what Earth people really needed—and would always need—were Pharmaceuticals. Aspirin for headaches. Harder drugs for those harder-to-deal-with biochemical problems. Euphorics. Other mood-alterers. And with a crack team of scientists at his bidding, he could map out new directions of biochemical technology.

So he bought the Pharm.

Since Neo-Pharm was one of the few drug companies still operating, under the helm of Grant's cunning and ruthlessness, unbounded by law or ethics, it burgeoned. Cash and credit flow were astounding. Grant expanded, buying out other companies, building himself an empire. Real estate, retail, hotels, space shuttles—even gambling casinos. Daniel Grant wanted to make a strong, swift impression.

Unfortunately, his first buy remained his best. None of the other companies did anywhere near as well as Neo-Pharm—and often he found himself dipping into N-P's black ink to try to neutralize the other companies' red ink.

If something happened to Neo-Pharm, some financial disaster like a successful class-action suit or (shudder) having to shut down production of Fire, their most popular product, then the whole card castle would crumple.

And he wouldn't be able to make certain personal payments.

Failure would not mean just bankruptcy.

His ass was on the line.

Dammit, he thought as the doors shut behind him. He'd paid back the old man. He'd pay his other debts. And he'd still have his cake and eat it, too... even if it choked him!

The door whispered open before him, and the familiar subdued colors throbbed over him. The acidic smells of the lab assaulted his nostrils.

As always, he could almost taste the freaking bugs down here. At first, he thought the taste was sweet, because it tasted like money. Now, Daniel Grant wasn't so sure.

He stalked across the catwalk that spanned a pit where biochem workers in silvery suits worked over tables and tanks. Along the walls were aquariums filled with pickled bugs—whole bugs, half bugs, bits and pieces of bugs.

And the hellish bug juice—their acid blood—was carefully controlled, the vicious stuff. That was why the technicians worked in the specially lined pit. Anything that got loose, you could sluice it away, and it couldn't get into where it would damage things—or kill people.

"Mr. Grant!" called an alarmed technician from the floor below. "You're not wearing your suit!"

"Well just don't squirt me, guys," said Grant sarcastically. "Is Wyckoff in?"

"Yes, sir. He's in his office!"

"Great. What about the doctor's blood? Does that stuff burn through human flesh?"

"Not that we know of, sir."

"Good. I won't need a suit with him, then."

Helmeted heads swiveled and hooded looks exchanged.

Grant grinned to himself. Let 'em talk. Kept them on their toes!

He finished crossing the pit and entered the bank of offices belonging to the scientists of the firm. Here the air was tinged with a sweetener to clear out the bug stench—but still the stuff hovered.

A door labeled DR. PATRICK WYCKOFF loomed. Grant opened it, not bothering to knock.

The little gnome of a man was huddled among a stack of paper. Paper, paper, everywhere—even covering his computer. Wyckoff liked to figure and doodle on paper. He was a whiz with computers, but for some reason the man far preferred a number two pencil and cheap bond to scratch and riddle with than one of these overpriced wangdoodles he nevertheless insisted was vital to his operation. Wyckoff was so immersed in what he was doing, the shiny-headed, cobalt-nosed little munchkin didn't notice his chief coming in the door.

"Wyckoff! Hey! Look alive. I could be a bug!" he growled in his big, booming I'm-pissed-off voice. Worse, I'm your rampaging boss!

The little man did a double take. His round, Coke-bottle glasses flashed in the indirect lighting. Jaw dropped, he stared at Grant for a moment, then recovered his aplomb.

"Good morning, Mr. Grant. I hadn't expected you so early," said the man in a nasal twang.

Grant loped over and slapped a plastic news sheet from his home News Service machine on the desk, featuring a highlighted article about the latest Fire boo-boo. "But you did expect me, didn't you, Wyckoff?"

"Ye... ye... Yes, sir. I knew you'd at least call. The truth is, I thought I'd hear from you yesterday or the day before—"

"Maybe I just trusted my employees to do their job... To deal with this ridiculous matter. I didn't realize that I'd have a microphone shoved up my nose as soon as I'd stepped out of my car, and be hounded by news of the lethalness of Xeno-Zip."

Wyckoff shook his head sorrowfully. "No, sir, Xeno-Zip's perfectly fine."

It was Grant's turn for a double take. He blinked, twisted his head around, and examined his scientist from another angle, as though to make sure he wasn't seeing some one-dimensional projection. "People seem to be reacting rather poorly to it for it to be perfectly fine, Wyckoff!"

"That's just it, sir. As soon as I heard the reports, I did a complete check of our supply. You may not have noticed, but your PR people have been doing their jobs..." Wyckoff seemed to be back in control now, though he still was clearly intimidated by his ranting and raving employer. "They've put out the notification that these are counterfeit bottles of Xeno-Zip that are affecting people poorly. Meanwhile, we're exploring the possibilities, and I believe we know now what the problem is."

"Well, why don't you tell me, instead of mincing words and hemming and hawing."

"Sir, it's the active ingredient."

"Regal jam, you mean?"

"Um... Royal jelly. Anyway, that's what we call it—there are so many equivalencies to the aliens and their nest/hives and the Earthly insect kingdom. Our supply is obtained by free-lance mercenaries who destroy the many hives still around the world. We pay them to take the royal jelly first before they destroy the hive and pass it along to us."

"Yes, yes, I know that—"

"As I said, our main supply of Xeno-Zip is perfectly all right. The effect of a tiny amount of regular royal jelly combined with precipitant molecules of queen mother royal jelly ingested by a human being within the proper biochemical suspension is a safe serotonin booster and nonabrasive stimulant, improving perception and performance in nerve relay. Part of our work here is to either synthesize both or genetically create creatures that will manufacture both types of royal jelly without the less... benevolent aspects of the aliens. We have introduced synthesized regular royal jelly already into the market. Even with the precipitant Q-M molecules it, alas, effects a percentage of users negatively. Why, we're not sure yet."

"Because you're a bunch of morons, that's why!"

Wyckoff looked chagrined. A pained expression was etched on his face, and he sighed. "There is a possibility that these effects can be controlled by a higher Q-M jelly content. However, doing that would rapidly deplete our supply. Perhaps someone else can explain this to you better." He leaned over and thumbed a toggle. "Dr. Begalli—would you mind coming into my office, and bring some of those charts you showed me earlier. Mr. Grant desires the full scoop."

"Begalli?" said Grant.

"Yes, sir. The researcher you bribed to jump ship from MedTech."

Grant grinned, remembering his coup. "Oh, yes—that bug expert. Cost me a pretty penny... but it was worth it, knowing I stomped on Foxnall's nose!"

"You did indeed, and believe me, sir—he's worth it. He not only has the best handle on the genetic makeup of the things, he's got unparalleled field experience and a grasp on the behavior of the things like I've never encountered before. As soon as he heard about this—ah—little problem, he started an amazing amount of work in conjunction with our computers and the other scientists."

Grant, who had felt a tantrum coming on, was intrigued.

He found himself flopping into a formafit chair and allowing himself to be served some soothing medicinal tea concocted by Neo-Pharm—thankfully not derived from anything alien. The scientist who Wyckoff had summoned showed up with surprising speed, not even allowing Grant an edge of impatience.

Dr. Amos Begalli slouched in, as though burdened by the computer-generated charts and diagrams he carried under one arm.

"Morning," he whispered in a hoarse voice to Grant, almost seeming to bow in obeisance. If he didn't have the charts in his hands, Grant suspected that the man might rub his hands together in the manner of Uriah Heep.

Grant grunted and leaned back, the expression on his face clearing communicating "Show me."

Begalli's eyes flicked over to the pot of tea that Wyckoff had just brewed. "Might I trouble you for a cup of that tea?" he said. He coughed, in an annoying phlegmy fashion.

But then, just about everything was annoying about Dr. Amos Begalli. Grant had always found him an unctious, queasy worm, and would never have hired him at all but for his expertise—and the extreme harm it did to MedTech. He was a dark-complected man with limp black hair that looked greasy even when clean. It dropped down over a sloping forehead in ridiculous bangs, emphasizing an almost Neanderthal brow. Dark rings underlined dark, bloodshot eyes. Only in the center of those eyes could intelligence be discerned—intelligence of a searing, sneering variety that even thick-skinned Grant found a little unnerving.

A weak mouth below a long, hooked nose twitched, showing a flash of eellike teeth as he spoke.

"Thank you," he said, accepting the steaming brew. He pulled out a small bottle of Xeno-Zip and took out a tablet, which he washed down with a gulp of tea. "Marvelous stuff, Mr. Grant. I would not be able to perform at peak mental ability for such long hours without it."

"Good to see you putting some of the money I give you back into the firm," said Grant. "But I'm a busy man, Begalli. You want to get on with this show-and-tell?"

Begalli put the tea down and began to prop his charts up on an easel. He spoke in a hoarse, low but audible voice as he did so.

"Mr. Grant, I believe you are aware of my background and many other important things. But I do not believe you are aware of the amazing number of secrets comprised in the genetic makeup of these marvelous xenotropic creatures, so interwound with human experience."

"I'm a businessman. You're a scientist. I have the money, you have your work."

"Indeed, indeed, but you have to understand something of what's going on here in order to have a grasp on not only the essence, but the cutting edge of this business." Slender, snaky fingers were tapping on a chart, which looked like some modern art collage of the alphabet connected by lines and squiggles and the incomprehensible. Grant recognized it as an incredible tangle of genetic code, with some new symbols that had been invented just for the silicon-based segments of the alien creature's makeup. Begalli gazed at it for a moment, absorbed and fascinated.

He snapped out of it just before Grant was about to get mad. "This is the closest we can get to an actual chart of typical alien DNA. There's so much we do not understand—so much to learn." Eagerness and awe crept into his voice. "So much opportunity... But look what I have discovered, Mr. Grant!"

His eyes widened and he tapped the edge, where the code performed a curious curlicue.

"A goddamned crossword puzzle?"

Begalli laughed an oily laugh. "The whole DNA is a puzzle, sir—but what this is, is nothing less than a recessive gene!"

Grant did not pretend to understand. "Look, talk in English, will you?"

"Mr. Grant, when we first started getting reports of the hyperactive results of some doses of Xeno-Zip, I was among the batch of scientists who immediately investigated the biochemical reasons. The reason that some people have been reacting in this fashion to the drug is that their biochemistries are sensitive to the unique properties of the synthesized regular alien jelly."

"Yes, dammit, but what else are we going to use? We're running out of the natural stuff, right. We've got to synthesize the jam or jelly or whatever."

"Yes, sir, but if you'll allow me, there's more. Apparently the berserker antics were the result of a batch of Xeno-Zip in which too much of the precipitant was introduced."

"What a waste!"

"Indeed. Nonetheless, normal amounts still affect a portion of the populace negatively."

"So. What are we going to do?"

Begalli shrugged. "I for one would like to study the possibilities in this recessive gene."

"What does that have to do with our problem?"

"Mr. Grant, you're going to have to face up to facts. We need more royal jelly, and we need more queen mother royal jelly. At the moment, our understanding of the genetic makeup of the aliens is not sufficiently advanced to clone either. We need to go to the source. I have reason to believe that the DNA avenues I have been exploring could result in drug breakthroughs far beyond mere Xeno-Zip. At the very least, we could obtain a source of the active ingredient in the cornerstone of your drug empire that would allow you to manufacture safe batches for a long, long time. And I have the feeling that the answer to my questions could lie at the source of what we need."

The man nodded significantly as though Grant was supposed to catch the significance from these words alone.

Grant shook his head, jumped to his feet, and let the frustration out, full volume.

"Look, goddammit! I'm staring at the possibility of lawsuits buggering me from now till kingdom come... I'm going to hear from sales as soon as those spineless assholes get up the courage... and you know what I'm going to hear? A drop-off of sales for Fire. That will kill the cash flow, which will kill Neo-Pharm... And I'm in hock for everything else!" He stalked nearer to the cowed scientists. "And you're telling me I ought to give a rat's ass about a blip in a weird ladder? You're telling me that I've got to spend more money than God owns for a trip to an alien planet?"

Begalli blinked and smiled uneasily. "In every seeming disaster, there is incredible opportunity. And this particular discovery... well, sir, it simply reeks of it!"

"What, because it makes people as crazy as aliens? I just don't get you guys! I'm running a business here, not a nonprofit research group. I'm in desperate straits! I need help, not homilies! I need—"

The vid-phone chimed. Wyckoff jumped for it, as though for a lifeline to pull himself from the storm.

Curiosity and deep respect for that demigod of the business world, the telephone, caused Grant to stop mid-spew. Begalli watched the proceedings, engaged but more than a bit bemused.

"Yes?" said Wyckoff. His eyes swung toward his employer, still wary and more than a bit relieved by the interruption. "Yes, he's here, but this is a—" He blinked. "Oh. Oh, I see. Well, very well, I suppose... Yes. Right away." Wyckoff turned to Grant and handed him the receiver. "It's General Burroughs of the United States Army, sir. Vital communication."

As Daniel Grant reached for the vid-phone volume button, he saw Begalli's lips tilt up into a half smile, as though he'd expected something like this all the while.

There was only one thing worse than the nightmares.

The nightmares, plus a hangover.

When the phone kicked Colonel Alexandra Kozlowski out of sleep at 0600 hours in the morning, she was experiencing both.

"Yeah?" she said, fumbling with the vid-phone control. She was covered in a snarl of sheets. She was still dressed in the civvies from last night. From what, for where? Her pounding brain came up empty.

First things first.

"Who is this?" she demanded.

"Colonel?" Unfamiliar face.

"That's right." Inventory. All her limbs seemed intact and still attached. No empty bottle of whiskey on the counter. Even better, no naked body beside her. That limited the possible damage of last night. Shreds of memory and the dinner tray in front of the vid told the story.

Too much video, too much vino.

She hadn't raised hell outside, she'd just raised it inside. Much more discreet. Far more destructive.

"Colonel, this is Burroughs. General Delmore Burroughs." She sat up, ran a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry to bother you this early in the morning, but we've got an important meeting today in Washington. I'm going to have to ask that you get on a jump-skip."

"Yes, sir." Civility and duty won over surliness. Why the hell had she stayed in this stinking profession anyway? Why was she taking this bullshit?

"Good. There will be a plane ready for you at eight hundred hours. The meeting is scheduled for eleven hundred hours, sharp."

"Yes, sir." She struggled for the proper words. "Begging your pardon, sir... but could I inquire about the nature of this meeting?"

"I'm afraid not, Colonel. Top secret. Priority one. You'll know soon enough."

"Thank you, sir."

"And, Colonel. Wear your dress uniform. Wear your medals... and some kick-ass boots."

"Yes, sir."

She disconnected. Well, it wasn't any problem getting to the transport. She was living on base at the moment. All she had to do was call up her adjutant and get him to wheel her all of two miles to the airfield.

The trouble was going to be getting out of bed.

Dammit! she thought, groaning. I wait around for months for something important to happen, and it happens on my day off, hours after I've had a snootful. The karmic balances of the universe were just getting far too hair-trigger for Alex Kozlowski's taste. The stupid Eastern theories were immediately banished for the colder, more mechanistic, and less vengeful rules of Western science. You drink too much, you get sick. Moreover, if you're a career officer, you took it all like a good soldier.

Groaning, she heaved her compact, muscular body out of bed, wishing she'd been working out more lately. Cripes, she felt like a pair of hips with a torso and limbs tacked on as afterthought. She peeled off her clothes, then walked (no, Koz, she admonished, more like waddled) to the shower stall, avoiding the mirror. She turned on the water, hard and hot, held her breath, and jumped in. The pounding heat against her neck and shoulders immediately improved things. Suddenly she had an afterthought head, too.

It wasn't like she was an alchy or anything. She'd go for weeks with just a glass of wine or a shot of bourbon and beer with the gang now and then. Every once in a while, though, when she started thinking about Peter too much, she found herself motoring for a jug of wine, gallon size, and just going apeshit.

Peter. Peter Michaels. Lieutenant Peter Michaels.

There had been men since him, just as there had been men before him. Hell, soldiers in foxholes and all that stuff. Nothing like sex to ease the tension. But there had never been anyone like Peter ever again. No one she cared about. No one she could love.

Had it been love with Michaels? Hard to say. She just knew that she didn't have much in the way of tender emotions anymore. They had got eaten up with that alien acid. All that was left was guilt and nightmare—and a large sturdy pile of grit that was the essential stuff of Alexandra Kozlowski.

The grit. The iron. The hard stuff. That was why she was a colonel now.

After that nasty business with the Hollywood nest, she transferred to the Marines. They took her in a shot. She found herself immersed in space and the vessels that traversed it. It was a way to get her brain out of the acid. She was a top student and her rank just increased and increased. She was on Camp Kennedy base now, doing some prelims on a possible space cruise, but it looked as though her superiors had something different in mind for her, which was just hunky-dory.

Busy. That was what she needed. To be busy, to immerse herself in work. When she worked hard, she slept hard. When she slept hard, she didn't have nightmares.

When she didn't have nightmares, she didn't see Peter's dissolving face again.

Dammit! Just shut up! she told herself, pounding the tile of the shower stall, letting the hot water sluice down her face. Just shut up! It wasn't your fault, why are you torturing yourself? It was Peter who'd been getting weird, who had to show his independence. If he hadn't demanded to go up to that bulb, if he had listened to her, he might still be alive.

After his death, they'd cleaned the nest out. It was as though all her men had become an extension of her need for revenge. There wasn't much alien jelly. They'd taken the piddling amount out. Not worth the bother, certainly. But no alien bodies, no DNA samples. They slagged all that. It was like a dementia. It was like nothing that Alex had ever experienced before. If the bugs had had half a brain between them, they would have run, because there'd seldom been a killing machine like her and her men, taking revenge for that sneaky little alien trap. Somehow they'd all made it through alive, too, which was a wonder. They'd used part of their extra leave for a wake for Peter Michaels. It should have been enough for her, it really should have.

But it didn't bring back Peter.

The thing about it was that they'd both known that something like that could happen. They'd promised each other that if it. did, they'd get on with their lives, not cling to memories and hope. But it had happened and now Alex had to live with that and somehow there were always other kinds of pain she'd rather have.

She dried herself off. She put herself together. She made herself some coffee. Then she called her adjutant to pick her up. She found her good uniform, she put on her pants—one leg at a time, as usual. She combed her hair and she had another cup of coffee.

The pounding in her head had subsided, but she still felt weak and weary.

She looked at the clock. Five more minutes to pickup time.

She looked at her hands. They were trembling.

Damn and double damn! What was happening to her? She wasn't nervous, yet she couldn't function. She'd never been like this after drinking.

She took a deep breath, but it didn't calm her. She sighed. Then, wearily, she went to her medicine cabinet. She took out one of the bottles there, opened it, and tapped a pill into her hand.

She took it with a gulp of coffee, and almost immediately began to feel better.

Damn this stuff, she thought. Damn it to hell.

She tucked the bottle of Fire into her carry-bag, and put her face into her hands.

Daniel Grant smiled.

He felt the room lighting up around him from the effects of that wonderful smile, and he reveled in its power.

"Gentlemen, all I ask for are three things." He turned the smile wattage up just a tad higher. "Guns. Grunts. And a gondola. Send my team of specialists and scientists on a little voyage, and I promise to bring back happiness and satisfaction for us all."

The meeting place was a high-level war room, streamlined angles, all polished wood and chrome and underlit attitude. It smelled of after-shave and leather, and was about five degrees cooler than it had to be. Architecture and technology contrived to create a crib of spare power, with acoustics that made the most of monosyllabic speeches.

There was enough brass in the room to supply knuckles for an army of hoodlums. They sat around a black oval table, bracketed by uniform high-backed black chairs, still and forbidding as monuments in a nighttime cemetery.

"To the alien homeworld for God's sake?" said Admiral Niles. The old man moved forward in his chair. He was a good-looking man, with a shock of gray hair and a slash of a mustache below an aquiline nose. His face was lined with weariness, but his eyes were sharp as a hawk's.

"Not homeworld, sir," a supernumery corrected. "Hiveworld."