Prologue 5 page

"The source of all the aliens that have been encountered in this quadrant of the galaxy, from all signs. The source of the queen mother that was brought to Earth—not of the race," tendered another expert.

The extent of the spread of the xenos had not yet fully been determined. So far they had been found only on isolated planets; all the clues pointed back to this so-called Hiveworld. The Hiveworld had been the source of the Alien-Earth War.

However, naturally, there was great concern. Any newly discovered planet had the potential of being infected. And no one knew if any eggs had been illegally exported from Earth.

Admiral Niles grunted. "Whatever. This place must be hell. I know that the xenos are comparatively well contained here on Earth." He looked at Grant, and it felt like those coal-black eyes were boring into him. "In some ways, perhaps, even farmed. But on their own turf, surely—"

Grant snapped his fingers.

The AV portion of this morning's DC festivities.

A holotank eased down into its moorings and lights flickered. Three-D film flashed of brave soldiers and mercenaries in the latest getup, carrying the most modern weapons, slamming through the ranks of an alien nest. He would have enjoyed splicing in some martial John Philip Sousa, but his PR people had talked him out of it.

"Not bad, huh? And lots of these folks are yours. Just crack teams! Crack! And I even understand you've got a real handle on the alien-blood-in-battle problem. Wonderful!" Grant was all enthusiasm.

"I know those films!" said the admiral. "They're from the North Carolina campaign earlier this year. A piece of cake, true—but we're talking about a place where aliens have total sway."

"Not necessarily, sir," an expert's nasal voice twanged. "The Hiveworld may also be inhabited by the alien homeworld original predators—or corollary predators. There's got to be a similar ecology to some extent for them to have developed there the way they have."

"Hmm. So you're saying an expedition there is feasible, and not overly risky," said the admiral, settling back in his seat.

"Any environment containing these critters is going to have an element of risk, sir," said Grant. "But then... I know your people can handle it! And the rewards would be spectacular!" He leaned forward confidently. "I mean, it was General Burroughs here who approached me on the subject. And I found it to be not only a fascinating concept—but a mutually rewarding alliance. An expedition into the adventure of free enterprise and the onward evolution of the American soldier! General Burroughs? Would you care to elaborate?"

The black general glared at Grant through slitted eyes. "The admiral has been thoroughly briefed on the benefits of the royal jelly you can supply." The man was playing poker here, and that was okay, because Daniel Grant appreciated a good negotiator.

It brought out the best in him.

"Yes, but before me I see intelligent eyes, questioning eyes!" Grant stood and gestured outward at the assemblage of frowning brass. "And as I am the pitchman here, and you've granted me time—please allow me to properly present my pitch!"

Again, a snap of fingers.

The moving pictures flickered into a different round.

The Baghdad Goodwill Games. Oriander's world record, and his unfortunate demise.

Ratty videos of the horrible slaughter at Quantico.

He heard the sharp intake of breath.

"I'm sure you're aware of these tragedies and others like them that have caused a huge number of lawsuits to be leveled at my company," Grant said gravely, deep into presentation mode.

Then: soldiers, looking noticeably calmer, performing tasks and exercises with sharp precision and sharp eyes.

"Here we have a group of men who have just taken small doses of regular Xeno-Zip... which I shall call Fire from now on. This, as I hope you know, is derived from normal alien royal jelly. My company Neo-Pharm has patented the proper methodology of transforming normal alien royal jelly utilizing molecules of queen mother royal jelly so that tiny doses will perk up a normal human's day—and enhance any soldier's performance. A little costly, perhaps—but worth it.

"However, as you no doubt are aware, the supply of normal royal jelly has been dwindling. We have synthesized the jelly... with mixed results... however we need not go into that right now. What is significant is that a batch of the synthesized jelly Xeno-Zip was accidentally spiked with extra queen mother royal jelly. In a marked percentage of those who ingested it, the result was quite incredible. Properly modulated, the results of this new drug will create nothing less than a supersoldier."

Another picture appeared on the screen. A gladiator soldier, hammering away at robots with sword and machine gun—but under control. A berserker without a doubt, but with orders and a plan.

"The good general here is already at work experimenting with this new kind of jelly. However, our supplies of queen mother jelly are reaching depletion. And may I also add, we're still not exactly well stocked in regular royal jelly, either, which is our own bread and butter, far preferable to us than our synthesized sort."

He waved away the audiovisuals, and motioned for normal light. He leaned forward emphatically on the table.

"It's very simple. My company needs more regular royal jelly as well as Q-M royal jelly—and a way to get a regular supply of both. Your company—I mean, your armed forces—already staggering under heavy opposition and funding cuts—need to make maximum use of every soldier in conflict. I have the scientists and the talent—you've got inter-galactic vessels, pilots, and soldiers. My scientists predict the certain existence of what we both need on the Hiveworld." He smiled. He held his hands up in an eloquent shrugging gesture. "So some of my kiddies go, some of your kiddies go. We get what we want. We make a little pact. You help me, I help you. You scratch my back—I save your butt."

"Pardon me, Mr. Grant..." chided the admiral, shaking his head a moment as though to clear it. "Just a moment. I thought it was your company that was inundated with civil suits."

"We've got a few legal problems, sure. So sue us!" Grant chuckled. "Besides, I'm sure a few military words in the attorney general's ear will go a long way toward helping the company you'll be climbing into bed with."

"Mr. Grant! This is a lawful assembly," said the general, but with a hint of irony to his deep tones.

"Absolutely. Without a doubt. Unquestionably. But my association with a powerful legal force isn't going to do my legal standing any harm. And by the time people understand why we're doing what we're doing—by the time they see the benefits of our research... They will surely not be so vehement in our pursuit." Again, a shrug. "But only time will tell. In the meantime, no skin off your noses, eh?"

He could tell his spiel was getting to them. Everyone loved a rascal, especially when what he was coming up with could do big time good. He might as well get out the victory cigar in his vest pocket and start smoking it.

A new voice sounded from the assemblage. "Pardon me, Mr. Grant, but are you planning on accompanying this proposed mission?"

Grant blinked. "Hell no!" He looked over at the originator of the suggestion. A woman. Short hair, nice chin, scars. She would have been pretty if she wore makeup. Now she was merely... handsome. "I've got an important business to run here!"

The woman leaned forward, clasping her hands together. "Mr. Grant, with all due respect, have you ever put on a suit and gone into a hive?"

"Well, no... but what difference does that make?" He looked over at the general as though for help. The black man's eyes twinkled with amusement. Let's see how you wriggle off this hook, those eyes said.

"We're apparently talking about a whole world filled with bugs, Mr. Grant. Glib as your words may be, this assignment would not be simple. In fact, I'm willing to bet that stochastic prophecy would predict losses," said the woman.

"Not the ones projected by our figures!" Grant said. Who the hell was this woman? What was she trying to do—scuttle his boat?

The woman swiveled her head back and forth, catching each of the assembly eye to eye for just an instant of seriousness.

"Let me tell you all. I have been in alien hives. Miracle weapons or no miracle weapons... there will be losses. Are you willing to be responsible for that?" said the woman intensely, teeth gritted as though she were in some kind of pain.

Some of the upper brass began to hem and haw. This was entering touchy territory.

"Aw, goddammit," said Grant. "Give us a break. Is there not a war on? Is this not directly and indirectly a mission against the enemy? Casualties are always a possibility. But who's to say they're a certainty?"

He stared at the woman defiantly.

Her eyes were ice. She wasn't giving an inch. "I just wanted to ask a question, Mr. Grant. And state a fact that you seem to be trying to avoid. That's all." The lips curled into a private smile. "As for me, the idea of going to this Hiveworld and killing bugs and stealing their life's stuff is... rather appealing."

Christ Almighty! Who was this bitch?

The general and the admiral leaned over and privately conferred. The admiral looked over to his other officers and met merely nods and encouraging eyes.

"Well, Mr. Grant," said the admiral. "It seems as though your intriguing proposal has made the first hurtle. I believe we can work something out."

Grant could not suppress an ear-to-ear grin. His muscles unknotted. "Glad to hear it, Admiral. Glad to hear it!" He put out an impulsive hand, pumped away at the plump paw he'd grabbed. He nodded at the others. "My companies have had a long and prosperous liaison with you fine folks in uniform. I'm glad it's taking off for other worlds!"

There were a few embarrassed coughs, and a couple of members of the meeting made excuses and scurried off into labyrinthine Washington hallways. Grant just mentally shrugged it off. He was used to stepping on boot toes in this business, almost reveled in it. He'd never much liked military people, and secretly resented having to work so much with them, particularly in harvesting the precious royal jelly, far preferring to encourage the mercenaries in the business. Money was something that Daniel Grant could understand when it was the bottom line. When you got into the halls of politics, sex, personality, and power, things got a whole lot murkier.

"Now then," said the admiral, "I believe we have the necessary deep-space tactical vessel at our disposal. It will take some time to prepare it for this special journey. And of course we'll want a staff other than the people that Mr. Grant is supplying."

Grant sat back down. "Of course, you'll get me the best men for the job."

"Naturally, Mr. Grant. Naturally. We have some fine veterans and pilots who would be perfect," the admiral said. "What the expedition needs most is a commanding officer with the right feel both for leading troops and dealing with the quite unpredictable alien bugs!"

"That's your call," said Grant. "I'll leave that one totally up to you."

The general and admiral conferred for a moment in whispers and then the general spoke. "We anticipated the need for such a commander, Mr. Grant. So we invited a certain colonel along to this meeting. The youngest holder of the Congressional Medal of Honor, specifically for a pivotal role in the final cleaning up of the aliens in North America... and with special training for further work in space, dealing with infestations on other planets and colonies..."

"Sounds good to me. When do I get to meet the man?" said Grant.

The general turned to the small, coal-eyed woman. "You've already met. The question is, will the colonel agree to such an assignment?"

The intense, scarred young woman leaned over, showing small pearly white teeth in a smile.

"I'd relish such an assignment, sir. Thank you."

It was the general's turn to smile. "Excellent. I cannot commend your expedition into better hands, Mr. Grant. May I formally introduce you to Colonel Alexandra Kozlowski, your commanding officer."

Grant's jaw dropped. He was glad he hadn't lit up a cigar. It would have fallen right onto his expensive Italian suit, spilled embarrassing ashes all over the place. He recovered quickly, converted his surprise into a laugh. "Well, well, well! How marvelous. And I thought you were the one who hated the bugs."

"I do," said Colonel Kozlowski. "I want to see every last one of them either cindered... or perhaps even harmless, if that's possible. That's why I'm in this business, Mr. Grant. That's why I'm here today." She leaned forward and tapped the table. "Make no mistake, though. I don't believe in the Devil, Mr. Grant—but if there was a Devil, I doubt if even he would be evil enough to invent these bugs. This is not going to be a field trip to an ant farm. Tell your people that."

Those smoldering eyes again.

There was something else in those eyes... something that looked at him in a peculiar way that bothered Grant. Bothered him intensely. He shrugged it off, turned to the men in charge.

"Well, seems like a fine choice to me. I like a woman with intestinal fortitude." He pulled out a handful of cigars from his breast pocket. "A celebration seems to be called for. Anybody care to join me?" He flashed a handful.

The general took one.

The admiral accepted one.

"Me," said Colonel Kozlowski, holding out a hand.

Grant had one passed down.

He watched as the petite but hard-looking woman accepted the cigar, examined it, sniffed it, then pocketed it.

"You're not going to smoke it with us?" Daniel Grant said, slightly miffed but playful nonetheless.

"Mr. Grant," said Colonel Alex Kozlowski. "Celebration is hardly in order yet. I'll smoke it when the mission is over and my rear is seated safe and sound back in this chair for a debriefing."

The woman asked for and obtained permission to leave from her superiors.

"Well, what do you think of our choice for your commander?" said the general, an eyebrow raised.

Grant let out a gust of smoke.

"I'd say, I feel damned sorry for those Hiveworld bugs!"

“Nice-looking boat, huh?"

Daniel Grant flashed the cube-shot to his date sitting in the restaurant booth next to him. She was a hot, big-busted brunette with her spangled dress spray-painted on. Long hair, delicious perfume, and foreign territory for the old Skyscraper Man to plumb. He was impressing her with this nightclub, black and white and dazzle all around—and now, for what reason he knew not, he was impressing her with his power that extended Yea! even to the ends of the Universe!

Her name was Mabel.

"Weird! What kinda thing is that?" Mabel spoke with a New Jersey accent, which gave her flamboyant body a certain earthy charm.

"That's a spaceship, babes. That's my spaceship. Pretty, huh?"

"Pretty strange. What you want a spaceship for, Mr. Grant?"

"I told you, you can call me Daniel, sweetheart, just as long as your pretty fingers aren't anywhere near a keyboard."

"You're so kind to take me out tonight, Mr. Grant!" Mabel batted long thick mascara at him. "And me, hardly having worked for two days at your offices. And I don't care what the other temps have said—you're such a gentleman! Such a scrumptious meal, such delicious champagne—and you haven't laid a hand on me!"

Grant mimed a kiss at her. "I know, and it's damned hard, too, make no mistake about it. But Mrs. Grant brought her little boy up right, I guess."

Truth was, you get enough bubbly percolating in those pea brains, display enough dazzle, and blow enough pheromones in their faces, and women touched you. A little trick Daniel Grant had learned early on which kept him out of trouble. Oh, well. He had his share of trouble all right, what with letting all those women touch him that wanted to, while he was still married to old Iron Drawers and building his companies. But you tread a fine line, and trouble that came your way tended to be the fun kind of trouble, the thrilling trouble, the trouble that made you feel like you were dashing down a ski slope on a power sled, not a garbage-can lid.

"Anyway, really—what do you think of it?"

The picture was of the U.S.S. Razzia, hovering in parking orbit above Earth. Right now, it was getting loaded up with supplies, weapons, men, and whatnot for the expedition to the alien Hiveworld. A trip that would bring back royal jelly, preserved DNA, and other treasures that would spell not only full financial recovery and put paid to any lost lawsuits—but place him, Daniel Marcus Grant, squarely back into the pure honey of wealth.

"I don't know. It's... well, it's kind of ugly."

They'd had more than a few glasses of champagne, so things were kind of blurry. Grant examined the picture again.

There it was, a whale of a ship, bubbles and glassine protuberances making it look like some kind of colorful exotic beetle that had been pumped up with gas to the point of bursting. Aesthetically, it did look rather odd. Kind of like a strange cross between the jewelry kind of carbuncles and the flesh-bump kind. Of course, that wasn't the way Grant saw it. He saw it as his beautiful, thrilling hope for riches beyond avarice.

"What is it?" said Mabel.

"Never mind," said Grant, tucking the photo back into his jacket pocket. "Just a little business venture of mine. Let's talk about you!"

"Oh, but, Mr. Grant! Daniel! I'm fascinated by business ventures!"

"Stick with Grant Industries, kiddo! We've got our share of businesses. Maybe we'll set you up as a special secretary for one of our branches."

The eyes went wide. A slender hand touched his knee. "Oh, but, Mr. Grant! That would be wonderful. I'd have to prove my skills to you first—"

Grant plucked up the bottle of Dom Fauxgnon from the ice bucket and poured some more champagne into her glass. "I'm sure you will, my dear." He winked at her. "And I for one am looking forward to the fruits of your official labors!"

They clinked glasses.

Feeling positively ebullient, Grant tippled.

This fake stuff sure wasn't classic—but it tingled and did the trick.

He was just finishing off the glass when a booming voice almost made him choke.

"Careful! Careful there, my dear, dear chum!" A dim form moved out of the swirling, milling shadows of the hip night spot and clapped him on the back. Grant sputtered, struggled, and recovered, watery eyes blinking.

"Foxnall!" he said, working hard to keep his voice neutral. "What portal of Hades did you pop from?"

"Ah, believe it or not, dear boy," said the cultured voice from the thin and wiry man with affected square spectacles and billowing silk clothing, "I have not come here to torment you. In fact, if you ask any bartender or regular here tonight, they'll assure you that I am not a stranger to Flickers. But this is a treat, especially with you in the company of such a charming young lady. Are you going to be a selfish cad and refuse to introduce us?"

Grant felt a distinct leveling of spirits.

However, everything was still well within control.

"Mabel, this is Lardner Foxnall. Principal stockholder and CEO of MedTech. Lardner, this is Mabel Planer, an employee and... ah, new friend."

"My pleasure." Foxnall kissed the woman's hand to her obvious delight.

"MedTech! Why, they make Wonder Diet! I use that all—" Suddenly aware of her diplomatic error, Mabel cringed. "Oh, dear. I mean..."

"No problem, Mabel," said Grant. "MedTech makes a quite reputable line of Pharmaceuticals. This is a free enterprise system in which we work—and yes, Neo-Pharm has quite worthy competitors and we value them. After all, if there were no other companies, who could we constantly outperform?"

A muscle in Lardner Foxnall's jaw flinched. However, his eyes remained amused. "Yes—quite. And this new enterprise of yours... this journey..."

Grant felt a thrill of alarm. "Ah, you must mean—" He began groping for some fake enterprise, to put Foxnall off course.

"Oh, you mean the spaceship! Yes, isn't it exciting?" Mabel fairly jounced with elation. She looked over for approval from her boss, her gentleman date—and found cold eyes instead.

She shut up immediately, to her credit.

"Indeed, Neo-Pharm is looking toward colonial expansion... but then what Earth drug company worth its salt isn't?" said Grant aggressively.

An artificial tic of a smile from Foxnall. "Absolutely. And may we all prosper!" He winked. "But some, more than others!" A tip of an imaginary hat. "By the way, Ms. Planer. We're always in need of good help at MedTech. Whenever you care for a free supply of Wonder Diet, please remember us!"

"Quite unlikely!" called Grant after him, barely hanging on to his temper.

He waved for a waiter, and a photosensitive robot promptly smoothed up. "What's riffraff like that doing in a reputable club like Flickers?"

"Pardon, honored guest—but Mr. Foxnall is the new owner." Lights blinked obsequiously.

Grant started, did a double take, then smiled. "Then that must be why the fellow ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon for the young lady here!" He scratched his nose. "And the caviar and crackers for me, come to think of it!"

"I will see to it immediately."

"He did?" said Mabel as the robo-waiter trundled off.

"Oh, yes. A tradition between pharmaceutical rivals, my dear."

"Oh, Mr. Grant. I'm so sorry if I said anything wrong. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

"Well, let's drink this next bottle of champagne and eat our caviar and have a serious discussion on the matter."

The caviar was cold and quite good, and the Dom Perignon turned out to be far superior to the Dom Fauxgnon. However the conversation in the next half hour grew sour in Grant's mouth and ears, unspiked by sensual desire and the urge for sexual conquest.

Dammit!

Could Lardner Foxnall have gotten wind of what he was up to? Could he possibly know the destination of the U.S.S. Razzia and the reason for the trip?

If so, that could mean many things, none of them particularly good, several of them very bad.

His mood seemed to grow fouler as he helped the increasingly drunk secretary finish their late night treats among the wistful smells and pulsing sounds of Flickers nightclub.

"Mr. Grant!" she said, giggling at some stupid sarcastic statement he'd made about some politico. "You are so funny!"

"I think we've had a little too much champagne, Mabel."

"But not too much caviar. I never could have believed that I ever would like fish eggs, but this stuff is just delish! I really am enjoying myself."

"I hope you've saved some for friends," said a cold voice from the darkness. A swath of mist swirled away, and there stood a husky man with a scar riding along his bald pate like a bolt of lightning. He wore good clothes and he smelled of good cologne.

"Gee! Another competitor, Mr. Grant?"

Grant froze. "Not exactly."

Fisk. Morton Fisk.

What was this, old home night for demons from hell?

"Good evening, Grant." The man did not even look at Mabel. His piercing eyes just hooked on to Grant and hung on. "I don't usually visit people personally. However I do have a tradition. I like to make sure that my face is branded on the retinas of dying men."

"Fisk. What are you talking about?"

Grant had a suspicion, but he didn't even want to think about the possibility.

"Who is this guy, Mr. Grant? What's going on?" said Mabel.

"I told you, Grant, when you got me to bail you out, that I was a patient man... until I wasn't patient." The scar on the head seemed to glow a livid pink. Pulsing with contained rage. "And I haven't been. You're months overdue, and you haven't even had the dignity to send partial payments. I am truly offended."

"Fisk! I'm not sure what you're talking about. You've been getting regular installments!"

A big fist grabbed a handful of his shirt, lifted him up so that Grant began to gasp for air. "Lie! He lies to my face! You well know that I haven't gotten a penny for months."

Indeed, Grant did know.

All too well.

In the scrabble for solidity and power after the Alien-Earth War, not all of the fortresses of fiduciary control were entirely legal. And often as not, to get the leverage you needed for truly inspired buyouts, you had to go to these underground people for liquid assets.

Unfortunately, they were criminals.

Violent criminals.

Self-confidence was always the antigrav stuff for Daniel Grant, the by-your-bootstraps talent that hoisted him above the rest. Unfortunately, self-confidence could also be a blindfold. He well knew that he personally owed millions to Fisk and company, but since for Daniel Grant manana was always golden—well, he'd pay them manana, when he had the money.

Alas, he saw no manana in Morton Fisk's eyes.

"Look, Morty. Sit down, pull up a glass of the warm south, get to know this delightful creature... and for heaven's sake, let's jaw awhile, huh?" Grant patted a comfortable cushion.

"Sorry."

The big man spun on his heel, and was swallowed up by the stylish mists and the nightclub gloom.