There was a pounding on the door.
Private Edie Mahone jumped about a foot in the air, eyes going wide. "Who's that?" she said, pulling away from his embrace.
"No one! I'll get rid of them!"
She stuffed herself back into bra and fatigues, sobering up in record time.
"Grant!" called a too-familiar voice. "I know you're in there. Answer the damned door. There's something wrong with your comm unit."
"Colonel Kozlowski!" said Mahone, jumping up and away from Grant's grasp for her. Quickly she ran into his toilet to straighten herself out. She turned back and gave Grant a harsh you're-just-like-the-book-says-you-are look. Then, in a rush of indignation and alarm, she was gone.
Pound. Pound. "Grant. We need to talk."
Daniel Grant had to take a deep breath and straighten his pants as much as possible. Calm yourself. The bitch doesn't need any kind of salute from you.
Then he got up and hit the door hydraulics. It slid open, and characteristically Colonel Kozlowski just stormed on in. "You know, with only three days to go, you can't expect to just hole yourself up."
"I was having a conference. Getting to know our troops," said Grant, rearing up to every inch of six feet two.
She glared at him, not buying his attempt at dominance for a moment. "Troops?"
"Private Edie Mahone. She's in the bathroom. She was having a few doubts about the mission."
Kozlowski raised her eyebrow. "Oh, yeah—?"
Edie Mahone came out of the head, looking perfectly composed and professional. "Thank you, Mr. Grant. You've been a real gentleman, but I have to go now ..."
"Mahone. Why aren't you studying ... ?"
"Free time, sir. I can use it according to my discretion. Permission to leave, sir?"
"Permission granted," said Kozlowski in a disgusted tone. She didn't even watch as the private departed, a study of healing wounded dignity.
Grant felt mightily vexed.
Sexual frustration piled upon a direct intrusion upon his privacy by a woman wearing confrontation over her head like a storm cloud.
Back on Earth, had this situation arisen, so might have the infamous Daniel Grant temper. A rant, a rave, a metaphorical chomping off of the head. Employee or associate, pressman or president, it would make no difference. Grant would have made mincemeat of them.
He could feel it burbling up, steaming through his capillaries. One little vent was all it would take, and the explosion would blast.
However something gave him pause.
Something odd aglint in this feistmeister of a woman's eye. She did present a fetching figure in those skintight duds she wore. And if you got past the cropped, patchy hair, the defiant lack of softening makeup, and those scars she wore like medals ...
If you turned down the lights a bit and smudged a little with mind and imagination, this Kozlowski bitch was really quite the looker.
He looked at her. He looked at the unopened bottle of champagne in its cooler slot. He looked back at her, suddenly oily with cordiality.
"Well, Colonel. As long as you're here—"
The gall!
She looked at him as though he'd just opened his zipper and wagged his privates at her.
The unmitigated gall!
"No, Mr. Grant. I will not have a glass of champagne with you!"
Daniel Grant stepped back as though she'd blasted a breath of fire at him. "You don't drink."
"I drink. That's not what I came here for, though."
"You don't like champagne. I promise you, you'll not taste better. Besides, Colonel ... We're three days away from Death leering at us. Carpe diem. Seize the day!"
She wasn't sure why she was so annoyed at his offer. He was right. She'd pretty much finished most of her tasks for the day anyway, and the Colonial Marines were unfortunately not a military navy force known for packing away kegs of rum onboard for the officers.
She'd been working hard for three days. Her mouth was dry. And here was some high-quality, rich man's champagne being offered to her. She hadn't had a drink in weeks, and she could feel her tastebuds and her nerves, falling to their knees and begging her to accept the offer.
She told them to go screw themselves.
"I'm here, Grant, to officially request that you allow me to tour the levels assigned to your scientists on this mission. In the interests of the success of our journey, I feel the need to know everything going on in this ship."
Grant nodded. "Ah. I see. This, despite what your superiors told you. To wit: that is not your territory of concern."
"Yes. I have given it a great deal of thought. Any ignorance on my part could spell a danger to my troops and this vessel."
"I thought the captain was in charge of the actual vessel. He doesn't seem to care much what's going on on Decks E and F."
"The captain? He's a burnout. He does just the minimum to get by, counting things out by crossword. I honestly wonder why he was given this particular duty."
"He seems quite competent to me ..."
Nonetheless, Grant did not say no.
Instead, he pushed a button that depressurized the seal on the champagne. He tagged another switch. Armatures extended and made short work of the cork.
Pop!
Kozlowski jumped despite herself. A brief spurt of white stuff ran down the upright thing. She licked her lips, a sudden tingling running down her spine.
Coolly, Grant went to a cabinet, pulled out two glasses. He poured these glasses full of the drink, and then carefully slipped the bottle back into its frigid place.
"I'll tell you what, Colonel Alex. Have a drink with me, I'll give you the Grand Tour."
He tapped the side of the glass closest to her. Ting! The liquid effervesced delightfully.
She made her decision. It was an easy one. She took the glass and drank a swallow, letting it drift through her teeth a moment. It was strong, but it was the lightest, tastiest champagne she'd ever experienced. Fruit vapor, dancing pirouettes on her tongue.
She glowered. A thought occurred to her. "You bastard. You were going to show me anyway, weren't you?"
He picked his own glass up, sipped it. "You'll never know now, will you?"
"Damn you." She couldn't help but sip the glass again. If anything, it tasted better on the second go.
"But here—I happen to have some pâté. Crackers, too. French and English, respectively." His hand motioned toward a tray of condiments. "So why don't you have a seat."
She finished the glass of champagne in one guzzle.
Heaven.
Her toes seemed to curl.
"Okay! If you pour us both another!"
"Absolutely!" He poured. "So nice to have company."
She sat and she sipped. She sampled the crackers and pâté. After what seemed like a lifetime of reconstituted Marine chow, it tasted like ambrosia. More champagne. Ah. Ambrosia and nectar.
"So then," she said, "I have two questions.
"Number one. What the hell is going on down on those decks? I saw some of the strangest apparatus being boosted off for the Razzia."
"You're just going to have to wait until tomorrow for the answer to that," Grant said. "Then, though, I promise that all will be explained."
"Fair enough. Question two—" She drained her glass of champagne. It exploded inside her like a depth charge of flowers. "Have you got another bottle of this stuff around? This is the best alcohol I've ever had!"
Grant grinned widely. "I think that can be arranged!"
Daniel Grant listed. His eyes were half-closed, and his face was mashed against a cushion of the couch.
A half-filled glass of champagne wobbled in his hand.
"... I should have never let her go," he mumbled.
Clear-eyed and feeling very good indeed, glass balanced on a raised knee, Alex Kozlowski regarded the scene. Totally in charge. Grant had extra champagne, all right. He'd had it trotted on up to his cabin, no problem. A strategy meeting, she'd explained to the surprised ensign sent to
deliver it. A tumbled line of dead soldiers lay on the floor.
"Your wife?"
"Yeah. She was ... she was the only person I ever really loved." He sighed.
An Interesting evening.
Halfway through the second bottle of champagne, he'd put a hand on her left breast.
She'd cold-cocked him.
He'd flown across the room and landed on the couch fortunately, then lay semi-conscious for a few minutes, while Kozlowski thoughtfully nibbled at crackers and sipped the champagne, enjoying the silence and the boost to her ego. It had been a while since a man had been arrogant enough to make a pass at her, much less trespass her body. She enjoyed it.
She got some ice, wrapped it up in a cloth, and gave it to him. He thanked her and asked for another glass of champagne. The pain seemed to have leeched the randiness out of him, and the champagne helped with his sore jaw. He apologized and they drank more. Kozlowski finished off the pâté and crackers. Grant just sipped.
She wasn't going to be able to drink any more before the mission. Drinking now was stretching things. But she figured she might as well enjoy it—and enjoy this first-class liquor—while she could. Might as well have some sound effects while she did so, she'd told herself—so she pried Daniel Grant's life story out of him. Easy, since he was really getting snookered.
Pretty queasy stuff.
Cold mother. Distant father. Money the end-all be-all in the family. No love and affection. A football team approach to sex and affection as conquest. Massive insecurities covered over by efforts and dominance, arrogance and control.
All in all, fairly predictable. Textbook even, she'd imagine. She'd not read much psychology. Hell, most books and computer information had been destroyed.
She'd more or less drunken him under the table. Either that, or her fist had knocked something loose in his brain. Unlikely. Grant looked like he had a pretty hard head.
She'd lifted the rock up and found a mass of worms and nightcrawlers.
The great man wasn't much different, deep down, from her. A few less nightmares, a little more civilized on the surface. But deep down—the usual writhing stew of human troubles.
"So," slurred Grant. "Your full name is Alexandra Lee Kozlowski."
"You did your homework. Yes. My parents named me after two famous generals."
"Grant and Lee. No wonder the antipathy. Hope we can smooth things out."
She shrugged. "We both want the mission to succeed."
"Yes," he murmured. "This trip succeeds, my company succeeds. I'm in the black, debts are paid off, I'm competing effectively against MedTech again, the mob gets paid off, and I get free of their contract—"
"Which you presume you're safe from out here."
He'd spilled the beans on that one under her probing questions, proving her suspicions correct. He'd come along on the mission because it was a convenient way to get off Earth, away from certain deadly factions. Now she knew why. Simple enough and understandable.
Only she honestly wondered if Grant knew that he'd jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. And there were a lot of nasty bugs in that fire, you betcha.
Grant didn't seem to hear her last comment. He was just rambling on. "I get things on track," he was saying. "God, the world is my oyster, I just got to get through the shell. When I get straight with everyone ... I'll ask her back. I swear I will. That's what I'm pushing for ... Can't live the life I've been living so long ... So empty ... So useless ..."
"Fast track. Candle at both ends. Strive strive strive so you can build yourself a fancy coffin. Dominance and dominoes—both falling-down games."
"Gotta stay on top. Gotta flash the smile. Gotta work, gotta survive," Grant mumbled.
"Gotta drink the best champagne," said Kozlowski. "Eat the best pâté." She downed the last bit of stuff in her glass, clapped it back on the table, and stood up. "I guess that's as good a goal as any. Thanks, Grant. I had a good time. Tell you what. We get back to Earth, we have a little party. You supply the champagne and eats, and we'll have a good time."
He looked up, bleary eyes startled. "Don't go!"
"Right. I'm gonna tippy-toe out of your place in the wee hours ... or worse, at the beginning of first shift. Won't that amuse the troops?"
"None of ... their business ..."
"True, but it's also a good excuse to slip the noose here, Grant."
"I just ... I just don't want to be alone."
"Yeah. I've heard that one before." She found herself angry for no explicable reason. "Take a snooze, guy. Let your dreams keep you company."
She half expected him to suddenly jump up and run in front of her, begging her to stop. She made a fist. Yeah. Just let the lecher try.
But he didn't. She stopped at the door and listened.
Peaceful, content snores.
She opened the door and stormed out.
Now she knew why she was ticked off, and it absolutely annoyed the hell out of her.
She was attracted to the jerk, dammit.
13
Daniel Grant didn't look so good.
He was sipping at what passed for coffee when Kozlowski found him on the observation deck, looking out at the specks of stars and planets in the vast blackness of space as though searching for dawn.
"Hey there," she said. "Captain told me I'd find you here."
"I'm trying to soak my head in the Big Dipper," said Grant, gazing out into the vastness.
"I'm here for my tour."
"So you are. So you are, Colonel Kozlowski."
She considered telling him to call her by her first name. He looked so ... lost and vulnerable, a wisp of steam winding up from his coffee and misting a piece of the view. She decided against it. She didn't want to give him the wrong idea.
Silence slid between them, which surprised her for a moment. Silence didn't seem in Grant's lexicon of communication devices.
She coughed encouragingly.
Nothing.
Finally, she said, "I did earn my tour, Grant."
"So you did, Colonel. However, I wish you'd said you had a hollow leg."
She shrugged. "You were drinking before I got there. Head start. Besides, I really don't care for your sexual preying before a mission."
"All's fair in love and war."
"Foxhole love. I've had some of that, nice if you like watching your partner in the deed die the next day."
Grant nodded. Managed a smile. "You're far too dramatic, Colonel." He shrugged. "Severe hangovers have a way of putting things in perspective. I guess I'm a bit of the predator. I apologize."
"How's your jaw?"
He rubbed it gingerly. "I can still speak and I can still think. However, I believe you've actually improved my looks."
"You've lost me on that one, Grant."
"I think my face was a little irregular before. You appear to have whacked it back into proper symmetry. Doubtless hundreds of nubile young ladies will come to thank you."
"You know, Grant, if I didn't detect a little self-mockery in your tone, I think I'd deck you again."
A flash of alarm in his face. That immediately retreated into an accepting nod. "I'm an energetic son of a bitch, aren't I?"
"I guess there's a reason you got where you got. But now we're just short of our destination, a par-sec and some change from home. And I need to see some more of exactly why we're here."
"Very well. Let me scrape some of my brain off my throat and reassimilate." He sipped some coffee.
She had a notion. "Here you go. I think I've got something that will help." She fished a small container from a pocket.
"Oh. How do you know?"
"Believe it or not, I've had a hangover or two lately." She did not get specific. She just snapped open the top and displayed the pills, neatly cut into halves and thirds and quarters.
"Pills? What are they?"
"Fire, Grant. Your own poison. Works damned well in this kind of situation. Check it out."
He shook his head. "Thanks,
but no thanks. I never touch my own stuff. But please ... don't let me stop you."
She'd been thinking of taking a quarter but now, instead, she snapped the container shut and stuck it back in her pocket, feeling annoyed, feeling like a junkie getting the brush-off by the pusher himself.
"Just show me those decks, Grant."
"This way, Colonel."
Corporal Lars Henrikson waited for them at the turbolift.
Kozlowski was taken aback. "Henrikson? What are you doing here?"
Henrikson remained stoic. "Mr. Grant called. He asked me to meet him here. I'm here."
Grant put a hand on the big guy's shoulder. Patted. "My kind of man, Colonel. Henrikson here's going to get a look at what we've got inside, too. Why? I'm glad you asked that question. Henrikson's probably wondering, too." He punched the button for the 'lift. The door slid open, and they all stepped inside. Whir of lights, compression, off for another level. "I'm not an elitist. I want to show what we've got here, to give you an understanding of what's going on. That knowledge on your part may come in handy later on. Helps us a lot. It also gives you a better idea of what we're going to need down on Hiveworld."
Kozlowski was a bit irked. First, because from the sounds of it, Grant had always intended to show her what was going on here. Second, because of Henrikson. He was a first-class soldier. During training, he'd come up as number one at all levels. His abilities were unquestionable. Plenty of references, and one of the troops she'd had no problem at all deciding should go on this mission. However, now it seemed as though Grant had taken him under his corporate wing—a corporal!—and was squiring him about, giving him the treatment that she as the commander alone deserved. True, Grant claimed that of all the regular troops Henrikson had the most actual combat time with the xenos. But still ...
Basically, she felt a tad jealous, as though this selection of Henrikson was a male thing, some off-handed way of slapping the fact that she was a female.
"One little condition," said Grant as they walked along the catwalk on Deck E, approaching doors that looked like the entrance to a bank vault. "What I'm about to show you two is strictly hush-hush. I don't want anyone to know about this, especially not the other men—or women. That's why I'm just showing it to you two. I feel as though you can handle it."
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