"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.
"Mr. Grant ... Daniel ..." said Mabel. "What kind of gorilla was that?"
"Not the gorilla of my dreams!" said Grant, scooting over to the end of the booth. "Look, I'll be right back, Mabel. Got to visit the little boys' room!"
What had happened here? Had Foxnall tipped Fisk off to his presence here? That bastard! That must have been what had happened.
Geez! There were such sharks in business these days!
He was at the edge of the booth, when he heard a click. Instinctively he dived for the floor.
An explosion of bullets whacked over the top of him like lateral hail. He could feel their heat. He hit the floor and rolled, the sound of the machine gun echoing in his ear, the scream of his secretary joining in.
He got a glimpse of the poor brunette, jerking amid the passion of the bullets, blood yanked from that sweet body, making a mess of her dress. Glass and champagne and caviar spattered every which way, in a fantasmagoric slow-mo fountain.
The will to live turned Grant away from this death dance, and he scrambled away, like a rat from a pack of cats.
7
A month of her life, just getting this show on the road.
Colonel Alex Kozlowski took a swig of her coffee, and watched as the last batch of supplies got loaded into the shuttle. She managed to get down to a quarter capsule a day of Fire, but she'd already taken that now, and damned herself for wanting more. The stuff wasn't like booze, you didn't see creepy crawlies if you went dry. It was like cigarettes. And just as hard to kick. She wanted to kick it, to show her own superiority to herself. Which was why she felt bad now, wanting another hit.
In just a few hours they'd be boosted up to the Razzia, stored away with the rest of the stuff Daniel Grant and his scientists wanted on this mission—along of course with the rest of the marines, her own hard ass included.
Alex Kozlowski was sitting on the apron of the ramp, the lip of which sided a wing of the shuttle that would soon trundle out of the hangar and wing up through the atmosphere. To the other side of her was a warehouse-sized security checkpoint and storage room. Dawn had just shouldered through a cloudy horizon.
She slouched in the chair, watching the crates being loaded.
Hell of a lot of stuff going up there.
She'd been in charge of everything her crew was going to need. She'd wanted to be in charge of the whole shebang. Unfortunately, that was not in the cards.
A bored-looking deliveryman walked over and handed her a piece of paper on a clipboard. "Sign please, Colonel."
Alex took the clipboard.
SUPPLIES, said the checklist. That was all.
"How can I check 'em in, if I don't know what they are?"
"Look, Colonel," said the man, "I'm just doing my job. I'd like it a lot if you could just take a crowbar and prize open a couple and have yourself a gander. I'm afraid, though, that it's all pretty insulated and locked up and you'd be pretty hard-pressed to lock the stuffing back in."
The guy was a civvy, probably worked for the government. Kozlowski could tell by his attitude. She didn't like any man she couldn't give orders to, or take orders from, and the man annoyed her. What could she do, though? Make him clean the latrines? He was the equivalent of a third-rate, truck-driving, trolley-pushing bureaucrat.
It hit her then: what was important to bureaucrats?
"Ooops!" she said, and tore the papers she had to sign into shreds.
The man looked at her, stunned. "Colonel. I'm going to have to go and get another form now! Why ...?"
"File a complaint, toad-breath," she said. "But have some respect next time you give a lady a form to sign ..."
The man went off, cursing under his breath, to get another form. Kozlowski went off to sniff around the crates.
TOP SECRET, they read.
THIS SIDE UP.
HIGHLY FRAGILE.
One was even fitted with elaborate refrigeration equipment.
"Oh, well," she said, drumming her fingers against a crate. "You can bet I'm going to find out what's going on when we're light-years away."
She was almost sorry she'd signed up for this gig.
Not that she minded going long distance in interstellar space. That would be fun. And the idea of blowing away xenos en masse still tickled her pink. However, all the mystery and bullshit attendant to her duties had not exactly thrilled her, to say the least. She thought that she was in charge of this mission—but over the weeks, the fact had gradually seeped through her thick skull that she was only in charge of the military aspects. Neo-Pharm's other operations on the Razzia—and there was plenty of extra room for that, which was doubtless why the ugly scow had been chosen—was strictly out of her control.
Which was one of the reasons they'd probably chosen her.
She could hear the old uniformed farts now, gassing. "Kozlowski! Yeah—she's tough, good, but she's a woman. She's got some give to her."
Alex Kozlowski smiled to herself. The preparations were only part of the whole story. She'd taken the shit dished to her, fried it up nice, and put some ketchup on it. When the Neo-Pharm boys were o
ut there among the stars and planets and xenos, they had better just hope they'd brought some condiments along to stomach what they were going to get from her.
Yep. This was going to be an R and R trip for her, if it killed them and her, along with those bugs.
It would be nice to get away from the planet where Peter had died. Maybe, just maybe, she'd find the kind of peace—or war—she was looking for.
She was just sauntering back for another pour of coffee when a man whirled through the door. At first she thought it was Mr. Mover, pissed off and running back with that form to sign.
However, it was not the bottom-level bureaucrat at all.
It was Daniel Grant.
He didn't see her. He ran toward the gangplank of the loading car for the shuttle, looking as though he wanted to climb on along with the baggage. He looked really bad, too, fancy duds all tattered and torn, shoes scuffed, and fancy haircut all frazzled.
"Yo!" she called out.
He swirled around, and the first thing that Kozlowski noticed was how bloodshot his eyes were, how baggy. He looked like a man who hadn't slept much last night ... only worse.
"Look, soldier. Tell me where I get on the shuttle?"
"Grant?" She went closer, eyeing him suspiciously. What, was the Drug King flying high or something?
"That's right, soldier. You want to help me out? I'm in charge of this mission."
"Colonel Kozlowski here, Grant—and the last I heard you were going to keep your oxfords firmly hugging ground." Unfortunately, she was a bit too astonished to be properly sarcastic.
"Oh, yes ... Colonel ... of course. I'm sorry. It's been a rough evening." He sighed, looking back at the access room as though half expecting something to be following him. For a moment he looked lost and vulnerable, and quite a different human being entirely than how she'd seen him before. Something troubled her deeply about him ... There was an aspect here that reminded her ...
"Rough evening?" But the sun was rising ...
"Er—yes."
He seemed uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He kept on looking behind him.
"Don't worry, Mr. Grant. Whoever's chasing you can't get through the base's security unless they nuke the perimeter."
"Chasing?" He seemed to shake something off. "Nothing of the sort ... I just couldn't sleep last night ... That's all ... Got a little groggy, fell down a couple times—"
"Shouldn't you see a doctor then?"
"No. No, Colonel, I'll be just fine."
Before her eyes, he seemed to be putting himself back together again. An amazing act of will. Somatic repair: straightening of poise, sucking in of stomach, stiffening of upper lip. Psychological repair: the psychic armor erected. The eyes recovered, and the willpower returned, the arrogance.
"I made a monumental decision last night, Colonel."
"Did you."
"Yes. This mission is far too important to my companies—to me—to allow ... I mean, not to contribute my presence. I called both the admiral and the general last night and made arrangements. I'll be going along with you, Colonel Kozlowski, to help oversee and participate in the effort." He took in another breath, looking stronger by the moment.
"Are you." Oh, this was just peachy keen.
"Yes. Specific orders are even now being sent over. Now, if you'd kindly drive me to the passenger portion of the shuttle?"
"No bags, Mr. Grant?"
"Er—uh—no. The decision was so abrupt, I did not have time to pack. I’ll use whatever's on board. However, the admiral assured me that there are communications facilities available aboard the shuttle that I can use to let my people know what's happening—and dub someone to take my place while I'm gone."
"That's going to be a long time, Mr. Grant. Four months at least. A lot can happen to your company while you're gone."
"I trust my officers here ... just as I trust you and your people on the Razzia. I'm not dealing with amateurs in either case."
"No, of course not. But don't be mistaken. It's going to be plenty dangerous out there."
Whatever danger was "out there" did not seem to phase Daniel Grant. He seemed far too preoccupied with whatever he was running away from here.
However, there would be plenty of time to find out exactly what that was later.
"Fine. We'll put you on the shuttle with your boxes and the last group of marines going up."
"Excellent, Colonel. I'm looking forward to working with you." He could not seem to help himself, looking furtively around. "Ah—perhaps you could bring me some of that coffee and one of your military style donuts ... oh, and an Alka-Seltzer. That would help a lot."
Kozlowski stepped forward and poked him on the shoulder.
"Look, Grant. You're in my territory now. I'm not your slave." She pointed, cringing a bit. God, he smelled of alcohol. "There's stuff over there in the office. Get it yourself."
Then she stomped off to get on with her work ... and check on the promised electro-dispatches. Only way she was going to allow Grant on the Razzia was if she was ordered to do so.
This little wrinkle in the future did not bode well.
8
When Grant closed his eyes, he could see Fisk's face, grinning at him.
But he was tired. So tired.
He sat in a corner grav-couch of the shuttle, dimmest part, telling himself he was safe, telling himself it was okay, that he was in charge again.
Rest. He needed some rest.
He was alive, that was the important thing, he told himself. Miserable, but alive. Why had he ever gone out last night? He knew that he hadn't made the payments to Fisk. He knew that Fisk's temper got out of control sometimes.
A mistake. A goof. A snafu. It wouldn't happen again, that was for sure. Of course, he had a few months to get the opportunity to high-life it again By then, hopefully, the money due to Neo-Pharm and thus Grant Industries and thus Grant himself—the financial entity in direst need—would have arrived. He'd just called his CEOs and ordered them to pay Fisk what they could of his blood money ...
Deal with the whole disaster, weep with poor Mabel Planer's family, and make sure the insurance company paid off as though it had been on company time the girl had been shot ...
And, above all, do what Grant was doing.
Survive.
He'd come damned close to falling off the edge of that state last night.
Even now he wasn't quite sure how he'd done it. When those blasts had ripped through the booth and Mabel, some auxiliary mode in his musculature must have kicked in, because he'd never scrambled and dodged and ducked so well in his life. Some survival node in his brain must have clicked on as well. He'd done exactly the right thing, headed right on down to the dance floor. The wrigglers and flailers there, doubtless thinking that the explosions above were part of the show, were still going at it to the heavy localized pounding. He hadn't dared to stop for the slightest moment. He'd dived to the exit, skipped his limo, sprinted blocks and blocks, falling down a few times, until he felt safe enough hailing a cab.
And still the chase had not been over. He'd spent most of the night hiding behind cans of garbage in an alley, waiting for one of his aides to come and pick him up. Then he'd directed him on a Toad's Wild Ride to the launchport—and thus, he'd made it to the base, after a sleepless night, grateful to be alive.
In the comparative safety of the shuttle, strapped in above the equivalent of thousands of tonnes of GeligNuke®, Daniel Grant shuddered at the thought. No, he didn't want to think about it ... not for a while, anyway.
Sleep. Some blessed sleep ... that was what he needed. Fisk's ugly mug or no ...
"Hey there. That seat by you taken?"
Grant's eyes snapped open.
There, looming over him, was a Nordic god.
Thor with a haircut.
Well, not exactly. He was big and strapping, with blond hair and blue eyes and a smile above his square-cut chin. He looked not only damned competent, but perfectly content in that state, and
perfectly comfortable in the fatigues that snugly fit his muscular limbs and torso.
Now this guy, thought Grant, looked like a leader.
"Ah—no. No ... please, be my guest."
The blond god secured a carryall bag in a storage bin, and then slid into the couch, not yet buckling himself in. "Name's Henrikson. Corporal Lars Henrikson." They shook hands. "You must be one of the Neo-Pharm fellows."
"Yes. I'm Daniel Grant. I own Neo-Pharm."
Henrikson did not react immediately. He took the information in thoughtfully. "Ah. I had been told that you would not actually be on our expedition, Mr. Grant."
"A last-minute decision."
Henrikson assimilated this information and nodded, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.
"I see. Well, good, I say ... with all respect. It's good to see bosses take a personal interest in important tasks." A slight bend of the mouth. "Get their hands a little dirty, you know."
Grant smiled, the first time for what seemed like millennia. "Maybe I'm just trying to turn over a new leaf, Corporal Henrikson."
He closed his eyes, hoping to give the man a clue that he'd like a little privacy inside his own head, maybe rest his bloodshot eyes.
Henrikson wasn't the clue-taking kind.
"This is a special mission," he said. "I can feel it in my bones. Nine times out of ten a group of marines head out into space, all they come back with are handfuls of boredom. I've had some of that out there, let me tell you. Soon as I got wind of this mission though, special duty entailing a beachhead on the alien Hiveworld ... Well, I just jumped at the chance. Jumped."
"Couldn't get your fill of bug duty on Earth?"
Henrikson shrugged. "I've killed some bugs. Europe, mostly. Special services. That's probably why I got this gig—the experience. No, that's not it though, sir—you see, I've got this feeling that the human race is destined for great things in this universe. Destined. And I'd like to do my bit to make that possible. And I guess I'm vain enough to think I'm a talented enough guy to deal with the kind of situation we've got lined up for us."
Grant expected an inner groan of cynicism to echo in his head. Instead, he found the words oddly striking a sympathetic chord within him.
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