Prologue 10 page

"Gimme a break," said Ellis. "They make models that eat, you know."

"It's not just that. He won't shower with us. I've never seen him shave... And from the way he talks in briefings, I'd guess he's never seen combat."

"Yeah. That is odd."

"I say he's a company plant. And I don't like it. Bad things happen to Marine ships with synthetics on board!"

The next thing Kozlowski knew, Henrikson was by the table.

"Jastrow. Why don't you just say what you've got on your mind—to my face."

He lifted the private off the chair. The sax banged onto the floor.

Kozlowski shot up to put a stop to this.

"Shit, man! Let me go!"

"Sure." The big corporal threw the private across the room.

"Henrikson!" screamed Kozlowski.

Henrikson froze. He turned around and looked at his commander, his face impassive. "Sorry."

Ellis was leaning over, attending to his buddy, who seemed okay, just dazed.

"We're all under pressure here, Henrikson," snarled Kozlowski. "Take it out on the bugs." She swiveled on the privates. "And that means you two. We're all working together on this. No divisiveness."

"You know, Corporal," a voice said behind her. "I admire a man who doesn't take any crap. I honestly do." Grant's voice. He came up to them, and his easy-going arrogance seemed to cut through the tension. "But the truth is I need every last one of these troops for this operation." He looked over to the fallen Jastrow, who was just getting up. "You don't have to kiss and make up, but please don't mash his skull, okay? Thanks."

Henrikson nodded. Kozlowski dismissed him. He took his food and went off again toward his quarters.

Kozlowski turned to the others. "All right. Back to the chow. I don't want any energy-deficient troops when we get down to work." As an example, she went back to her own plate, which had gone cold. Nonetheless, she began to stuff it in her face.

Grant came over to her.

"Colonel," he said in a low voice. "Can we talk a moment, please. Alone?"

"Pull up some vittles, Dan. If I've got to work my way through this stuff, so do you."

He didn't even try to argue. He went off, got a minimum order of gruelish reconstituted stew, and spooned it down, trying to look cheerful as they made chitchat. The sucker looked much better now. Probably had himself a cocktail and a nap and a good hot bath. He even smelled good. Oddly, Kozlowski enjoyed the small talk. She was still annoyed at her attraction to the asshole, but she didn't have to let him know about it—and she could enjoy the warped sex appeal he presented on her own terms. He probably sprayed on pheromones, the conscienceless bastard.

Finally, when she was satisfied the last morsel was gone from his plate, she agreed to go with him to somewhere they couldn't be overheard—but a meeting room, not his room.

"Look," he said. "I didn't know you'd react the way you did down there. Corporal Henrikson took it well. He's even volunteering to double-check security. I just want to make sure I'm still getting the best out of you on our mission, Colonel."

"There was never any doubt of that, chum. You asked for the best, you got the best—but I want to tell you, I'm not real crazy about your methods."

"What I'm doing is for the benefit of mankind!"

She laughed in his face. "You don't have to try and pull that one on me. You're doing this for the money."

"Ultimately, it will save lives."

"What are you talking about? You're risking good Marine lives for this damned jelly and what-all... For profit, pure and simple. You're a ruthless bastard. At least my superiors honestly believe they're doing what's right."

"I'm risking my own life here, too, remember."

"Only because you're too scared to face up to a souped-up loan shark back home."

He cringed. "Ah. I told you that, eh?"

"You bet. I'd pretty much guessed something along those lines anyway."

"Nonetheless. We figure a source for this—a safe controlled source—we can finance a full erasure of the aliens on the planet Earth. Studying them, we'll be able to know how to deal with them when we encounter them on other worlds."

"All sounds good. Doesn't change anything about what I think about you though."

"You'll honor my concerns about the others, though... Not letting them know."

"You think I want to undermine their morale by letting them know that a xeno's going to be prowling in some cage below them while they're helpless in hypersleep? They're my people, and I'll take care of them... You watch out for your own crew. Understand?"

"I'm glad we're clear on this, Colonel. I really don't quite understand your hostility, though... I think it's best for both our sakes if we got along much better."

"Don't push it, Grant. And most of all—don't push me."

She got up, and she got away from him.

If she hung around the handsome goon much longer she didn't know what she'd do—kiss him or kill him.

She wasn't sure which she'd enjoy more.

* * *

In the dim lights of the Cargo Bay Nine, shadows moved.

Padding past open doors, feet paced over to controls. Fingers pushed, pulled, tapped. Status quo alarms were turned off. Serums were released and rheostats adjusted.

Inside the ghost-lit tank, the hanging torso jerked.

Satisfied that the necessary measures had been taken, the figure hurried back out of the room, door shushing closed behind it.

In the tank, the hanging torso jerked again.

In the hanging torso, the alien embryo, already formed and at full term, but previously kept dormant by electronic and biochemical means, shivered into full life over a matter of mere minutes.

It shook. It gasped. Sparked by the energies that had been shot through it, and the instincts that had been ignited, it flailed in its seating.

Membranes tore, muscles were yanked from their mooring.

Still it was not yet free.

Instinct activated.

With a preternatural power, it pushed up against the diaphragm, up through the tangle of lungs and heart and arteries.

Up against the rib cage.

Then, with its hard equipment prepared for just this moment, and every bit of its energy, itplunged through the bones, through the skin into the freedom of gaseous atmosphere.

The torso exploded.

Blood spattered. Bronchial tissue splattered up like the eruption of a volcano. Bits of broken bone spanged against metal and glass.

Like a worm with a head of all teeth, the alien chest-burster reared up above the carcass of its birth, weaving in a sensory dance. Sensing no danger, it began to scuttle for the darkness of a corner.

The hands that had nudged the obscene delivery forward had not removed the precautions against just such an event.

Delicate motion detectors reacted to the scuttling, heat-seeking alien. Spectrographic readings determined its nature, double-checked, and then implemented the next step. Should the thing be born in unsupervised circumstances, there was no other alternatives.

Servomotors hummed as coaxial cables controlled three separate particle beam weapons, aiming toward the source and form causing the spectrographic abnormalities.

Had it not had to pause for a moment to attempt to get through the glass of the tank, the alien might have survived longer, rendering the mission an entirely different affair.

However, it did pause.

And the weapons did fire.

The beams converged into a fulcrum of energy.

The alien blew apart, adding its gore to that of the torso it had already scattered. The force lifted its little head up and off and through the hole it had smacked in the glass, followed by charred bits of its tail.

The teeth gnashed. The tail twitched.

Then both stilled, surrendering their last signs of survival to the alarm that blared to life.

When she reached the cargo bay of Deck D, and she successfully convinced the flustered scientist by the door that she had Daniel Grant's permission for access (a little determined pushing helped greatly), she found the cause of the alarm waiting for her, bathed in emergency light.

Hovered over the dead infant alien, wearing their acid suits, were the science team.

Daniel Grant paced beyond the reach of any acid, punching the air and cursing. "Goddammit. Goddammit! What the hell went wrong! I'm looking at a million-dollar loss here, minimum!"

He did not notice Kozlowski come up behind him until she put a calming, restraining hand on his arm. He jumped away from her, looking startled, then sighed and folded his arms. "I don't understand. I just don't understand."

Dr. Friel knelt the closest to the wreckage. Tears were streaming from his eyes. He looked as though he would have liked to have gathered the bits and pieces of the alien baby and cradled them in his arms. Acid-neutralizing liquid had automatically been splashed, but there were still pocks and holes in the floor.

Dr. Begalli stepped up beside Grant and Kozlowski.

"Looks like someone diddled with the equipment. Took off the safeguards. The baby bug popped early. The good news is no alien running amok in the sewage pipes. Bad news: damage, no alien baby on hand to queenify... and a little heartbreak, it would seem."

"Christ," said Grant. His face was white. "A saboteur."

"Who would do such a thing?" sobbed Dr. Friel. "So young... so very young... And she didn't even get to see me!"

"Uh—I trust you checked your doctors' psychological profiles," said Kozlowski. "Friel looks a bit on the edge here."

"He'll be fine, he'll be fine," muttered Grant. "Just a little too wrapped up in his work."

"No wife, no kids..." said Begalli. "Looks like Friel wanted to be a daddy. Bad."

The stricken scientist spun on the assemblage. He swung an arc with an accusing finger. "Which one of you monsters was it?" Tears runneled down his cheeks. "Which one of you killed my baby?" The finger stopped on Kozlowski. "Was it you, Colonel? You despised it the moment you saw what was going on here. I could tell!"

"No, it wasn't me, you fool," she spat back. "Would someone get a shot of something for this hysteric? Something strong? And maybe a strait-jacket." She motioned to the wreckage. "And douse this stuff in some more acid neutralizer fast, in case the blood wants to eat through the deck anymore."

"I trust you'll help me establish better security here for the return trip," said Grant.

"Of course," she said. She spun around and started away.

Grant caught up with her. "Colonel... Alex... Could I ask for a moment of your time? Alone."

She was going to spit back a curt no, but his eyes implored her. They looked frightened and haunted. The part of Daniel Grant that she'd seen when he was drunk was there, and she was startled by its humanity.

"Meeting room. Five minutes. I'll brew the tea," she said.

"Thank you, Colonel."

The meeting room was secured, peripheral sound dampers down, communications off.

The two sat across from one another, sipping a soothing herb tea.

"So," said Kozlowski, breaking the grim silence. "Who do you think it is? An emissary of the organized crime boys you owe money to. Or one of your drug company rivals, like MedTech."

"I don't get it," said Grant, shaking his head. "I can't believe I overlooked this possibility. Everyone knows that if this mission fails, I'm history."

"If you ask me, it's better this way," said Kozlowski. "Something tells me you would have gotten more than you bargained for with Dr. Friel in control of a queen alien."

Grant sighed. "You're probably right, but that isn't the point. This sabotage will continue, and a lot more than money could be lost next time."

Kozlowski shrugged. "It's hard for me to be frightened of a corporate spy or even of the mob when I've been fighting drooling monsters for years."

"Yes, but how often have you run into infiltration? Don't you see? You and your soldiers have always been united against an obvious threat. Take it from someone who knows—nothing is deadlier than the enemy within."

"You have any suggestions?"

"That's why I asked you here. Have you any clue as to who the saboteur could be?"

"You didn't set up your systems to safeguard against one or to detect the activity of one. I suggest you do so now. I haven't the vaguest. I can only tell you... it isn't me."

"No. You think I'd be talking to you if I thought it was you? No, Colonel. We'll take precautions. But we'll have to take precautions and remain vigilant. If you note unusual activity in any of your people, please report it to me."

"I could say the same about your people."

"Oh, you can be sure I'm going to check them all out." He sipped his tea. "Nonetheless, this is going to be one hell of a mission..."

"It's already that, Grant. But then, I've been to hell before, so I'll put in a good word with Beelzebub."

"Thanks, Colonel."

"Strikes me that you're getting awfully self-involved here. We're all in this mission together, and we're committed to its success. Remember that, Grant. The mission comes first. Everything else, later, including your narcissistic moans."

"That's all well and good, Colonel. Just pop a couple of pills and all your troubles go away."

"Bastard."

She got up to go, then had a second thought. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a medicine bottle. "Just a warning, Grant." She tossed it to him. "That's my supply of the shit that you make. I'm swearing off, so I'm going to be in a pretty bitchy mood."

Grant looked down at the bottle. "Okay, Colonel." He stuck it in his own pocket. "Maybe I'll take it along myself. A dose of my own medicine might be in order."

"I wouldn't suggest it," she said, turning away so she wouldn't grab it back. She regretted the gesture already, but she'd see the bastard in true hell before she took his poison anymore.

She did, however, take the tea.

The U.S.S. Razzia locked into orbit around the planet dubbed Hiveworld.

Hiveworld, of course, was not its official name. That would be G-435, for obscure classification purposes. It was the fourth of ten planets orbiting Achilles Two, a GO star. It was a class M planet, with a great deal of seismic activity that rendered it generally flat and comparatively barren.

Huge banks of clouds obscured the surface, but analysis sensors had already scouted out the geographic area that was known to be the location of the alien hive visited previously.

Zero hour approached.

The mothership, naturally, would not descend.

A class 9 lander would perform that duty, bearing with it the complement of marines who embarked upon the mission. The marines all knew their jobs, but there was a palpable pall of tension and dread in the lander's interior as the soldiers, already garbed in their special acid-neutralizing suits, began to file in and strap into their grav-chairs.

They all carried their carbines and the array of other special weapons in which they specialized.

Private Jastrow carried something a little extra.

His saxophone.

"So what are you going to do, Jastrow?" said Mahone, attempting a smile. "Scare the crickets off with free-form? A little late Coltrane?"

"Shut up, Mahone," said Jastrow. "You never know when I'm going to need to unwind."

"Yow! Just having a little joke! Gimme a break!"

"Cool it, Edie," said Ellis. "We're all a little on edge huh? These suits don't douse acid words."

Edie Mahone nodded. "Sorry, guys. I'll get off your case. How about some knock-knock jokes?"

Ellis grinned. "As long as they're dirty."

Nervous titters.

Dr. Amos Begalli walked in, and slouched onto a chair, looking a little preoccupied.

Ellis nudged his friend. "Hey, Jazz. I didn't know that old Big Nozzle was taking the plunge."

Jastrow shrugged. "I don't know. Something big went on down in Mysteryville Deck. Nobody got killed or hurt. I've been keeping track and I've seen them all. But from what I saw on the down list, that Dr. Friel guy was supposed to take the plunge. Looked a bit forlorn yesterday. Freaked out, I guess. Couldn't deal with it."

"Probably smart."

"That's okay. That Begalli seems to know his stuff."

"Yeah, but I get the creeps from him."

"You get the creeps when I play Sun Ra tunes."

Jastrow lifted his horn up to blow a few notes, but Ellis stopped him. "Look. These guys are all hyped up to kill things, Jazz. Don't make them practice on you."

"Okay, okay. So where's Grant and the colonel?" He looked at his chronometer, featuring dials and sensors capable of all manner of odd things.

"Humpin', you think?"

"Come on... I think dear Koz dug her gonads outta herself with a rusty spoon."

"I don't know, man. I feel some heavy vibes between them."

"Yeah. Hostility. Just be glad she's directing it at someone else and not us."

Jastrow shook his head. "You know, I've trained for this. I've killed bugs. I know everything by heart. They say I'm about as ready as a marine can be mentally and physically. Spiritually though?" He shook his head. "I ain't ready."

"Who is, buddy?" Ellis said. He shuddered. "Who is?" He looked around and saw his shudder echoed in the eyes of his fellow troops.

Colonel Alex Kozlowski entered the ship. She'd already stowed her personal weapons and supplies in the appropriate cubicle earlier that day, just before she ran through the checklist of the Mark Nine Planetary Surface Lander, dubbed U.S.S. Anteater by some wag. Now she carried a large steaming cup of coffee and a grim smile.

"Ready to waste some bugs, folks?"

A roar of approval greeted her words.

"Good. But remember, that's incidental to our mission. Our priorities are inside that nest... our appointment with the queen mother!" She sipped at the strong black coffee. The caffeine helped her cope with the downer she was experiencing from withdrawal from Fire. She'd put some regulation pills into her suit, things her system was used to. She didn't want to jeopardize the troops or the mission by lack of performance. She did not, however, want to fall back on Fire. Although the decision put her on edge, the boost in spirit and self-determination more than made up for it.

"Anybody see Daniel Grant around?" she asked.

"Last I saw him, he was talking to Hastings about something," said Corporal Henrikson.

"He'd better get his tail down here, or it's going to get left on the Razzia... and no big loss." She ambled over to Fitzwilliam and Tanarez, the lieutenants who'd been pegged as pilots for this boat. They were huddled over their banks of controls, doing final diagnostics of their system arrays. "How's it doing, guys?"

Fitzwilliam grinned at her. "I'm telling you, Colonel. We've got one mean machine here. Backup systems galore... Lovely and elegant."

"Yeah," said Tanarez, not looking up from a screen he was reading. "War with the xenos has given us a boost in technology. We've got some pretty stuff in here. Gives me a huge boost of confidence, I'll tell you that."

"Too bad this thing can't just do the dirty work," said Fitzwilliam.

"What... robot-controlled? And miss all the fun?"

Laughter from the troops. A good sign. Ever since she'd shown them the acid-neutralizing suits, they'd seemed to perk up quite a bit. Without the big threat of the alien blood eating through you, this was a much less dangerous mission, and the troops seemed to realize that.

As though he'd taken it as a cue, the last passenger hurried on, lugging a sack closed by a zipper. He quickly stowed it where the other stuff had been placed.

"All right, people," Daniel Grant said. "You can close the access port."

The door closed behind him after a touch of a pilot's finger.

"Thank you. I just want to say quickly that this is the most exciting day of my life," he said, in a voice that had been clearly exercised much at after banquet speeches. "Down there," he said, pointing out a port toward the pearl and cerulean clouds swirling above a continental mass. "Down on this strange world are the secrets that will strengthen our country... Perhaps even point us all toward a better future. Down there are the brethren of the creatures that not only are a threat to humanity—but who devastated our beloved homeworld." He paused for dramatic impact. "It's in our hands now. In our power. Let's do our mission and do it well."

A roar of approval arose from the ranks.

Grant, smiling like a politician, took his grav-chair and belted himself in.

Kozlowski gave him the thumbs-up signal.

Well, Grant you goat, she thought, get ready for the panty raid of your life.

Docking struts released, the half-million-ton lander first parted from the mothership Razzia on retros. When it was at a safe distance, its powerful impulse thrusters in, pushing it down and away, deeper into the hold of the Hiveworld's gravity.

The U.S.S. Anteater descended.

This was still the part of space travel that Kozlowski had never gotten used to: planetfall.

She remembered when she was a little girl, before the aliens came, she had taken a ride on a roller coaster at an amusement park. She'd thought for sure, despite the strong and reassuring presence of her father, when the coaster took a long angled dip that she was going to fall out. Now, as the lander tilted down and began its powered descent, as her heart filled her throat, that was the way she felt here.

Only if she fell, she knew it would be forever.

She desperately wanted a tab of Fire. Maybe she was going to need it, she thought. Maybe Kozlowski now, without her drug, would be a crippled foot to the mission.

Later, she told herself. She'd make that decision later.

Initially, parted from the faux gravity of the Razzia, there had been the heady feeling of null gravity. But then, as the ship descended, she felt the butterflies flutter into her stomach and then chute up the back door to climb her spine.

Then the gees started kicking in.

The retros roared, slowing them down. Ablation reddened the hull slightly before a force shield kicked in. Landers went down much too quickly for Kozlowski's taste. She much preferred the mollycoddling you got on a passenger shuttle. A slow, smooth descent. Friggin' Marine landers, though, acted like sperm charging out of the gate for an appointment with a pretty egg.

They were still well above the clouds, but the atmosphere started buffeting the lander, shaking it like a toy. Kozlowski gritted her teeth. She looked over. The other troops looked intent. Some just had their eyes closed. Daniel Grant looked a bit green at the gills. Kozlowski suspected that she didn't look all that great herself, but there was no place to powder her nose now.

The suits had temp controls, but they were open now and the air-conditioning wasn't on. The cabin's air control wasn't working well, and it was a bit hot and humid. Kozlowski could smell her own sweat. It was a comforting smell. What she didn't like much was the sweat from the others.

"Turbulence!" called Fitzwilliam, up in the pilot blister, with the best view. She'd chosen Lenny Fitzwilliam herself. He was a top expert at this kind of planetfall, a ranging muscular guy with a Texas accent who could have been the reincarnation of one of those crazy pilots who broke the barrier between Earth and space back in the twentieth century. His wife had just died, and this was his way of getting back some life in himself, in what he knew best.

"No shit, Sherlock!" said Tank Tanarez. He flipped on the PA. "No smoking. No trips to the can. Fasten seat belts. All that stuff. It's going to be a rocky one."

"Goingto be?" said Grant weakly.

Tanarez never exaggerated. He was a short, stocky guy with a buzz cut and a two-dimensional way of looking at the universe, which made him a gem in this kind of piloting situation. With his fierce concentration branded in those dark eyes of his below that sloping brow, he cut straight through problems to the solutions. He could drink everyone under the table but herself. Kozlowski knew. He'd tried. He had a mordant sense of humor that was just what Kozlowski needed to hear now.

"I'm reading some pretty fierce mid-atmospheric activity. This place ain't exactly paradise."

The lander began to rock and jerk violently.

This continued for some minutes. Kozlowski suspected that there were going to be some gouges in the armrests after this from the digging in of fingers. Including hers. Nobody puked though. That was something.

The twirling lengths of gray cottony clouds seemed to reach up like an ocean of mist and absorb them. The rattling and rocking continued, and then calmed down.

"Okeydokey, folks," said Fitzwilliam. "We're through the worst of it. We should be done in about thirty-five minutes. So sit back and enjoy the flight." Fitz was clearly from the Chuck Yeager school of pilots. Fly by the seat of your pants, but even if your wings had sheered off and your ejector was jammed, at no time abandon your laid-back Texas accent.