Epilogue

She was lying in bed, with a beautiful view of the stars through a viewport window.

She was safe and sound, and a few simple, nonaddictive drugs were running through her system, killing the pain of the fractured thigh.

She was off the Fire. The mission was complete. The Corps was going to be happy, and maybe she'd even get a promotion. She felt the loss of her troops heavily, but then she'd lost people before. Old hat. The emptiness went away. Eventually.

She felt no imminent sense of danger. She had some books to read, and some vids to watch.

Why, then, Colonel Alexandra Kozlowski asked herself, did she feel so bored and antsy?

This should be a time to celebrate.

After they'd gotten the Anteater safely back on the Razzia, and off-loaded the tank, they realized they had twenty-five hundred gallons of the stuff. Grant's scientists were totally blissed. It was enough to work with, and absolutely top quality, no sign of that red strain whatsoever. There was a good chance now they could even create their own queen mother.

They'd nuked the black hive as a parting shot.

There were probably xenos left on the planet. But it would take a long, long time to regroup. Kozlowski imagined one playing a soulful sax as its hive burned.

Yeah!

Turned out, according to Friel and others, this whole "red aliens" thing was a fluke. The queen mother and the queens were dead now, and all their eggs. They'd never come scratching on their door again.

The generic brand though...

They'd be around. They were the universe's cockroaches, with a vengeance.

And she'd helped step on her share.

A time for rest and relaxation and recuperation. A time for peace and meditation and—

Whatever.

So it was that when Daniel Grant came to see her later that day, she was overjoyed at his visit—though she'd be damned if she'd let him know how much.

"Hello, Colonel. How are you feeling?"

"Okay. Not an extreme fracture. The machine set it, and it should heal while I'm in hypersleep. A little physical therapy on Earth, and I'll be right as rain."

"Good. I'm pleased. Very pleased." His eyes seemed to drift toward the stars and into abstraction.

"You come here to talk about something?"

"Nothing in particular. I just wanted to make sure you're all right."

"I'm fine. Nothing more?"

"Well, everyone seems to be on the emotional mend. Lot of people are just sleeping... I guess in reaction to all that stress."

"And you. What are you doing? Taking any baths in your royal jelly yet?"

"No. No... Waiting for you." He laughed. "The scientists are just tickled pink. They've already started to work on it, along with the samples of the red alien DNA. They say maybe they really have got something here."

"I hope so. We had to dole out a few lives for it."

"I'm going to make sure that those lives were not lost in vain, Alex." He looked down at the bed, smoothing the linen thoughtfully. "Actually, you know, maybe there was something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Shoot. I'm not going anywhere."

"I was impressed by your work here. When we get back, I'm probably going to need someone to head up a security team for Grant Industries. The job is yours, if you want it."

She laughed. "And leave the marines? No way. I've got a mission in life, Grant. And it's not to guard your butt."

He shook his head. "I don't understand, Alex. How much longer can you do things like this mission? How long do you think you can survive?"

"I don't know any other kind of life... except..."

"Except what?"

"Except for maybe when I was a little girl. Yeah. I had a real good life when I was a kid, Grant. Perfect. And then a bunch of monsters came down and destroyed that life and destroyed a lot of lives." She shook her head. "Think about it, Grant. Think about it while you're sitting up there in your ivory tower when you get back. This may seem like hell to you. It's pretty rough, sure... That mission was one of the roughest. But chew on this—most wars get fought between people arguing over some relatively silly matter... usually involving money or land or possessions. People kill people. It's stupid, senseless, and a waste. History is drowned in the shed blood of martyrs for meaningless causes." She shook her head. "I don't know if I'm even going to make any history books, Grant. But I do know that whatever I accomplish against... against this plague against decent life... this evil that has infected the galaxy... It's not meaningless." She took a deep breath. "Now how many people can be positive... absolutely feel-it-to-their-toes sure... That their lives mean something. That as full as foibles as they are, they're living and fighting for something good."

Grant seemed to consider that for a moment.

"I can't argue much about that, Alex." He slapped his knees and stood up. "But we can't all be Joan of Arc. Somebody's got to get the engines of commerce running. And somebody's got to be in charge of those engines."

"Well, maybe you've got a different view of things now that you've looked at life through the jaws of one of the monsters coming at you?"

"Sure. Sure. Of course, now I've got to figure out how to look at life without worrying about mobsters or MedTech."

She laughed. "I'm sure the generals and admiral back home will be so pleased, you'll have no problem, Grant."

"I don't know... I just hope that what we've done on this journey does make a difference."

She smiled. "I've been watching you, Grant. I think it already has, jelly or no jelly."

"Thanks. I guess maybe you're right." He started to leave, then paused and turned.

"Alex?"

"Daniel?"

"If you won't work for me... Maybe you'd like to have a little bubbly, a little caviar, a little gourmet dinner with me sometime?"

"Hell no!"

He sighed, nodded, and turned to go.

"But if you want a beer and some pretzels sometime, Daniel—I keep my larder well stocked with those."

He seemed confused for a moment, looked at her.

She winked at him.

His face flushed and he laughed.

"Count on it, Colonel. Count on it."

He blew a kiss at her and turned.

"Oh. And, Danny boy," she called after him.

He turned. "Yes?"

She'd pulled out the cigar he'd given her, along with a lighter. She puffed the thing alight. "Thanks for the smoke."

"Anytime, Colonel. Anytime."

He left.

She looked back out at the stars.

She hadn't seen stars as beautiful as these, she thought, as filled with wonder and awe—

Well, since she was just a kid.

Suddenly, unaccountably, she found herself craving pretzels and beer as she blew thick puffs of smoke at the bright points of light.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DAVID BISCHOFFis the author of 40 novels spanning almost every genre: science fiction, fantasy, horror, historical, YA and mystery. He is the author of the New York Times bestselling novel Star Trek: The Next Generation — Grounded. The scripts he's written for television include two episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation. He lives in Eugene, Oregon.

Date: 2015-12-13; view: 440; Нарушение авторских прав