Prologue

ih

uhe planet was not hell.

It just looked and smellec^and tasted like it, ac-
cording to the marines who had come there and
raped it.

Its denizens were not demons.

They were far worse.

The marines simply called it Hiveworld, al-
though the navigators of hyperspace had an ob-
scure numbered tag for it. They had come here, to
this blighted planet, and they had plundered it,
stealing its queen mother.

Without the psychic bonds of the ruler to guide
the lives of her minions, genetic drift occurred. Dif-
ferent queens, pretenders to the throne, developed
and flourished.

All were killed by the most dominant of the
bunch, a traditional creature who could have been

2           DAVID BISCHOFF

an identical twin to the queen mother who had per-
ished in a nuclear blast in the Pacific Northwest of
Earth.

Call them "black."

Call her the "black queen mother."

And the new group, the changelings.

Call them "red," though they were not red. To a
casual observer, they looked identical. But to the
"blacks," through touch and smell and morphic
fields, they were anathema. Strangers, aliens.
Freaks that had to be destroyed.

leader of this new brood, living against all cal-
culable probability, was the "red" queen mother.

Bearer of recessive genes, any sign of whose chro-
mosomal changes had lyrought instant death in the
hive before.

The red queen mother and her minions fled. In
the confusion of reorganization, they escaped and
they established a new hive far enough away to
thrive.

The red queen mother spawned, using the herds
of animals that roved this bleak planet.

A new rival kingdom was created and for years
the kingdoms lived in peace.

But each knew instinctively that the other hive
was the enemy, that this peace would not last long.
And when war came, the principle weapons would
be in the numbers of warriors.

And so the creatures bred .. . and bred .. - and
bred.

While others of their ilk were hunted under dif-
ferent suns , . .

l

i

•he alien hive was exactly at
Hollywood and Vine.        ^

The god of the bugs alone knew if the sliming,
sucking, skulking bastards knew the cultural signif-
icance of the intersection they'd chosen. In truth,
that section of La-La land wasn't exactly what it had
once been, but then nothing in Los Angeles was
these days. And the fact that they chose to infest the
old creaking bank building, in what after all was
comparatively open territory testified to the fact that
this batch's IQ seemed rather low.

Still, thought Captain Alexandra Kozlowski as
she stood a block away from the sun-faded con-
crete dialing the polarizing filter down on her face-
plate against the grim and gritty southern
California sun. You could count on each and every
one of the merciless mother-killers being just as

4           BUII IISCIIFF

mean and nasty and omery as the worst of the last
hive she'd exterminated for Uncle Sam.

Who ya goin9 to call?

Bug Bustersi

Oddly enough, it felt good to be back in an
E-sult, clunky helmet and all.

She turned to the hunky lieutenant to her left,
already sweating in his armor.

"Got your jock strap on tight, Lieutenant Mi-
chaels?"

"You want to check?" The square jaws grinned
defiantly and the blue eyes crinkled.

"Maybe later." She winked and chinned her ra-
dio. "Approaching hive zero zero nine, LA sector B
forty-seven." She chinned her radio off and gave a
significant look to the platoon under her com-
mand: 69th platoon. AOE. Alien Occupation Erad-
ication. The toughest soldiers in the biz. They all
looked back at her, smiles covering what she knew
was fear.

A fear she felt in her- own heart.

A fear every tame she got near the things.

"Roger, it's a go, Captain," crackled the com-
mand voice over her radio. "Commence explor-
atory and extermination. Backup targeted."

m Captain Alexandra Kozlowski's humble opin-
ion, the "backup" should have been all that was nec-
essary. A couple of borer missiles with multi-K
payloads, primed to go off when the sensors were
buried in alien hive musk. Just bum the bastards,
erase them, destroy However, with the numbers of
aliens so significantly reduced on this, the eigh-
teenth year following the Alien-Earth War, scientists
and private interests wanted carcasses, pickled eggs,

ALIENS: GENOCIDE          5

photographs, and any royal jelly that could be
scarfed up.

This meant Personal Delivery. Service with a
Death Grin. Rock and roll and kill.

Well, it kept a lot of lads out of gangs, anyway

The other twenty members of this assault squad
had the same radios in their suits and heard the
same message, but Kozlowski gave the hand signal
anyway, just to reinforce her command—and to as-
sure herself of it as much as to remind her "bug
guys."

They rolled out. They were just foot soldiers
marching alongside the anchor vehicle, a Mark 23
Access Tank. In this kind of operation, if you
needed extra ammo or just a quick ham sandwich,
not to mention a little close-up heavy artillery, it
was nice to have a Big Metal Brother along. The
metal treads chewed up old concrete and worn
metal stars on the Walk of Fame as the troop ap-
proached their objective. Almost immediately they
broke through the ribboned "perimeter" that had
been staked out when the authorities for what was
left of Los Angeles had determined the existence of
the hive in the old Bank of America Building. Basi-
cally, this informed the natives that this was a dan-
ger zone, that if they trespassed—no sweat off legal
backs—you were likely to become egg-fodder.

Even here, fifty meters from the objective,
Kozlowsld could see the hardened ooze of the hive
stuff filling up the building's windows and frozen
down the side.

"Hey, Koz!" said Lieutenant Michaels. "Why did
the bug cross the road?"

"To get to the other side, wreak havoc, kill and

I           DAViD B1SCHOFF

spread its kind, and generally give 'life' a bad
name, you asshole," she barked back.

"You heard it before!"

"You know I hate jokes while I'm working."

"just smart-ass remarks."

"As long as they're mine, subordinate officer Mi-
chaels."

He glared at her and she started defiantly as they
marched along. It was a way they'd found they
could get up for a heavy mission like this. After-
ward, when the acid got sluiced from their suits
and any wounds were mended, she and Michaels
also had another tradition.

Strip and hump each other*s sweaty bodies like
bloody bunnies.

Ain't love grand? thought Kozlowski as she let
her keening hormones blend with adrenaline and
regulation Army boosters for what brewed up to be
a regular Kamikaze Cocktail. She and Michaels
had been an item for a year now, which in this Id-
iot's Army was just about a lifetime. The favorite
gag around the barracks was that if the captain and
the lieutenant ever got hitched and pregnant, the
spawn would come charging out its birth parent (it
was still up in the air in the minds of the privates
as to who that would be) with a flamethrower in
one hand, a missile launcher in the other—and a
grenade in its mouth.

As for Kozlowski, she was always just glad that
they could spend any time together at all.

They'd met in the service and he fit her like a
hand in a glove. He was a couple years younger
than her twenty-eight, an army brat who'd spent
his younger years first in a safe area on Earth, then

ALIENS: GENOCIDE          7

ofiworld after the evacuation . He was smooth and
fit, a devotee of exercises and sports, a big blond
package of sexuality that she never grew tired of
unwrapping. Captain Alex's muscles—and scars-
had been earned in the field. Even before she'd
joined the army she'd been battling the aliens. Her
parents—landowners in Montana—had stayed and
battled the things. She'd lost her brothers to the
monsters, her mother had died of a broken heart—
and her pop . . . Well, her pop was a tangle of mean
gristle and bone and determination, eternally
guarding his ranch under the big blue sky against
the critters from beyond.

And Alex? Well, Alex was just a chip off the old
tendon, a small-breasted, big-hipped storm cloud of
a gal, feisty as an undefeated bantam-weight
fighter. She had a brunette haircut from the Bowl-
on-the-Head Salon, dark eyebrows like accents
over burning hazel eyes, and A pair of scars like pa-
rentheses over a classically cut face. She could
fight or make love with equal abandon. She just
wasn't sure which she liked better.

A burnt stench was hanging over the area, mov-
ing down from the Cahuenga Pass like a curse.
Smog hung over the rest of the city like a stubborn
spirit condemned to hell but staying put. The
squad rolled along with practiced ease to the hole
that was the principle entrance to the nest.

Ten meters from the entrance, she chinned her
radio and commanded a halt. "Okay Main thrust
force. Double line. Let's move it."

However, before they could even assemble, the
defenders struck.

Five large bugs, the sun gleaming sickly on their

8           OHIO BISCHOFF

carapaces, their prehensile skeletal tails snapping
behind them, scuttled from the frontmost tunnel,
just below the crooked sign that read BANK OF AMER-
ICA.

"Jesus! Guns!" she cried, unstrapping her own
.45mm blaster. "Rodriguez . . . Swivel and fire.
Take cover!"

Uke the crack team they were, the soldiers broke
ranks and took positions as though this were all in
the plan. Even as Kozlowski lowered her rifle, the
turreted guns of the tank angled and aimed. A
nanosecond later, they spoke, hurling a frenzied
hail of fire at the enemy

Kozlowski found her crosshairs, aligned them on
the closest alien—a twisted thing with a burned or
deformed forelimb—and squeezed off a charge.

The stream of fiery energy tore off its feet at
what served as its kneecaps. The thing acted as
though losing its limbs was an everyday affair. Slav-
ering as though in anticipation of burying its sec-
ondary jaws in Kozlowski's throat, the xeno raced
onward.

The others let loose with their own weapons,
only staggered beats behind Kozlowski and the
tank.

The resulting fire tore the X's apart. Arms and
heads and deadly acid blood flew and splattered.
Entrails blew across the street. One of the banana-
shaped heads rolled toward them like a lobbed
bomb.

Instinctively Kozlowski aimed and fired, crushing
and rendering the thing a charred, fragmented
skull.

She gave them a moment to play a little more

ALIENS: GENOCIDE          9

fire at the things, just in case, and then ordered a
cease.

The smoke slowly cleared, revealing the scat-
tered, steaming remains of the bugs.

"What the hell was that?" said Michaels, taking
in a hoarse breath, sweat now pouring down his
temples.

Ultimately, as always, it was their trained reflexes
that saved them. This kind of offensive action in
midday hardly ever happened with the aliens.

Kozlowski shook her head. "Don't know. These
bugs . . . they're getting weird."

"Big sons of bitches," muttered Sergeant Garcia,
lifting his helmet to spit onto the street.

"Yes," said Michaels. "Maybe we'd better send a
robo in there."

"Right? You think the Army's going to waste good
robots when they've got cheap soldiers?" Kozlowski
snorted disgust, lifted her faceplate, hawked and
spit out a gob of phlegm on one of the smoking
bodies. "C'mon. These xenos have got something
In there they don't want us to have. Which makes
me want it!"

Michaels nodded, but Alex detected a glint of
fear in his eyes, of vulnerability and foreboding. A
pang of empathy sprang inside her: the poor guy
Spiking the X's wasn't second nature to Peter Mi-
chaels. He hadn't jammed his instinctive horror
and terror of the things back into a rock-hard ball
to use against them. For a moment she wanted to
hold him. Hold him and tell him that it would be
okay, that this was just a destructive game and
when it was over, she'd soothe his hurts and make
everything all right.

AVID BISCNOFF

But she couldn't. She was in charge here. She
was the dominant, and she had to pretend she'd
left her femininity back in the makeup case in the
locker.

"All right, groaners. Pop 'em if you got 'em, and
let's get in there while their.carapaces are around
their ankles!"                     -'•

A halfhearted cheer sounded in her earphones
as she dialed out a pill for herself. One second, two
seconds- Hold the nose, open the gums—look out,
stomach, here it comes. She opened her mouth
just in time to accept the dosage of Wail. Getting it
intravenously was faster, but the designers of these
suits hadn't figured out how to safeguard soldiers
from accidentally getting jammed with drug-filled
needles.

Pills were just fine with Koz. She had an oral fix-
ation anyway She took lots of pills. Oodles. The
higher-ups not only didn't mind, they helped sup-
ply them. Yep, things were sure different in This
Gal's Army.

"All right, assholes. Let's roll!"

Holding her gun at the ready, she waved them on
and the mechanical pack kicked into motion again,
heading for that door into X-land.

By the time they made it to the otherworldly en-
trance, the drugs had kicked in. Kozlowskt felt a
power, an elation—a sense of belonging and an
Army urge to fuse her forces into a brilliant batter-
ing ram and crush out this threat to Earth. Primal
territorial urges were tapped. She was the leader of
a Neanderthal pack, guarding her tribe from saber-
tooths. She was the head of a village on the English
coast, guarding her kin from marauding Vikings,

ALIENS: BENOCIDE

broadsword gleaming in the lightning. She was
Gaia, guarding her precious brood from cosmic
crawly interlopers.

The suited soldiers entered the hole into the bank
building without incident. They continued down the
tunnel. It was like a tube through a cancer. Noxious
drippings oozed along the sides. X-holes always had
an acrid, unnerving stench. Alex had already kicked
in her filters.

"Looks like a normal hive to me," said Michaels.
<t! hope this is a by-the-book."

"Only these xenos want to be stars. I bet they're
all wearing sunglasses and sporting tansi" said
Garcia.

"Well, this is the only take we're going to have on
this production," said Alex, bringing up her rifle.
"Ughts, camera, action, guys."

They came up to a narrower passage that dived
downward.

"The tank won't fit," barker the machine's oper-
ator into her ear.

"Yeah," said Alex. "I figured as much. Okay, you
stay here. Sentinel duty. The rest of us—we go
down. Looks routine to me, but expect the unex-
pected anyway Got it?"

"Yes, sir!" chimed the voices of the units cacoph-
onously in her ear.

"Good. I want the short rangers out on the hom

tip."

Two men with Mark Five Crankers—the equiva-
lent of high-tech sawed-off shotguns—trundled up
to take the lead, and they were off to see the liz-
ards.

Within twenty-five yards, the tunnel opened up

12

OHIO BISCHOff

into a large underground chamber—the remains of
a huge vault basement, daubed with alien gunk.

"Gunme some light!" said Alex, and the guys
obliged her by turning up their suit lanterns. The
chamber blazed withilncandescence, but as usual
in these kinds of places, Alex Kozlowski wasn't
crazy about what she saw.

Against one of the tenebrous walls hung .people.

Alien egg sacks.   ^ ^^*

Live people, impregnated with alien young.
Chest-bursters that looked like they were about to
blow at any minute. The victims—ten men, five
women—hung at the edge of death, dangling like
corpses that had forgotten to rot.

"Agents," said Garcia.

"What?" said Kozlowsld.

"Hollywood agents. That building got overrun by
bugs last week down the road." The dark-skinned
man nodded toward the ropy remains. "The Crea-
tive Talent Agency, one of the diehards of the en-
tertainment industry that stuck it out here in LA."
He waited forward to have a closer look, remaining
cautious.

"Yeah. Yeah, I remember," said Michaels. "Whole
building blew up. The assumption was that every-
one was killed."

"Looks like they're still making deals," said
Kozlowsld.

One of the agents, a woman in a shredded dark
black jumpsuit, her hair a mat of grease, slimy
green threads clamped into her skull, seemed in
some netherworld of delirjum; She had on an ear-
tab that sprouted artfully into a thin microphone,
and she was mumbling dramatically into it.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE          13

Garcia stepped back into ranks, clucking his
tongue. "Too far gone. All of them." "

Kozlowski nodded. She'd suspected as much. If
you caught on egger early, you had a pretty good
chance of squeezing out the spark of new life in it.
But this far along, a baby xeno was so linked up in
its parasitic position amid vital tissue that even if
you were able to yank the X out without it boring a
hole in you, there was no way you could save the
donor.

Kozlowski knew what had to be done. There
were precedents. She'd done it before, and would
probably do it again. She was just following orders.
Orders that made sense.

That didn't mean that she liked it.

"Needles," she whispered.

There of the men were certified executioners in
this kind of circumstance. They brought out their
air pistols, tapped in cartridges of darts filled with
a fast-acting poison that shut down the nervous
system first, then destroyed the body Two of the
men had grim frowns as they aimed. The other
man, Dickens, was an LA native. Dickens had been
a writer and producer and actor in LA.

Dickens was grinning.

"Put the poor bastards out of their misery," com-
manded Kozlowski.

Thwip! Thwip! Tkwip!

Three of the hanging bodies shuddered, and
then were still.

Quickly, the executioners finished their task,
then stepped back. "Okay, quick—before the burst-
ers hit their ejection buttons!" Kozlowski screamed.

Two men had readied themselves. They stepped

14 AVID BISCHOFF

forward. One sprayed a thick fluid on the bodies,
stepped back. The other, with a high-density
flamethrower, stepped forward and with fire con-
densed to incredibly high temperatures immolated
the dangling egg sacks.

When the smoke cleared, all that was left was
blackened, incinerated ashes.

"Good. Now let's go slag the Xes that did this!"
barked Kozlowsld.

"Amen," said Lieutenant Michaels, pale, with
sweat shining on his brow.

Of course, they weren't just here to slag xenos.

Nope, that would be too easy.

In this day and age, in a disintegrating place like
the City of Angels, theoretically you could just slip
a limited nuke down a nest and skedaddle. Easy,
quick, and a minimum of lost soldiers. However, al-
though that nuclear holocaust up in the Pacific
Northwest years back had certainly turned the tide
in the Alien-Earth War, giving humanity a hope of
getting its planet back, such extreme measures
weren't used these days, for more reasons than just
the glowing glands they tended to produce in
neighboring yjjj^g^.y

No, these xenosnad their uses these days.

And damn them for it.

"Okay. Fall out. The chamber's probably down
that tunnel there," called Kozlowsld. "Garcia?"

"You got it, sir," said the grizzled vet. "These
bugs haven't changed that much, and this tunnel
looks like the anteroom to where we're headed.
What I ain't seen though is enough bugs. These
hellhounds know we're here. I don't get why they

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         15

didn't try and protect their progeny. Something

stinks."

"Could be they're out somewhere," said Mi-
chaels. "Could be lots of things."

Garcia grunted. "Yeah. Lots."

"We're here, we'll do what we came to do, and
second-guess later. We've got artillery guarding our
asses, and we've got firepower. Now move it!"
Kozlowsld growled in a low, no-bullshit voice. She'd
perfected it when she realized she had to order
men around. Lowered voices worked well with dogs
and human males.

The troop descended quickly but cautiously, illu-
mination lamps picking out their direction for
them down the foul, mucousy passageway

Kozlowsld would have liked these missions much
better if she could just obliterate all the xenos.
However, there were two things that the Army
wanted her to haul out these days.

A couple of bug bodies, dead of course.

Random DNA samples,

And whatever royal jelly from the queen's cham-
bers they could tap. Gold from outer space, some
of the top brass were calling it these days. Bug
juice. The lab coats were going absolutely nuts with
it, and there was talk about all kinds of new possi-
ble uses for the stuff. With the U. S. government
pretty much busted, private industry had suddenly
become the main financial backer for the armed
forces. Drug companies, mostly, along with other
medical and scientific researchers. The govern-
ment wanted their share, of course, but when push
came to shove, the interest groups holding the big-

16 OAVID BISCHflFF

gest bucks in their outstretched hands got the big-
gest shovelsful of goop.

Alien royal jelly.

The stuff that made the right land of drones into
queens. Food of the xeno gods. Kozlowsld wasn't
entirely sure what they needed it for. Hell, it could
just be gab, and they were collecting the stuff for
nothing. But it was what the upper brass told them
to do, and so they did it, without questioning.

The scuttlebutt that she heard was this:

Each hive was based around a queen. Queens
bred drones. However, only a certain kind of bug
could breed queens—the so-called queen mother.
None of which existed on Earth now. Rumor had it
that it was the queen mother royal jelly that was
the primo stuff. Regular jelly had its uses, but it
was nothing compared to the Q-M gunk. In truth,
though, Kozlowski had other more important
things to think about. Like staying alive.

There were all kinds of differences between alien
hives and insect hives on Earth. Scientists didn't
really understand the full activities of the beasties.
Was their communication telepathic, or some
weirder somatic buzz? It had already been estab-
lished that the wavelengths of a queen's call could
be picked up by human dreamers. One of the best
ways of seeping out obscure hive locations was lis-
tening to these sensitive dreamers who acted as re-
ceivers, and in the best circumstances as locators.

Just what did the monsters want? Where had
they come from? What were they doing? Where
were they going? What was their cosmic destiny?

Were they so grouchy because the race had got-


ALIENS: GENOCIDE         17

ten up on the wrong side of their galactic beds in
some prehistoric starday?

Kozlowski had a theory.

They'd accidentally eaten all their males, and
were on one hell of a PMS jag. The theory wasn't
exactly scientific, but it did explain a lot. Here were
all these hysterical bugs, with no men to scream at.

Anyway, the core truth of what they were doing
down here was the tanks in the cart that Private
Henderson drove. Of course, to get to the jelly, you
had to off the royalty first, and this was probably
the most onerous task anybody could want in this
kind of situation.

Corporal Michelin's head snapped up from a ra-
dar set.

"Incoming!" he said. "Twenty-five yards ahead.
Sensor range. Belong up five bogies, coming in at
five klicks per hour. Same direction."

Kozlowski was almost relieved. This dead silence
was getting to her. "Okay, dig inland I want a man
with his weapon trained on the ceiling. Adams—
you can shoot skeet. I've seen them break through
and jump down from above. If they do that, I want
*em dead before they hit the ground."

"Yes. sir!"

She didn't have to notify the front or rear guards.
They were already down and dug in, ready for the
attack. Kozlowsld threw a beam of light down on
the floor. Solid-looking enough, but she was ready
if any of the bastards popped up from that direc-
tion. With bugs, you just didn't know where they
could pop from. They couldn't teleport, that much
was known. But for all of that, sometimes it
seemed like they could. And the commanding offi-

11

AVIB BISCHOFf

cer who underestimated them usually ended up
just as dead as her men ...

Or worse.

In this case, though, what the sensors showed
was all the hive was throwing at them.

Five bugs.

Plenty, though.

As soon as they scrabbled into view, the
frontmost boys let loose a barrage of fire. Down
here in the claustrophobic darkness, Kozlowski felt
the familiar tug of total irrational fear. Trapped-in-
a-coffin fear. Preternatural mammal-hiding-from-
the-dinosaur fear. That was one of the unnerving
intellectual aspects of the bugs. They seemed to
have been designed specifically to grip those hard
claws deep into the softest parts of your soul. And
squeeze.

The bugs dodged the first bolts. Awareness of hu-
man weapons was either bred or trained into them
by their maturity these days. These were Earth
bugs and they were ready to scrap with Earth peo-
ple.

However, the soldiers had also been trained, and
better. Countless simulations gave them a sense of
exactly where the things would hop in their erratic
jumps.

A bolt hit one. The explosion shattered it, splat-
tering its viscous blood over the whole corridor.

"Duck, dammit!" cried Kozlowski, hitting the dirt
as the acid blood sprayed every which way The
stuff could bore through the best armor if you got
enough on you. She peered up through the smoke.
The boys were still firing away, but crouched low

ALIENS: GENOCIDE          19

and off to the side. "Knees and head!" she cried
"Knees and head."

You hit the head, the things died with a mini-
mum of acid splatter. You hit the knees, you had
the bug on the ground and a good chance for the
head.

Alex Kozlowsld immediately saw that she was go-
ing to have a chance to show them. A bug minus a
right arm had broken loose and was scampering
along the side wall. Alex lifted her weapon and
squeezed off two quick but carefully aimed shots.
The first missed, exploding far away. But the sec-
ond caught the left knee dead on, shattering the
joint and causing the alien to go down.

Garcia's next shot caught it right in its banana
brain with a satisfying thud and soft ker-plow, like
an M-80 in a gourd.

With this guidance, the boys calmed down and
picked off the rest of the things. The fire boys
cleaned up the wiggling jaws and claws with a dose
of concentrated high temp, and then applied a
splash of acid-neutralizing spray to get through.

Kozlowsld allowed herself a smile. They'd killed
lots of aliens already, without so much as a stubbed
toe. "Good work, chums, but don't get cocky. The
toughest part is straight down there, in the general
direction of hell."

"Hey, don't we know it!" said Michaels.

"Pretty dumb bunch of bugs, though," said
Garcia.

"They're not exactly known for their high IQs,"
said Kozlowski. "But then neither are grunts, so 1
don't want any slackers. Move it! We're not exactly
in unfamiliar territory now."

20           DAVID DISCHOFF

Chances were the xenos were about as ready as
they could be for the attack, but that didn't mean it
was good for the men to rest on their laurels. Best
to use the adrenaline and the other performance-
augmenting drugs while they were peaking.

They traipsed over the dead, crackling things in
the tunnel, trundling into the darkness.

The corridor widened, and their lamps illumi-
nated a chamber.

In the center, like a giant flower bulb of chitin-
ous flesh, grew the "throne"—the storage place for
the royal jelly and home of the spawning queen.

Kozlowski had been in these places before. That
didn't mean she was used to them. The hole was
like Death's uterus, with hubs and cordings and
odds and ends of effluvia that while biological
seemed antilife. Every cell in her body rebelled at
the sight presented here. Training and experience
and resolve fought with a deep instinct in her to
turn and run.

A bent, insane frieze of alien sculpture, a mock-
ery of life.

Otherwise the chamber was empty

"What the hell?" said Michaels. "Where are
they?"

Garcia looked like if he hadn't had a helmet, he
would have very much liked to have scratched his
head. "I don't understand. Where's the freakin*
queen?"

"Off at the Hollywood high spots?" quipped a
jokester.

"I don't like it," said Kozlowski. "Get back. The
queen doesn't leave her chamber unless there's a
damned good reason."

ALIENS: GENOCIDE          21

Michaels shook his head. "Look. We've got a pot
full of royal jelly waiting to be tapped. Half the
time, the stuff gets blown up or burnt." He grabbed
a tapper and started walking toward the bulb. "I say
let's get this stuff tanked right now and we're as-
sured a good supply, no matter if we take out these
bugs or not!"

"Michaels! Halt!" screeched Kozlowski. "I'm not
certain that junk is all that valuable. It's certainly
not worth the extra risk. You're not going
anywhere—and that's an order."

Michaels stopped in his tracks. He turned
around, his eyes flaming. Kozlowski could see the
drugs in those eyes, and the male pride. Don't do
this to me, Koz, said those eyes. Don't be so
damned protective.

"Yeahl Lover boy might get himself a boo-boo!"
said a veiled voice in baby talk.

"What have you got on the sensors?" Kozlowski
demanded.

The private looked up from the telltale board.
"Activity, but nothing close."

"Come on, Captain. I could have started tapping

by now!"

"Yeah. We get our quota, we get extra leavel"
She didn't like it. Not one bit. But there wasn't
any good reason to say no. And if she didn't let Mi-
chaels do this, the other jerks here would call fa-
voritism, and she couldn't deny that.

"Okay, but I want the rest of you to back him up.
And, Daniels ... you go along."

"No problem," said the tough Army man.
Damn it, Peter. Why are you doing this to me?

22 AVID BISCHOFF

"The rest of you. Fan out and check for other
exits."

The men, grateful for action, spread out.

"What do you think, Garcia?" she asked the ser-
geant as Lt. Michaels strode for the huge bulb.

"I don't know, sir. It's not like the bugs to leave
their jelly unguarded."

The soldier walking off to one side looked up
from his instruments. "Sir! I'm reading lower
rooms. They're chambers, sir, and just as big as—"

The lieutenant was just driving in the tap, con-
nected to a couple of storage tanks. Daniels had
slung his rifle in order to help with the tricky ma-
nipulation.

It came to her like thunder.

This wasn't the main chamberi And if it wasn't
what they were really after, then it was a—

"Michaels! Daniels!" screamed Kozlowski. "Get
away from—"

Trap!

The bulb split open like a pregnant belly. And the
baby was deadly as death itself.

"Jesus i" cried Daniels, leaping back, pulling his
rifle down.

The emerging bug struck with the speed that still
was astonishing to see, even though Kozlowski had
seen it many times before. It grabbed Lieutenant
Michaels by the arms and pulled him up.

It had been hiding inside. The alien was just
waiting for them to tap.

Michaels screamed as he was hoisted upward in
the claws. The secondary jaws, slathering drool,
rammed against the reinforced helmet, cracking it.

Michaels screamed again.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         23

Automatically Daniels fired his rifle.

Only yards away. the shell hit its mark. The
mark, though, was the torso of the beast. A gory
hunk of creature was torn away, and like a burst
vessel, alien blood pumped.

The secondary jaw whacked into Michaels's hel-
met again, cutting a hole before the thing began to
crumple. Michaels fell under it, and Kozlowski,
helpless, watched as the alien blood spouted into
the interior of her lover's helmet.

Directly into his face.

The scream ratcheted through the radio, until
the radio was killed. It seemed to grow louder and
more horrible carried only by the fetid air.

The acid worked with amazing quickness upon
the face. It was as though she were watching time-
lapse photography. The skin sizzled off, snapping
with gooey bubbles. The eyes boiled and melted.

The screaming stopped.

The skull began showing and then the acid be-
gan to eat through that, frying Lieutenant Peter

Michaels's brain.

"Nooooooo!" cried Kozlowski. She grabbed up
her rifle and was about to riddle the beast with

slugs.

A hand on her suit's shoulder stopped her.
Garcia. "Don't. You're in charge here. Captain.
Stay in charge."

The alien slumped, twitching.

The burnt remains of her lover mixed into a liq-
uid, unholy embrace.

"Check on him," she said tersely.

If only I hadn't let him go. I knew there was
something zirrong!

24 AVID BISCH6FF

"He's gone."

"I said check on him!" she bellowed. "If he's not,
I don't want him to suffer!"

Garcia nodded. He stepped over to the bodies,
gingerly nudged the lieutenant with the butt of his
rifle.

Acid mixed with smoking gore rivuleted out into
a horrible puddle.

It burned straight through the floor, leaving a
ragged, smoking hole.

"Dead."

"Right," said Kozlowsld. She could feel the iron
grip of control exert itself and she was in command
again. "There's another chamber, and that's where
we're going. No more heroics, you assholes." She
took a breath. "No more carelessness. Or I swear to
God, if the bugs don't kill you, I will."

The silent squad followed the telltale to their
destination.

Lieutenant Alexandra Kozlowsld tongued for an-
other pill. She swallowed it and her tears.

2

THREE TEA
BAGMDA8. !

S LATER-
RAQ

V

•ictory.

The smell of it was in the air, alongside the fad-
ing stench of the ruins of war.

Victory.

Domination.

Excellence.

He could feel the demand for it throbbing in his
sinews, pulsing in his veins. He could feel the need
in the stadium crowd outside, the impatient stamp-
ing of their feet, their calls and their applause. Its
power and its glory electrified the air.

Now it was time to electrify some nerves. Goose
some synapses. Nudge some neurons.

25

2G DAVID BISCflOFF

Jack Oriander stood in the shadows of the tun-
nel. Outside, his fellow contestants milled around,
waiting for the officials to call for the beginning of
the hundred-yard dash. He felt more secure here,
away from the open space. He was slightly agora-
phobic; anyway, that was what his dad had said. He
wasn't so sure about that himself, since he didn't
really have a fear of being outside. He just pre-
ferred walls around him.

Pop was dead now. He'd been a captain in the
Alien-Earth War, and he was dead now. The Army
had not supplied the details, nor did the Oriander
family want details. Not when it came to the aliens.

Jack Oriander took a sip of cold water from a pa-
per cup, swished it in his mouth, and spat it out.
The Middle Eastern sun was hot out there. Jack
wanted his mouth wet, but he didn't want his
stomach bloated. He had his sunblocker lotion on,
and he'd taken care to drink lots of fluids yesterday
and today as well as "carbing up" for the contest.
At twenty years old, he was in absolutely peak con-
dition. His muscles, trained and corn-fed in Iowa,
sang with health and speed and proportion. He'd
run track and field in junior high and high school
and now college at Iowa U, now that these kinds of
things were getting back on track. The Earth had
lost some time—and so had Jack, because of the
war and reconstruction. But time didn't mean that
much when you were young. There seemed lots of
it behind you and lots of it ahead of you. Even
though you saw people older than you with bald
heads and paunches and lines around their eyes,
the idea that you'd be like that one day seemed
absurd.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE          27

"Win today, grow old tomorrow," Coach Donnell
had said, his eyes glaring down like lasers into
Jack. "We're counting on you, Jack, to put us on
the map." That's what the graying, grizzled man
said every day of the training.

He got his message across in more ways than
one.

The tension in the air was thick. Jack's nerves
seemed stretched as tight as violin strings. He
knew that if he was going to get some help, he'd
have to get it now. Around his waist was a light
flesh-colored belt of synthetic material. Jack de-
Velcroed a pouch, pulled out a small bottle. A fresh
one. Best if fresh, his mom had always said, and
though Jack wasn't sure if that applied to this stuff,
his obsessive-compulsive nature made him use a
fresh bottle even though there was a half-full one
in his luggage.

Jack cracked open the safety seal and knocked
out a pill.

Hell, why not?

He rattled out another one into his palm, then
quickly screwed the top back on and stuffed it back
into the pouch, readjusted his oversize shirt, tuck-
ing it into the elasticized top of his shorts.

He looked down at the capsules. They were a
deep green, seemingly embedded with silver spar-
kles.

For a moment he heard the old man's voice at
the back of his head. "Take it from me, Jack. You've
got all the drugs you really need in you already
Leam to tap those first before you go for other
ones." But he discounted it as he'd always done,

28 DAVID BISCHOFF

listening to the voice of the coach instead. "Tell
you what, Jack. You do what you got to do to win."

Jack slipped both capsules between his lips. He
took the paper cup and used the small amount of
water left to wash them down. Not too much.
Didn't want to get too much moisture inside of
him. Balance. That was the ticket. The old man
was always keen on balance. Yin and yang. Now
the old man was dead. So if what Jack swallowed
tipped the scales a little to his favor, what did it
matter?

Xeno-Zip.

Street name: Fire.

From Neo-Pharm.

Great stuff.

He'd been taking Fire ever since it first came
out. He'd asked the coach about it and the guy had
taken a few seconds to read the label. ALL NATURAL
INGREDIENTS. That was okay with the coach, just as
long as there weren't any steroids in the mix. Not
that the man had anything against steroids himself.
Anything that could give you that extra edge was
really okay by him. Judging committees were a lot
more laissez-faire these days.

Besides, it wasn't any worse than a couple of ex-
tra cups of coffee in the morning. That's what the
ads implied, anyway.

He hadn't looked into it very closely Jack imme-
diately noticed that not only was he more alert and
self-confident after swallowing one, his athletic
abilities improved. Concentration, agility, coordina-
tion: all jumped into higher levels. Not only that,
he felt better. Fire gave a little more zing, a little
more oomph.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE          28

The official line was that they made the stuff
from alien queen mother royal jelly.

Rumor had it that they used ground-up alien
bodies from the war.

Jack didn't care. He liked the stuff. The glow that
it put on life's horizons was just the icing. What
Jack liked was the edge it gave him in sports.

Jack waited for the glow to start, listening to the
sounds outside, peeking into the light, shading his
eyes.

The stadium was a spectacular tribute to the re-
construction of Earth, a wonder spawn of new tech-
nology and architecture. Lots of companies had
tossed in contributions to build the thing, and not
just demicreds. Big coin. A tubular confluence of
lines and efficiency, of new and mighty alloys, cen-
tered around a traditional field. Wedding of the new
and the old. Blimps and zeppelinlike hovercars hung
in the sky, bristling with tracking devices and media
sensor arrays. Field Humanltas was the name, and
these competitions in which Jack Oriander partici-
pated had been dubbed the Goodwill Games.

Now that the Olympics had been destroyed,
along with much of old Earth, you had to start with
something, after all. Something to unite people,
something to celebrate the New Humanity, some-
thing to take civilized minds off the savage past.

A sweeter conflict among nations.

A good-natured competition among athletes.

Jack Oriander leaned out into the sun a bit. He
could smell the familiar humanity out there. He
smelled the popcorn and the hot dogs, the spilled
beer and the excitement in the air. He intended to

30 DAVID BISCOOFF

be the center of that excitement now, yes, sirree
bob.

He felt a lick of the drug playing around his
nerves, and blinked,

Ah!

"Yo! Oreo! You want to get your ass out here!"
called Fred Staton. Staton was the other guy from
the States. He was clean-cut and slender like
Oriander, only he had neatly clipped blond hair in-
stead of black, with no widow's peak. A strapping
young man. As Oriander's senses sharpened,
squeezed into a fine focus by the tongues of fire, he
smelled his friend's lemony deodorant and the talc
on his hands. Caught a wisp of grape jam from to-
day's breakfast, along with the astringent touch of
Gatorade. "We're just about set to line up!"

"Uh .. . yeah, right."

"Hey, man. You okay?"

"Sure. Why?"

"I dunno. Your eyes ... they're a little odd."

"This sun . .. it's kind of getting to me. That's
why I'm staying in the shade as long as possible."

"And your hands. They're trembling some."

Oriander lifted his hands. He fancied he could
feel special blood pouring into them now. Fiery
blood.

But they'd never shaken before on Fire.

"Man, I just guess I'm a little nervous!"

"Aren't we all."

"I'll be fine. just give me a sec."

"Sure. But seconds aren't mine to give. And
those officials arc oiling up their guns." He slapped
his friend on the shoulder. "You'll be fine. Take a
deep breath. You're only a few feet away from a

ALIENS: BENOCIDE          31

hundred yards." He snapped his fingers. "It'll be all
over like that and we'll go out and celebrate, huh?"

"Yeah. Right." Jack grinned.

Fred was right. He should move on out. He could
see the milling racers not just lining up, but slot-
ting themselves in their starting posts.

Yet the sun was not only hot, it looked terribly
bright now, much too bright. Fire had never sharp-
ened his vision up this much before. He felt like he
had just been blessed with telescopic sight. Such
incredible detail!

Maybe he shouldn't have taken two pills after all.

Squaring his shoulders, pushing back the razory
feeling along his spine. Jack Oriander trotted out to
assume his position.

As he slotted himself in line, he got the A-OK
signal from Fred. "C'mon, Oreo. Let's show them
that American sneakers can still kick butt."

Jack smiled and waved. He fitted his feet into
the metal stirrups, leaned down Onto his knuckles.
A buzzing began to keen in his ear, like an amp
feeding back. He cocked his ear, waiting for the
starting pistol. The finish line loomed ahead like a
magnificent promise.

Glory Achievement.

Winning.

The crowd noise died down to a hush.

But the keening in his ear grew to a roar.

What was—

The chemical rush hit Jack Oriander like the
hammer of Thor. Molten energy poured into his
muscles and lightning exploded from his brain.

The signal pistol went off, and his legs answered
as though they'd been waiting for this moment

32 AVtD BISCHOFf

their entire life. They pushed him forward, shoot-
ing him off like a bullet down a rifle chamber. Sud-
denly he wasn't just jack anymore. He could feel
the atoms exploding in his sinews, he could feel a
cosmic power gushing through his entire being.

He was a god!

The crowd went crazy.

The PA system rumbled with the announcer's as-
tonishment. "Unbelievable! Jack Oriander of the
USA is literally burning up the track!"

His face had grown a rictus of determination and
sweat burst from his brow in rivuleting globules.
His feet seemed to have grown wings. The air
rushed past him like a wild river and the determi-
nation to win inside his breast burst into white-hot
brilliance.

The yards streamed by in a flash.

Jack Onander crossed over the finish line, well
ahead of the others, his feet a blur and his mind
hot as an incandescent filament in a megawatt
bulb.

And Jack Oriander kept on going.

The crowd in the stadium and the millions
watching the race would never forget the close-
ups.

Jack Oriander's arms pumping.

His legs slamming onto the turf outside the track
like John Henry's sledgehammers.

His eyes gazing into madness.

The young athlete from Iowa did not seem satis-
fied in shaving off a solid four seconds from the
world record for the one-hundred-yard dash. As
though eager to get on to yet another race, unseen

ALIENS: CENOCIDE         33

by any but him, he loped over the finish line, cov-
ering the distance between the edge of the track
and the wall in a couple of blinks of the eye, reason
and sanity burned out in chemical conflagration in
his cortex.

He smashed through the corrugated plastic of
the wall.

Only the steel girder just beyond stopped his de-
mented run.

And the blood ...

The blood was everywhere.

You can buy black market videos from media vul-
tures. You can see shreds of skin and veins and
hair torn from the speeding body and hanging from
the edges of the shattered plastic wall in clumps of
gore. You can see the twisted remains of the rest of
the body, lying akimbo under the harsh glare like
road kill in a cleated tank run.

And, if you look closely in. these tapes, you can
see the medic take something from Oriander's
blood-spattered pouch belt, and tuck it into his
own pocket.

Xeno-Zip.

3

i

Bhe sun shone down gently
and pleasantly on Quantico Marine Base, Virginia.
It wasn't often these days you got sun, not with
some of the clouds that still hung in the atmo-
sphere, not with the strange weather since the in-
vasion. Colonel Leon Marshall had his drapes flung
wide to let the warmth into his office.

He sat at his desk now, the report printout neatly
encased in clear mylar before him. He glanced over
the neatly listed facts and figures and smiled to
himself, feeling a pleasant rush of anticipation.

Amazing.

Absolutely astonishing.

Puissance to the formerly powerless, power to
the formerly impotent, is heady stuff indeed, and
the close-cropped, burly colonel was feeling posi-
tively giddy with the prospects that lay before him.

34

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         35

The digital clock on his desk turned silently to
11:00 A.M. The general was a prompt man. He'd be
here any moment. Colonel Leon Marshall had
been preparing his demonstration since seven hun-
dred hours this morning, and all was ready to go.
Now he could afford to take a quick breather, relax
and enjoy the prospects that lay before him, his ca-
reer and, of course, the future of this battered
country in its efforts to build a strong defense even
as it rebuilt its cities and its economy.

The digital clock was just threatening to trans-
mute to another number when his intercom
chimed softly and the adenoidal voice of his secre-
tary swept through.

"Colonel. General Burroughs is here."

"Excellent." Colonel Marshall slapped his desk
and its thin burden lightly and stood up. "Send
him in."

The door cycled open with>a whir and the burly
figure of General Delmore Burroughs marched in,
his eyes turreting like offensive guns on a land car-
rier. They lighted on Marshall and a flicker of cam-
araderie shone in them below the grim and
businesslike exterior. "Leon." Pudgy fingers were
extended. The general's grip was certain and firm.

"General Burroughs. Thank you so much for
coming."

"I believe the words 'urgent' and 'maximum im-
portance' were used in your communication, Colo-
nel. I tend to respond to those words. But I am a
busy man," The eyes turned stony. "1 hope that my
time here is not misspent."

General Delmore Burroughs was a beefy black
man with a bald pate rising up from grayed tem-

»

AVID BISCHOFF

pies. He had a broad nose and a voice deep and
full. He smelled strongly of bay rum and the
Instistarch of his uniform. He was a general who
had gotten where he'd gotten by taking no shit, and
Marshall respected that. If he was a person who
trifled with such things as mottos, then this gener-
al's motto would have been "The ends justify the
means." That was why Colonel Marshall needed to
get him in on the project.

"I'm not a man to waste time, you know that,"
said Marshall, "Tell you what—you think it's a
waste of time, you get to use my ski chalet in Ver-
mont for a weekend ... complete with my little
black book."

The general's eyes glimmered a bit. A hint of a
smile played on his lips. Then his teeth clamped
down, his face assumed its normal grim posture.
"Fair enough."

"Good, Then lean back, drink some Kona, and
have a cigar. This will take a couple of minutes and
I might as well kiss your butt awhile as well."

The general couldn't help but chuckle. "Cigars?
Where you getting cigars, Colonel?" He sat down.

Marshall stuck a cup of steaming Java beside the
general's elbow. Then he pulled out a humidor
from one of the drawers. Smith y Ortegas. "They're
just swinging into production again, and my
sources dug up the best of the first batch."

The general rolled it, sniffing. "You know, soldier.
It's been so long since I've had one of these, this
might just kill me with pleasure." He chuckled and
took up the clipper Marshall offered, dealt with the
cigar end in an almost reverent fashion. "Now ex-
actly what have you got on that scheming mind of

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         37

yours?" He stuck the cigar in his mouth and al-
lowed Marshall to play a flame over the end. He
puffed, blew out bluish smoke. His eyes seemed to
roll back with pleasure.

"General, do you recall that unfortunate incident
last week with the Iowa boy at the Goodwill
Games?"

"Sure. Put the world record in the American
camp firmly. Probably for years to come." Puff.
Spume. "Too bad about the accident."

"Colonel, did you know that drugs were in-
volved?"

"Nonsense. Good American talent and muscle
pulled that boy over the line."

"You didn't read the results of the autopsy?
Oriander had Xeno-Zip in his blood."

"Xeno-Zip? Fire? What, that silly pick-me-up
they're putting in the stores now? Marshall, he prob-
ably had caffeine and lots of gjood old-fashioned tes-
tosterone, too. Ain't nothing that-great about those
pills. Hell, I tried a couple. Goosed me a bit is all,
but with no crash and bum. Nothing that would
make me win a race!"

"That's exactly what everyone says. But I did a
quick search of news cuts for the last couple of
months. And then I had the boys at biochem do
some quick testing. Came up with some remark-
able findings."

He gave the general a moment to exhale his last
puff of smoke, and then he tendered the plastic-
enclosed paper to the man. General Burroughs
grunted. He murmured a whiff of annoyance, and
then dug into a side pocket for a pair of half-frame
spectacles, which he put on. His eyes strafed the

38 DAVIO BISCHOFF

paper for several moments, then he shrugged and
handed it back to Marshall.

"I've got a team of science boys to read this stuff
for me and digest it. I don't get much out of it on
my own, I'm afraid."

"That's all right, General. I had to have most of
it explained to me. Just a few items of jargon, some
facts and figures to illustrate the fact that I've done
some serious work on this."

"Right, Colonel. I believe you, but I still don't see
where you're coming from." The general tapped off
some ash from the cigar, then left the smoking
thing sitting in the tray He folded his arms. A sure
sign of impatience. Time to cut to the chase.

"You're aware of the active ingredient of Fire,
aren't you. General?"

"Sure. The PR is that it's alien royal jelly. Actu-
ally, there's more to it than that. It's alien royal
jelly, with a drop or two of queen mother extra
royal jelly. All that comes from one source, the
queen mother who got nuked. Can't get it any-
where else. A minuscule amount of this mixture
acts in a positive boosting fashion on the human
nervous system." The cigar remained in the tray. It
went out. The general ignored it.

"Correct. However, even with a minuscule
amount, Neo-Pharm, the manufacturer, found it-
self running out of the regular jelly. They started
manufacturing synthesized stuff, with mixed re-
sults- It still needs a few molecules of queen
mother royal jelly to work, though."

The general grinned. "Right. I'm not surprised
they're running out of jelly. We blew most of the
bug bastards straight to hive hell I"

ALIENS: GENOCIDE

38

"Absolutely and we did a fine job of it, too—and
a better job of reconstructing. But that leaves us, as
the military, in a bit of a quandary, doesn't it? And
I don't have to give you a sheet of facts and figures
to prove it. The enemy is mostly defeated, all the
governmental money is pouring into rebuilding or
into outer space. Now that the military's done its
job, it's the same old story. No respect. We get
squat in the way of money to develop what we have
to develop to stay modem."

The gray eyes sparked with anger. It was a sore
subject with all career military sorts. The general
had taken the bait. Now all Marshall had to do was
to reel him in.

"Public sentiment is also very antiwar machine.
I think it's a historical distrust of power. The me-
dia tends to think that if the military has too
much resources in a time of peace, they get antsy
and take over the government. So the other ex-
treme occurs. The military gets weak. And so
when the country needs us, we get thrown into
the fray, unprepared .. . and get clobbered. That's
provable history, General."

The general nodded, anger etched into his face.
He picked up the cigar, stuck it into his mouth.
Marshall happily relit it for him.

"What can we do about it? We're not getting the
funds to build new and improved equipment. So ...
why not build a new and improved soldier?"

General Burroughs squinted suspiciously.
"What? Synthetics? Cybernetic? DNA jobs? That
costs a pretty cred, too, Marshall."

The old boy wasn't following the line of reason-
ing. That was one thing about Burroughs, he was a

40 AVIO BISCHOFF

httle thick sometimes, a little bulhsh. But like a
bull, if you pointed him in the right direction, all
you had to do was grab the tail and he'd take you
where you wanted to go. That was why Marshall
had cooked up his little exhibition. In show-and-
tell, the "show" carried the greatest weight.

Marshall smiled. "How about if you could do it
for just a few bucks a head, General?"

General Burroughs barked a growly laugh. "Pull
the other one, Colonel." He pushed out a stream of
smoke and palpable disbelief.

Marshall checked his wrist chronometer. The
players in the game would be just about ready.
"General, if you'd care to step out on my balcony,
there's a little demonstration I'd very much like to
show you, courtesy of some of the men in my com-
pany."

Burroughs shrugged. "I'm here. I've smoked your
cigar. I've listened to your curious nonsense. And I
must say, you must have used some of the govern-
ment money I'm responsible for to throw together
this bit of research. So I guess you've put me into
a position where I don't have much of a choice in
the matter." He took out the smoking cigar and
pointed it gruffly toward the colonel's nose. "But
let me tell you. Colonel. I'd better see some serious
justification for the use of this taxpayer's money."

"Naturally, sir." Marshall got up and marched
over to a side wall, hung tastefully with mementos,
weapons, and equipment. He pulled out two pairs
of electronically enhanced binoculars from re-
chargers and handed one to the general. Then he
pointed toward the sliding glass doors and the open
spaces beyond.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE

41

"Come on, General. Wait till you get a gander at
this."

The "balcony" was actually an extension of a cat-
walk and stairs system that connected a number of
buildings in the newly built assembly of offices,
barracks, and warehouses that comprised this por-
tion of Quantico.

Beyond, a bank of obsidian-bottomed clouds
hung on the horizon. A storm was brewing. Noth-
ing unusual on Earth now, storms. Marshall shiv-
ered a bit at the prospect. They moved fast, those
storms. Dark battalions of weather, phantom
marchers left behind after the war. But there would
be time for the exhibition.

Marshall picked up a walkie-taUde from the desk.

The two officers walked to the edge of the bal-
cony. Marshall leaned against the railing and
pointed down at the open yard below. Some yards
away, a group of enlisted men seemed to be milling
about, up to nothing much more than loitering.

The general glowered. "Looks like a bunch of
men goofing off!"

"If you'll just direct your binocs toward that lone
private over there in the comer, sir ..."

General Burroughs harrumphed. But he angled
the cigar off to one side of his mouth and put the
binoculars up, finger expertly adjusting the focus-
ing vernier. "Looks like just a normal grunt. And a
mighty doofy one, come to think of it."

Marshall brought up his glasses and took a look.
Yes, there he was, the poor guy, looking a little lost
and oblivious as usual. Gawky. Geeky. Big Adam's
apple, tiny brain. Colonel Marshall was a collector

42 DAVID BISCHOFF

of mid-twentieth-century cultural remnants and he
remembered one of Edgar Bergen's puppets. That
was who the guy reminded him of.

Mortimer Snerd.

"That's Private Willie Pinnock. And if I may say
so, your assessment is right on the money. Private
Pinnock barely made it through boot camp. His re-
flexes are slow, his IQ is low. He can barely handle
latrine and KP duties , .. but he can, which is why
he isn't booted."

"So what's so special about this particular pri-
vate?"

"Just a moment. You'll see." Marshall opened up
the walkie-talkie he'd taken with him. "Corporal
Glen. Can you read me?"

The walkie-talkie sputtered and spat back.
"Roger. I read you, Colonel."

Marshall pointed to where the corporal was
standing on a crate, snapped to attention, waving
at them. "Our referee, if you will, General." He
clicked the channel back on. "Corporal, you may
proceed with the exhibition."

"Yes, sir," spat the walkie-talkie.

Up went the binoculars.

Corporal Glen, a well-built specimen who looked
good even in fatigues, semaphored to the private
off to one side of the courtyard. However, Pinnock
did not respond.

Glen signaled again.

Nothing.

General Burroughs arched an eyebrow.

Cripes, thought Marshall. This had better come
off or my butt is cooked.

ALIENS: 6EKOCIOE         43

"What's wrong with that soldier?" he barked into
the walkie-talkie.

"Off in his own little world, sir."

"Well, drag him out of it and let's get the show
on the road. The general hasn't got all day."

Glen "yessirred," then trotted quickly off to
where Private Pinnock stood, spinning rainbows-
He tapped the nerd on the shoulder, flapped his
gums in traditional mad army Drill Instructor fash-
ion, and Marshall didn't need binoculars to see
Pinnock jump, flinch, and generally cringe at the
chewing out. A bob of head from the private, and
then Glen trotted back to his monitoring duty

Pinnock's shoulders were slumped. He looked
quite hesitant and more than a little frightened at
the prospect before him. Nonetheless, he slipped
his hand into the pocket of his fatigues and drew
something out.

"Get a close-up on what he has in his hands, sir,"
suggested Marshall.

"A bottle of that drug . . . Xeno-Zip."

"Yes, sir, that's right."

Pinnock visibly drew a deep breath. He turned
toward a wall, as though he were doing something
shameful, and then dragged a shaky hand through
his blond short-cropped hair. He opened the bottle
of Fire, poured out three tablets, then choked them
down, without the benefit of water.

He stiffened, and visibly shuddered.

"Doesn't look like he's having much fun. Colo-
nel."

"No, sir. May I give you a brief personality
profile? Pinnock is a meek fellow with a minimal
aggression quotient. His adrenaline levels are low;

44 AVID BISCHOFF

he doesn't get mad when the other soldiers tease
him. They generally just put up with him, since he
tends to do the distasteful chores for them."

"With no resentment."

"None that is reported." Marshall looked at his
chronometer. The increased dosage in the subject
was his order, to increase the speed of release of
the chemicals in the bloodstream. The last thing
he needed was an impatient general. The results
were going to have to be fairly immediate, or Bur-
roughs would just about-face and leave. A minute
since ingestion. That would be about right.

"Glen. Next step."

"Yes, sir," snapped the walkie-talkie.

The colonel signaled the milling group of men.
They loosely ordered themselves and began march-
ing toward the lone private like a gaggle of surly
Teamsters headed for a manager. They were bulky
lads, with rock muscles earned by constant drilling
and exercises. Marshall could hear a couple of them,
joking with one another. They had no weapons, only
their fists. Marshall had planned it that way He
didn't want to see Pinnock or anyone get hurt, ex-
actly Scuffed up a bit, that was all. A little red on the
turf was always a dramatic underline.

Besides, these barracks bullies might be in for a
little something they hadn't bargained for.

The frontmost of the group, a beefy tower of a
man, stepped up to Pinnock, grabbed him by the
shoulder, and spun him around. A few obscene
motions and words were made. Pinnock did noth-
ing. Another man stepped forward and shoved the
private. Pinnock shuffled backward, still not re-
acting, Not even cringing, which was a good sign.

ALIENS: BENOCIDE         45

Then another grunt snuck up behind him and
got down on all fours. Big Pecs stepped forward,
executed a sharp, swift push. Pinnock tumbled
onto the ground. The smallest of the men, a little
guy with a rat face, stepped in and gave a sneaky
lack to the private's backside.

"What the hell is going on?" said the general.
"This is absurd!"

Marshall tensed. There should be some reaction
here by now. Was all this going to be a ridiculous fi-
asco?

The ratty-faced man sneered and went in for an-
other free lack. However, this tune, he did not step
back after the blow was delivered. And the sneer
melted into a look of alarm.

Something snapped. There was a scream, and
Rat Face was flung ass over elbows backward. He
was slammed into the corrugated metal of a bar-
racks wall and left a smear of blood as he poured
onto the ground, out for the count.

The burly bully boys took a step back,

Private Pinnock jumped to his feet.

"Holy shit," said General Burroughs.

The officers' binoculars leapt to their eyes.

Pinnock's eyes seemed to glow.

"Three tablets of the synthesized version of
Fire," said Marshall. He brought up his walkie-
talkie. "Okay, Glen. Have the boys subdue the pri-
vate."

The corporal barked out orders. The men
stepped forward again, looking quite a bit more
tentative now, and probably a damned sight star-
tled. Still, they were good military men and they
followed orders.

4S DAVID BISCHOFF

They advanced, closing in on Pinnock on all
sides. There would be a wonderful tussle, but there
were a good eight tough boys there and they'd pin
the guy down and then they'd get in the restraining
leg cuffs and force jacket and let Pinnock burn off
his sudden energy.

"We did a genetic workup on the men, and Pin-
nock proved to be the most susceptible to the ef-
fects of the drug," Marshall explained. "Of course
no one understands what the hell happens, really,
or what's likely to. Sometimes it appears to have no
effect at all. Pinnock is a most suitable specimen,
don't you think, sir?"

"He's outnumbered . . . but what's happening to
him?" said the general. "This is remarkable!"

Up with the binocs. Down with the jaw. It wasn't
just the man's attitude and spirit that had changed.
His whole physique seemed—altered. Latent mus-
cles seemed pumped up, and the whole face
seemed chiseled purpose and resolve. And those
burning eyes . ..

Pinnock grabbed the first of the men and with
lightning speed lifted him off his feet and hurled
him back, knocking over five more Army men.

. . . those burning eyes. His face seemed twisted
into a mask of hatred and anger.

From Mortimer Snerd into Superman .. .

"Amazing," said General Burroughs, echoing
Marshall's thoughts. He had no idea . . .

Pinnock didn't give the others a moment to rally
He charged in, punching and throttling. Gobbets of
blood flew into the air, along with shrill shrieks and
gurgles.

Maybe he shouldn't have used three pills .. .

ALIENS: GENOCIDE

47

Glen's voice erupted over the walkie-talkie, but
the device was hardly necessary. Marshall could
hear him yelling desperately down in the court-
yard.

"Colonel! Pinnock's getting out of hand!"

Pinnock leapt onto the back of Big Pecs, and
grabbed ahold of the man's neck. Big Pecs tried to
throw him off, but Pinnock was as firmly planted
on him as the Old Man of the Sea. The crazed pri-
vate gripped the head, and wrenched, his tendons
standing out from his neck. A loud snap!, a pulse
of arterial blood, and the big man wilted to the
ground, his neck broken, his head almost torn from
its mooring.

The other soldiers had watched this, stunned
and stuck in indecision. The bloody demise of their
fellow soldier sent them racing away

Pinnock, grinning like a death's-head, caught
two and slammed their skulls together. He raced
and tackled another, pummeling. him into a pulp
with fists.

Perhaps, thought Colonel Marshall, I should not
have chosen a soldier with such understandable re-
sentment buried in him.

The walkie-talkie spoke again. "Colonel! He's out
of control. We need armed soldiers out here.
We—"

"Oh, my God!" cried the general. "Behind him!"

The crazed berserker that had been a meek pri-
vate leapt upon the corporal, grabbed the walkie-
talkie, and slammed the hard metal-plastic over
and over again into the man's face, until it was a
bloody mess.

Colonel Marshall did not pause long to watch.

AV   81SCHOFF

He was screaming into another radio channel for
backup. Armed backup. There'd been absolutely no
indication that this exhibition would get this far
out of control.

Two soldiers, one with a machine gun, one with
a blaster, raced into the courtyard.

Somehow, in the sudden blur and explosion of
fire and bullets, and despite a bullet wound and
the loss of part of an arm, Pinnock managed to
wrest the machine gun away and use it on the
backup soldiers killing them instantly.

Amid the decimation, Colonel Marshall watched
with horror as the bleeding and burnt chemically
charged maniac slowly swiveled around like a glad-
iator surveying his kill—and seeking out the em-
peror ...

"Christ!" said General Burroughs. "He's looking
at us!"

... and not for approval.

"General. Quickly. Back to the office!"

Even at their first step, a hail of bullets splat-
tered over their heads; Marshall was stung with fly-
ing cement chips. Ducking, they lunged through
the office doors, and the glass windows exploded,
Burroughs took cover behind a desk, and Marshall
leapt for his wall of weapons. He tore two loaded
semiautomatic Hyper machine guns from their
racks and threw one to the general.

"1 haven't used one of these in years!" moaned
Burroughs.

"Watch!" Marshall clicked off the safety. He ran
to the billowing curtains, took cover, and squeezed
off a salvo at the approaching maniac. No hits, but
he got the feel of the thing. He dodged as another

ALIENS: GENOCIDE

43

hail of bullets crashed through the door, tearing up
a wall of certificates and pictures. Marshall re-
treated, letting off two more burps of fire.

There was a moment of silence, and then Pin-
nock marched in like he was Superman. He
gripped the gun and the grin on his face was like
an ax wound. One eye was a bloody gouge, but the
other gleamed like diamond. Blood rivuleted down
his face. One whole side of his body was burned.

He lifted up the machine gun, like a crazed zom-
bie with firepower.

Burroughs had figured out how to use the Hyper
and he ripped off a clip. However, only a couple of
bullets hit their mark, the others splattering along
a wall. Pinnock was knocked off his feet, falling
back onto the balcony. But with iron determination
and a brain burning with chemicals, he began to
get up.

Marshall lifted his gun to fire again, but it
jammed. He did not waste time on the weapon,
flinging it down and leaping to a rack. The nearest
weapon was a bazooka. He tore it off the wall,
grabbed a shell, loaded up, and ducked back be-
hind a chair just as a new hail of bullets chunked
and screamed into the weapons wall.

A pause. Pinnock was out of ammunition. He
had to be.

Marshall thumbed off the safety, checked the go-
light of his weapon, thanking the Powers That
Were he'd kept up on his weapons training. He
brought the short barrel of the mini-bazooka up
and gave himself only a fraction of a second to aim.

Private Pinnock, smoking and smelling of burnt

DAVID BISCHBFF

flesh, still grinning, walked toward him, death glar-
ing from his one good eye,

Marshall squeezed the trigger.

The shell whooshed out of its pipe and whacked
directly into the maniac private's chest, pushing
him back through the door into the balcony before
it detonated. The explosion of the shell blasted the
private and his gun to pieces, not even leaving
smoking boots behind.

Marshall gasped and collapsed, dragging ragged
breaths into his weary lungs. What a fiasco! A ca-
tastrophe of the first order! Support from the gen-
eral? He'd be lucky now if he didn't get his chops
busted, didn't get demoted or sent to deal with
some alien infestation in northern Alaska.

General Burroughs cautiously poked his head
from behind the desk. His uniform was torn and he
had a stunned look to his eyes. He regarded the
tattered gore, the remnants of Private Pinnock
spread over the balcony like an explosion in a
butcher shop.

He smiled slowly "I believe, Colonel, this drug
bears some further investigation- But please—not
while I'm around."

•lar is good business.

War is even better business after the war is ovei,
especially if there was massive destruction on the or-
der of the kind administered by the alien infestation.
When humanity fought off its enemy it found many
of its cities ravaged. But like London after the Nazi
air blitz of World War II, this was not necessarily a
bad thing. Sure, some good buildings were destroyed
by bombs in that case—but also destroyed were mas-
sive numbers of creaky docks and ancient buildings
that should have met the wrecking ball years before.

The result of the devastation: reconstruction and
a better city

Such was the case with the alien infestation.

Take New York City. Manhattan in particular. It
had been rotting for years, its roads and subways
tottering on the brink of disaster.

51

52 AVID BISCtiOFF

The extermination of the aliens had left behind
many ruins and much potential. Nothing on the
order of Los Angeles, which was still pretty much a
smoking ruin with odd nests of the creatures still
needing to be wiped out. But the Big Apple needed
a big overhaul.

The U.S. government, weak but still there,
brought in two traditional weapons in this particu-
lar struggle: free enterprise and deregulation. Any
entrepreneur; any company that had the stomach
for it, were awarded the privilege of going in and
wrestling with the wreckage and the building.

A man named Daniel Grant not only had the com-
pany and the willpower for such a job, he has a cast-
iron stomach and platinum business nerves as well.

Now, Manhattan's towers were shiny again, and
majestic bridges spanned the East River and the
Hudson. Its subways were streamlined and the
aliens were all dead here, though not necessarily
all the vermin.

Rats, like Daniel Grant, were survivors.

Although his chic East Side penthouse was only
ten blocks away from the infamous Grant Tower,
Daniel Grant always had himself driven to work in
one of his sleek fleet of robo-chauffeured
turbostretch limos.

You had to put on a show.

You needed leverage for business deals. Flash
and illusion and glitz helped gain leverage. Some-
times, when the numbers in your bank account
were either preceded by negatives or promises,
flash and illusion and glitz were all you had.

This was why Daniel Grant always made sure that

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         53

he entered his building through the front door, so
that the spectacle was available to the local media.

Today was a brisk spring day in Manhattan and
Grant had his window open so that he could see
his tower as he approached. God, it was gorgeous!
A hunk of gleaming obsidian thrusting up toward
the sky from the famously firm island bedrock,
Grant Tower dwarfed its surrounding midtown
neighbors. Of course a lot of these were still in
twisted ruins, which gave Daniel Grant's sky-
scraper the edge. In fact, it looked like a stream-
lined monument in an urban cemetery. Still, Grant
only had to look at it to feel like the Top Dog, the
King of the Hill, the Duke of New York.

"Nice day for a skyscraper, eh?" he said to his fe-
male companion, tucked away in the plush, dim
comer.

Candy (or was it Bambi?) barely looked up from
her compact mirror. "Very impressive, Mr. Grant."
She glanced at the erect structure, nodded, and
winked coyly "Reminds me of last night!" She ex-
tended a long, sleek leg and teased his ankle lightly
Grant smiled, glorying as much in his own manly
scent as in the mists of perfume and femininity
that wafted his way from this choice little bundle of
boobs and buttocks and blond hair he'd bedded
down with last night, after the de rigueur cham-
pagne, caviar, and camera clicks. Hopefully, his
nightclub antics would make Spy Sheet again this
month. Let his competitors think he had money to
burn—which, of course, he didn't. These days,
though, the newshounds checked your clothes and
your chicks—not, fortunately, your checkbooks.

"You're the best, honey," he said as the limo

54 DAVID BISCKOFF

smoothly cruised up to the new permacrete front-
ing of the G.T.

"You won't forget my number, will you, Danny?"

Grant tapped his sternum. "Your digits are
stamped in my heart, babe." He pulled out a
microC-card, tapped in a five-hundred-cred-buck
limit for the day, and tucked it into her sweet palm.
"Go buy yourself something nice, sugar cheeks."

"Oh, Danny, thank you." He got a face full of lips
and bosom for his effort.

"Gotta be at Lapshitz and Garfunkel's in Brooklyn
Heights, though, sweet cakes. The car will take you
there and back to your digs." He puffed up impor-
tantly "But I'm going to need it at twelve-thirty for
an important date."

Actually, he had the thing leased out through his
car service then, but an important man had to look
like he had full use of his limo, right?

"No problem."

"And remember what I told you if you see any
signs of aliens?"

She nodded her head importantly "Call you!"
Her voice was slightly and unpleasantly squeaky,
and as he began to open the door and some sun-
light got at her, he realized it didn't flatter her as
much as candlelight did.

Unlikely she'd see any aliens. But you never
knew. "That's right, darling. Last night was won-
derful. I wish our time had never ended. But even
billionaires have to work ... probably harder than
most people!" He swept off the seat carefully so he
wouldn't crease his trousers. "Ciao, baby!"

She blew him a kiss just as the clatter and flashes
of cameras began. Nimbly, he jumped so that a few

ALIENS: GENOCIDE          55

photographic images would record decolletage and
blond tresses (for his ex-wife as much as envious
mate competitors) and then shut the door.

The robo-limo smoothed off toward Brooklyn
Heights and the perma-thrift department store he
owned. Fortunately, Candy (Bambi?) was far too
dumb to know the difference between new mer-
chandise and restructured merchandise.

Daniel Grant swiveled around to greet the chron-
iclers of his arrival, trying to looked annoyed.

"Can't a busy man have any privacy?" he
groused, straightening his power neck jewelry so
that it would look right in the pictures. Daniel
Grant was sheathed in his usual sartorial splendor.
His tailored camel-hair coat hung over his tailored
suit perfectly, every angle and nook and color com-
plementing the jut of his square jaw, the tilt of his
brain-filled brow, the steely slate of his penetrating
eyes. Even the tousle of his hair was follicle-
calculated to be photogenic.

Today, even Grant was surprised.

There were usually one or two people here to
record his arrival and ask a few questions.

Today, there was a mob.

From the comer of his eye he caught a reporter
with a new face and an old question. "Mr. Grant.
How do you account for your meteoric rise to suc-
cess? What's your secret?"

Grant paused, lifted his hand like a heckled but
patient monarch requesting heed for his proclama-
tion. He went into automatic speechifying mode.
Mental tables appeared before his eyes. He chose
from column A and column B.

51 DAVID BISCflOFF

"No secret! I just make a point of proving an old
saying: 'You can learn something new every day.'"

Whew. What did that mean? Sounded damned
good, though.

"Mr. Grant, what led to the recent split between
you and your last wife?"

"No comment."

"Can you confirm rumors that you are planning
to enter politics?"

"Of course not."

Loved those kinds of questions. You give a defi-
nite answer that didn't mean a goddamned thing.

"Who was that young lady you drove up with?"

A slight smirk tugged at the comer of his mouth.
"A friend."

"Is it true that your financial empire is in trouble?"

He feigned total astonishment. "Where did you
hear that one?"

"Mr. Grant, could you comment on the alleged
lethal side effects of your new wonder drug?"

Oops. Time to check Column C.

As there was nothing appropriate there, he just
had to wing it. "I'm unaware of such reports." A he.
But he honestly didn't think the "wonder drug" ac-
tually was lethal. But these impromptu news con-
ferences were no place for complex ethical and
biochemical delineations. "I have full confidence in
all my employees. Especially those hardworking
people at Neo-Pharm."

Yes, that good old tried-and-true method. Head
'em off the track with a statement. In a legitimate
question and answer session, Grant could keep up
the palaver for so long, a reporter was lucky to re-
member his name, much less his original question.

ALIENS: BENOCIDE         57

Still it was an alarming question, one that he re-
ally hadn't been ready to deal with, despite the
news reports.

Time to beat the retreat.

He spun around on the sole of his spit-polished
wing tips, again a busy businessman, immersed in
the burdens of accruing riches, and stamped away,
letting the hail of further questions slip off him. He
dodged between two uniformed, sunglassed guards
into the building, waggling the finger of command.
The thick-necked men stepped between the press
and the door, preventing them from further pursuit.

Grant stepped into the marbled halls of the first
floor and made a hasty hop and skip for his special
turbo-elevator.

He put his face up against a window for a retinal
read, even as he placed his thumb into a hole for a
quick DNA check.

In this kind of political aaid economic atmo-
sphere, you just couldn't be too careful.

The car closed behind him and he punched a
button. Thus, he was zoomed down to the base-
ment offices and labs of his principal company, the
foundation from which Daniel Grant had boosted
into the wheeler-dealer stratospheres.

Neo-Pharm.

When he'd sent the message via sub-space to his
folks on Beta Centauri colony that he'd used the
money they'd given him to purchase a little-known
drug company, his old man had thought he'd said
"bought the farm"—and thought he was dead.
From a friend back on the colony, he'd heard the
old fart had just shrugged and poured himself an-
other boost of booze. Fortunately, his mother had

58 BAVID B1SCHOFF

replayed the message and gotten the true gist of
the message before she poured feerself another
drink. Then, in celebration, they'd bought everyone
at the bar a drink and promptly gotten stinking
drunk.

Of course, with the Grants, that was nothing
new.

They drank so much at the New Town bar, the
old man went ahead and bought it to minimize ex-
penditures. Daniel Grant had to convince his father
that the loan was a good business investment by
sharing several bottles of cognac with the man.
Over multiple ounces of the gut-searing stun. Grant
had pointed out that the alien-torn Earth, now in
reconstruction, was ripe for business opportunities.
A man who had vision there could have immense
power. Old Man Grant wasn't so sure of the finan-
cial soundness of his son's plan, but he did have
money Money that he wasn't sure what to do with.
Lend me some of that money. Pop, said Daniel
Grant, and let me show you what I can do.

Daniel Grant had the money transferred to an
Earth bank before his father sobered up, and then
followed immediately thereafter, by a slower route.

The New Earth was violent and exciting and dy-
namic, a phoenix rising from ashes. World govern-
ments bent over backward to encourage growth.
Restrictions were cut- Regulations either forgotten,
ignored, or repealed. It was the freest market imag-
inable, and Grant studied it. He decided that what
Earth people really needed—and would always
need—were pharmaceuticals. Aspirin for head-
aches. Harder drugs for those harder-to-deal-with
biochemical problems. Euphorics. Other mood-

ALIENS: 6ENOCIDE         58

alterers. And with a crack team of scientists at his
bidding, he could map out new directions of bio-
chemical technology.

So he bought the Pharm,

Since Neo-Pharm was one of the few drug compa-
nies still operating, under the helm of Grant's cun-
ning and ruthlessness, unbounded by law or ethics,
it burgeoned. Cash and credit flow were astounding.
Grant expanded, buying out other companies, build-
ing himself an empire. Real estate, retail, hotels,
space shuttles—even gambling casinos. Daniel Grant
wanted to make a strong, swift impression.

Unfortunately, his first buy remained his best.
None of the other companies did anywhere near as
well as Neo-Pharm—and often he found himself
dipping into N-P's black ink to try to neutralize the
other companies' red ink.

If something happened to Neo-Pharm, some fi-
nancial disaster like a successful class-action suit
or (shudder) having to shut down production of
Fire, their most popular product, then the whole
card castle would crumple.

And he wouldn't be able to make certain per-
sonal payments.

Failure would not mean just bankruptcy.

His ass was on the line.

Dammit, he thought as the doors shut behind
him. He'd paid back the old man. He'd pay his
other debts. And he'd still have his cake and eat it,
too ... even if it choked him!

The door whispered open before him, and the fa-
miliar subdued colors throbbed over him. The
acidic smells of the lab assaulted his nostrils.

As always, he could almost taste the freaking

N          DAVID BISCHOFF

bugs down here. At first, he thought the taste was
sweet, because it tasted like money. Now, Daniel
Grant wasn't so sure.

He stalked across the catwalk that spanned a pit
where biochem workers in silvery suits worked over
tables and tanks. Along the walls were aquariums
filled with pickled bugs—whole bugs, half bugs, bits
and pieces of bugs.

And the hellish bug juice—their acid blood—was
carefully controlled, the vicious stuff. That was why
the technicians worked in the specially lined pit.
Anything that got loose, you could sluice it away,
and it couldn't get into where it would damage
things—or kill people.

"Mr. GrantI" called an alarmed technician from
the floor below. "You're not wearing your suit!"

"Well just don't squirt me, guys," said Grant sar-
castically. "Is Wyckoffin?"

"Yes, sir. He's in his office 1"

"Great. What about the doctor's blood? Does that
stuff bum through human flesh?"

"Not that we know of, sir."

"Good. I won't need a suit with him, then."

Helmeted heads swiveled and hooded looks ex-
changed.

Grant grinned to himself. Let 'em talk. Kept
them on their toes I

He finished crossing the pit and entered the
bank of offices belonging to the scientists of the
firm. Here the air was tinged with a sweetener to
clear out the bug stench—but still the stuff hov-
ered.

A door labeled DR. PATRICK WYCKOFF loomed.
Grant opened it, not bothering to knock.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE

n

The little gnome of a man was huddled among a
stack of paper. Paper, paper, everywhere—even cov-
ering his computer. Wyckoff liked to figure and
doodle on paper. He was a whiz with computers,
but for some reason the man far preferred a
number two pencil and cheap bond to scratch and
fiddle with than one of these overpriced
wangdoodles he nevertheless insisted was vital to
his operation. Wyckoff was so immersed in what he
was doing, the shiny-headed, cobalt-nosed little
munchkin didn't notice his chief coming in the
door.

"Wyckoff! Hey I Look alive. I could be a bug!" he
growled in his big, booming I'm-pissed-off voice.
Worse, I'm your rampaging boss!

The little man did a double take. His round, Coke-
botde glasses flashed in the indirect lighting. Jaw
dropped, he stared at Grant for a moment, then re-
covered his aplomb.

"Good morning, Mr. Grant. I hadn't expected you
so early," said the man in a nasal twang.

Grant loped over and slapped a plastic news
sheet from his home News Service machine on the
desk, featuring a highlighted article about the lat-
est Fire boo-boo. "But you did expect me, didn't
you, Wyckoff?"

"Ye ... ye ... Yes, sir. I knew you'd at least call.
The truth is, I thought I'd hear from you yesterday
or the day before—"

"Maybe I just trusted my employees to do their
job ... To deal with this ridiculous matter. I didn't
realize that I'd have a microphone shoved up my
nose as soon as I'd stepped out of my car. and be
hounded by news of the lethalness of Xeno-Zip."

12 DAVID BISCHOFF

Wyckoff shook his head sorrowfully. "No, sir,
Xeno-Zip's perfectly fine."

It was Grant's turn for a double take. He blinked,
twisted his head around, and examined his scien-
tist from another angle, as though to make sure he
wasn't seeing some one-dimensional projection.
"People seem to be reacting rather poorly to it for
it to be perfectly fine, Wyckoff!"

"That's just it, sir. As soon as I heard the reports,
I did a complete check of our supply. You may not
have noticed, but your PR people have been doing
their jobs ..." Wyckoff seemed to be back in con-
trol now, though he still was clearly intimidated by
his ranting and raving employer. "They've put out
the notification that these are counterfeit bottles of
Xeno-Zip that are affecting people poorly. Mean-
while, we're exploring the possibilities, and I be-
lieve we know now what the problem is."

"Well, why don't you tell me, instead of mincing
words and hemming and hawing."

"Sir. it's the active ingredient."

"Regal jam, you mean?"

"Um . .. Royal jelly. Anyway, that's what we call
it—there are so many equivalencies to the aliens
and their nest/hives and the Earthly insect king-
dom. Our supply is obtained by free-lance merce-
naries who destroy the many hives still around the
world. We pay them to take the royal jelly first be-
fore they destroy the hive and pass it along to us."

"Yes, yes, I know that—"

"As I said, our main supply of Xeno-Zip is perfectly
all right. The effect of a tiny amount of regular royal
jelly combined with precipitant molecules of queen
mother royal jelly ingested by a human being within

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         S3

the proper biochemical suspension is a safe sero-
tonin booster and nonabrasive stimulant, improving
perception and performance in nerve relay. Part of
our work here is to either synthesize both or genet-
ically create creatures that will manufacture both
types of royal jelly without the less . .. benevolent as-
pects of the aliens. We have introduced synthesized
regular royal jelly already into the market. Even with
the precipitant Q-M molecules it, alas, effects a per-
centage of users negatively Why, we're not sure yet."

"Because you're a bunch of morons, that's why!"

Wyckoff looked chagrined. A pained expression
was etched on his face, and he sighed. "There is a
possibility that these effects can be controlled by a
higher Q-M jelly content. However, doing that
would rapidly deplete our supply. Perhaps someone
else can explain this to you better." He leaned over
and thumbed a toggle. "Dr; Begalli—would you
mind coming into my office, and bring some of
those charts you showed me earlier. Mr. Grant de-
sires the full scoop."

"Begalli?" said Grant.

"Yes, sir. The researcher you bribed to jump ship
from MedTech."

Grant grinned, remembering his coup. "Oh, yes—
that bug expert. Cost me a pretty penny . . . but it
was worth it, knowing I stomped on FoxnalTs nose!"

"You did indeed, and believe me, sir—he's worth
it. He not only has the best handle on the genetic
makeup of the things, he's got unparalleled field
experience and a grasp on the behavior of the
things like I've never encountered before. As soon
as he heard about this—ah—little problem, he

64 AVtD BISCHOFF

started an amazing amount of work in conjunction
with our computers and the other scientists."

Grant, who had felt a tantrum coming on, was
intrigued.

He found himself flopping into a formafit chair
and allowing himself to be served some soothing
medicinal tea concocted by Neo-Pharm—thank-
fully not derived from anything alien. The scientist
who Wyckoff had summoned showed up with sur-
prising speed, not even allowing Grant an edge of
impatience.

Dr. Amos Begalli slouched in, as though bur-
dened by the computer-generated charts and dia-
grams he carried under one arm.

"Morning," he whispered in a hoarse voice to
Grant, almost seeming to bow in obeisance. If he
didn't have the charts in his hands, Grant sus-
pected that the man might rub his hands together
in the manner of Uriah Heep.

Grant grunted and leaned back, the expression
on his face clearing communicating "Show me."

Begalli's eyes flicked over to the pot of tea that
Wyckoff had just brewed. "Might I trouble you for a
cup of that tea?" he said. He coughed, in an an-
noying phlegmy fashion.

But then, just about everything was annoying
about Dr. Amos Begalli. Grant had always found
him an unctious, queasy worm, and would never
have hired him at all but for his expertise—and the
extreme harm it did to MedTech. He was a dark-
complected man with limp black hair that looked
greasy even when clean. It dropped down over a
sloping forehead in ridiculous bangs, emphasizing
an almost Neanderthal brow. Dark rings under-

AL1ENS: GENOCIDE

fi5

lined dark, bloodshot eyes. Only in the center of
those eyes could intelligence be discerned—
intelligence of a searing, sneering variety that even
thick-skinned Grant found a little unnerving.

A weak mouth below a long, hooked nose
twitched, showing a flash of eellike teeth as he spoke.

"Thank you," he said, accepting the steaming
brew. He pulled out a small bottle of Xeno-Zip and
took out a tablet, which he washed down with a
gulp of tea. "Marvelous stuff, Mr. Grant. I would
not be able to perform at peak mental ability for
such long hours without it."

"Good to see you putting some of the money 1
give you back into the firm," said Grant. "But I'm a
busy man, Begalli. You want to get on with this
show-and-tell?"

Begalli put the tea down and began to prop his
charts up on an easel. He spoke in a hoarse, low
but audible voice as he did^so.

"Mr. Grant, I believe you are- aware of my back-
ground and many other important things. But I do
not believe you are aware of the amazing number of
secrets comprised in the genetic makeup of these
marvelous xenotropic creatures, so interwound with
human experience."

"I'm a businessman. You're a scientist. I have the
money, you have your work."

"Indeed, indeed, but you have to understand
something of what's going on here in order to have
a grasp on not only the essence, but the cutting
edge of this business." Slender, snaky fingers were
tapping on a chart, which looked like some modern
art collage of the alphabet connected by lines and
squiggles and the incomprehensible. Grant recog-

fifi

DAVID BISCN8FF

nized it as an incredible tangle of genetic code,
with some new symbols that had been invented
just for the silicon-based segments of the alien
creature's makeup. Begalli gazed at it for a mo-
ment, absorbed and fascinated.

He snapped out of it just before Grant was
about to get mad. "This is the closest we can get
to an actual chart of typical alien DNA. There's so
much we do not understand—so much to learn."
Eagerness and awe crept into his voice. "So much
opportunity , .. But look what I have discovered,
Mr. Grant!"

His eyes widened and he tapped the edge, where
the code performed a curious curlicue.

"A goddamned crossword puzzle?"

Begalli laughed an oily laugh. "The whole DNA is
a puzzle, sir—but what this is, is nothing less than
a recessive gene!"

Grant did not pretend to understand. "Look, talk
in English, will you?"

"Mr. Grant, when we first started getting reports
of the hyperactive results of some doses of Xeno-
Zip, I was among the batch of scientists who im-
mediately investigated the biochemical reasons.
The reason that some people have been reacting in
this fashion to the drug is that their biochemistries
are sensitive to the unique properties of the syn-
thesized regular alien jelly"

"Yes, dammit, but what else are we going to use?
We're running out of the natural stuff, right. We've
got to synthesize the jam or jelly or whatever."

"Yes, sir, but if you'll allow me, there's more. Ap-
parently the berserker antics were the result of a

ALIENS: GENOCIDE

67

batch of Xeno-Zip in which too much of the precip-
itant was introduced."

"What a wastel"

"Indeed. Nonetheless, normal amounts still af-
fect a portion of the populace negatively"

"So. What are we going to do?"

Begalli shrugged. "I for one would like to study
the possibilities in this recessive gene."

"What does that have to do with our problem?"

"Mr. Grant, you're going to have to face up to
facts. We need more royal jelly, and we need more
queen mother royal jelly At the moment, our un-
derstanding of the genetic makeup of the aliens is
not sufficiently advanced to clone either. We need
to go to the source. I have reason to believe that
the DNA avenues I have been exploring could re-
sult in drug breakthroughs far beyond mere Xeno-
Zip. At the very least, we could obtain a source of
the active ingredient in the cornerstone of your
drug empire that would allow" you to manufacture
safe batches for a long, long time. And I have the
feeling that the answer to my questions could lie at
the source of what we need."

The man nodded significantly as though Grant
was supposed to catch the significance from these
words alone.

Grant shook his head, jumped to his feet, and let
the frustration out, full volume.

"Look, goddammit! I'm staring at the possibility
of lawsuits buggering me from now till kingdom
come ... I'm going to hear from sales as soon as
those spineless assholes get up the courage . . . and
you know what I'm going to hear? A drop-off of
sales for Fire. That will kill the cash flow, which

N          QUID BISCH9FF

will kill Neo-Pharm ... And I'm in hock for every-
thing else!" He stalked nearer to the cowed scien-
tists. "And you're telling me I ought to give a rat's
ass about a blip in a weird ladder? You're telling me
that I've got to spend more money than God owns
for a trip to an alien planet?"

Begalli blinked and smiled uneasily "In every
seeming disaster, there is incredible opportunity.
And this particular discovery ... well, sir, it simply
reeks of it I"

"What, because it makes people as crazy as aliens?
I Just don't get you guys! I'm running a business
here, not a nonprofit research group. I'm in desper-
ate straits! I need help, not homilies! I need—"

The vid-phone chimed. Wyckoff jumped for it, as
though for a lifeline to pull himself from the storm.

Curiosity and deep respect for that demigod of
the business world, the telephone, caused Grant to'
stop mid-spew. Begalli watched the proceedings,
engaged but more than a bit bemused.

"Yes?" said WyckofE His eyes swung toward his
employei; still wary and more than a bit relieved by
me interruption. "Yes, he's here, but this is a—" He
blinked. "Oh. Oh, I see. Wfell, very well, I suppose ...
Yes. Right away" Wyckoff turned to Grant and
handed him the receiver "It's General Burroughs of
the United States Army sir. Vital communication."

As Daniel Grant reached for the vid-phone vol-
ume button, he saw Begalb's lips tilt up into a half
smile, as though he'd expected something like this
all the while.

5

i

•here was only one thing
worse than the nightmares. ^

The nightmares, plus a hangover.

When the phone kicked Colonel Alexandra
Kozlowski out of sleep at 0600 hours in the mom-
ing, she was experiencing both.

"Yeah?" she said, fumbling with the vid-phone
control. She was covered in a snarl of sheets. She
was still dressed in the ciwies from last night.
From what, for where? Her pounding brain came
up empty.

First things first.

"Who is this?" she demanded.

"Colonel?" Unfamiliar face.

"That's right." Inventory. All her limbs seemed
intact and still attached. No empty bottle of whis-
key on the counter. Even better, no naked body be-

89

70 DAVID B1SCHGFF

side her. That limited the possible damage of last
night. Shreds of memory and the dinner tray in
front of the vid told the story.

Too much video, too much vino,

She hadn't raised hell outside, she'd just raised it
inside. Much more discreet. Far more destructive.

"Colonel, this is Burroughs. General Delmore
Burroughs." She sat up, ran a hand through her
hair. "I'm sorry to bother you this early in the
morning, but we've got an important meeting today
in Washington. I'm going to have to ask that you
get on a jump-skip."

"Yes, sir." Civility and duty won over surliness.
Why the hell had she stayed in this stinking profes-
sion anyway? Why was she taking this bullshit?

"Good. There will be a plane ready for you at
eight hundred hours. The meeting is scheduled for
eleven hundred hours, sharp."                  '

"Yes, sir." She struggled for the proper words.
"Begging your pardon, sir ... but could I inquire
about the nature of this meeting?"

"I'm afraid not. Colonel. Top secret. Priority one.
You'll know soon enough."

"Thank you, sir."

"And, Colonel. Wear your dress uniform. Wear
your medals . . . and some kick-ass boots."

"Yes, sir."

She disconnected. Well, it wasn't any problem
getting to the transport. She was living on base at
the moment. All she had to do was call up her ad-
jutant and get him to wheel her all of two miles to
the airfield.

The trouble was going to be getting out of bed.

Danamit! she thought, groaning. I wait around

ALIENS: GENOCIDE          71

for months for something important to happen,
and it happens on my day off, hours after I've had
a snootful. The karmic balances of the universe
were just getting far too hair-trigger for Aiex
Kozlowski's taste. The stupid Eastern theories were
immediately banished for the colder, more mecha-
nistic, and less vengeful rules of Western science.
You drink too much, you get sick. Moreover, if
you're a career officer, you took it all like a good
soldier.

Groaning, she heaved her compact, muscular
body out of bed, wishing she'd been working out
more lately. Cripes, she felt like a pair of hips with
a torso and limbs tacked on as afterthought. She
peeled off her clothes, then walked (no, Koz, she
admonished, more like waddled) to the shower
stall, avoiding the mirror. She turned on the water,
hard and hot, held her breath, and jumped in. The
pounding heat against her neck and shoulders im-
mediately improved things. Suddenly she had an
afterthought head, too,

It wasn't like she was an alchy or anything. She'd
go for weeks with just a glass of wine or a shot of
bourbon and beer with the gang now and then. Ev-
ery once in a while, though, when she started
thinking about Peter too much, she found herself
motoring for a jug of wine, gallon size, and just go-
ing apeshit.

Peter. Peter Michaels. Lieutenant Peter Mi-
chaels.

There had been men since him, just as there had
been men before him. Hell, soldiers in foxholes
and all that stuff. Nothing like sex to ease the ten-
sion. But there had never been anyone like Peter

72 DAVID BISCHOFF

ever again. No one she cared about. No one she
could love.

Had it been love with Michaels? Hard to say. She
just knew that she didn't have much in the way of
tender emotions anymore. They had got eaten up
with that alien acid. All that was left was guilt and
nightmare—and a large sturdy pile of grit that was
the essential stuff of Alexandra Kozlowsti.

The grit. The iron. The hard stuff. That was why
she was a colonel now.

After that nasty business with the Hollywood
nest, she transferred to the Marines. They took her
in a shot. She found herself immersed in space
and the vessels that traversed it. It was a way to get
her brain out of the acid. She was a top student
and her rank just increased and increased. She was
on Camp Kennedy base now, doing some prelims
on a possible space cruise, but it looked as though'
her superiors had something different in mind for
her, which was just hunky-dory

Busy That was what she needed. To be busy, to
immerse herself in work. When she worked hard,
she slept hard. When she slept hard, she didn't
have nightmares.

When she didn't have nightmares, she didn't see
Peter's dissolving face again.

Dammit! Just shut up! she told herself, pound-
ing the tile of the shower stall, letting the hot water
sluice down her face. Just shut up! It wasn't your
fault, why are you torturing yourself? It was Peter
who'd been getting weird, who had to show his in-
dependence. If he hadn't demanded to go up to
that bulb, if he had listened to her, he might still be
alive.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE          73

After his death, they'd cleaned the nest out. It
was as though all her men had become an exten-
sion of her need for revenge. There wasn't much
alien jelly They'd taken the piddling amount out.
Not worth the bother, certainly But no alien bod-
ies, no DNA samples. They slagged all that. It was
like a dementia. It was like nothing that Alex had
ever experienced before. If the bugs had had half a
brain between them, they would have run, because
there'd seldom been a killing machine like her and
her men, taking revenge for that sneaky little alien
trap. Somehow they'd all made it through alive,
too, which was a wonder. They'd used part of their
extra leave for a wake for Peter Michaels. It should
have been enough for her, it really should have.

But it didn't bring back Peter.

The thing about it was that they'd both known
that something like that could happen. They'd
promised each other that if4t did, they'd get on
with their lives, not cling to memories and hope.
But it had happened and now Alex had to live with
that and somehow there were always other lands of
pain she'd rather have.

She dried herself off. She put herself together.
She made herself some coffee. Then she called her
adjutant to pick her up. She found her good uni-
form, she put on her pants—one leg at a time, as
usual. She combed her hair and she had another
cup of cofiee.

The pounding in her head had subsided, but she
still felt weak and weary

She looked at the clock. Five more minutes to
pickup time.

She looked at her hands. They were trembling.

74 BAVIO BISCHOFF

Damn and double damn! What was happening
to her? She wasn't nervous, yet she couldn't func-
tion. She'd never been like this after drinking.

She took a deep breath, but it didn't calm her.
She sighed. Then, wearily, she went to her medi-
cine cabinet. She took out one of the bottles there,
opened it, and tapped a pill into her hand.

She took it with a gulp of coffee, and almost im-
mediately began to feel better.

Damn this stuff, she thought. Damn it to hell.

She tucked the bottle of Fire into her carry-bag,
and put her face into her hands.

Daniel Grant smiled.

He felt the room lighting up around him from
the effects of that wonderful smile, and he reveled
in its power.

"Gentlemen, all I ask for are three things." He
turned the smile wattage up just a tad higher.
"Guns. Grunts. And a gondola. Send my team of
specialists and scientists on a little voyage, and I
promise to bring back happiness and satisfaction
for us all."

The meeting place was a high-level war room,
streamlined angles, all polished wood and chrome
and underlit attitude. It smelled of after-shave and
leather, and was about five degrees cooler than it
had to be. Architecture and technology contrived to
create a crib of spare power, with acoustics that
made the most of monosyllabic speeches.

There was enough brass in the room to supply
knuckles for an army of hoodlums. They sat
around a black oval table, bracketed by uniform

AllEIS: 6ENOCIDE         7S

high-backed black chairs, still and forbidding as
monuments in a nighttime cemetery

"To the alien komeworld for God's sake?" said
Admiral Niles. The old man moved forward in his
chair. He was a good-looking man, with a shock of
gray hair and a slash of a mustache below an aqui-
line nose. His face was lined with weariness, but
his eyes were sharp as a hawk's.

"Not homeworld, sir," a supemumery corrected.
"HivewarU."

"The source of all the aliens that have been en-
countered 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 an-
other 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 il-
legally exported from Earth.

Admiral Niles grunted. "Whatever. This place
must be hell. I know that the xenos are compara-
tively 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 sol-

76 DAVID BtSGHOFF

diers and mercenaries in the latest getup, carrying
the most modem 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! Crackl 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 corol-
lary 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, set-
tling back in his seat.

"Any environment containing these critters is go-
ing 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 sutgect. And I found it to
be not only a fascinating concept—but a mutually re-
warding 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

ALIENS: GENOCIDE

n

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, be-
cause Daniel Grant appreciated a good negotiator.

It brought out the best in him.

"Yes, but before me I see intelligent eyes, ques-
tioning eyesi" 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, per-
forming 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 lit-
tle costly, perhaps—but worth it.

78

DAVID BISCHOFF

"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-ZJp 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 glad-
iator 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 exper-
imenting with this new kind of jelly. However; our
supplies of queen mother jelly are reaching deple-
tion. 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 regu-
lar 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

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         79

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—1 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 mil-
itary 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 vehe-
ment 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. Ev-
eryone 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. "Par-
don me, Mr. Grant, but are you planning on ac-
companying this proposed mission?"

BO           DAVID BISCHOFF

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 amuse-
ment. 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 land 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 indi-
rectly a mission against the enemy? Casualties are

ALIENS: BENOCtDE

n

always a possibility. But who's to say they're a cer-
tainty?"

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 ap-
pealing."             ^

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 encourag-
ing 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 hall-
ways. Grant just mentally shrugged it off. He was
used to stepping on boot toes in this business, al-
most reveled in it. He'd never much liked military
people, and secretly resented having to work so
much with them, particularly in harvesting the pre-
cious royal jelly, far preferring to encourage the

82           DAVID BISCHOFf

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 pol-
itics, 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 dis-
posal. 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 unpre-
dictable alien bugs'"

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

The general and admiral conferred for a mo-
ment 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 Congres-
sional 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

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         83

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 Kozlowsld, your commanding
officer."

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

"I do," said Colonel Kozlowski. "I want to see ev-
ery 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 to-
day." 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

84 BAUD BISCHOFF

handful of cigars from his breast pocket. "A celebra-
tion 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 Kozlowsld, 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 Kozlowsld. "Cele-
bration 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 Hiveworid
bugs!"

6

tl

N

•lice-looldng boat, huh?"

Daniel Grant flashed the eube-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 per-
fume, 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 im-
pressing 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 flamboy-
ant body a certain earthy charm.

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

15

fi6           DAVID BISCMOFF

"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 scrump-
tious 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 dash-
ing 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 get-
ting loaded up with supplies, weapons, men, and
whatnot for the expedition to the alien Hiveworld.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE

«7

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. Darnel Marcus Grant,
squarely back into the pure honey of wealth.

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

They'd had more than a few glasses of cham-
pagne, so things were kind of blurry. Grant exam-
ined 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. Aes-
thetically, it did look rather odd. Kind of like a
strange cross between the jewelry kind of carbun-
cles and the flesh-bump kind. Of course, that
wasn't the way Grant saw it. He saw it as his beau-
tiful, 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, Idddo! 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 wonder-
ful. 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 cham-
pagne into her glass. "I'm sure you will, my dear."

88           DAVID BISCHOFF

He winked at her. "And I for one am looking for-
ward 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 boom-
ing voice almost made him choke.

"Careful! Careful there, my dear, dear chum!" A
dim form moved out of the swirling, milling shad-
ows 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 stock-
holder 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

ALIENS; GENOCIDE         89

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 com-
petitors and we value them. After all, if there were
no other companies, who could we constantly out-
perform?"

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 enter-
prise, to put Foxnall off course.

"Oh, you mean the spaceship! Yes, isn't it excit-
ing?" 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. "Abso-
lutely 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

90           DAVID 81SCHOFF

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 iti"

"I will see to it immediately"

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

"Oh, yes. A tradition between pharmaceutical ri-
vals, 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 destina-
tion 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

ALIENS: GENOCIDE          91

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 be-
lieved 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 light-
ning. 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

92 DAVID BISCttOFF

out, that I was a patient man ., - until I wasn't pa-
tient." 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. "Ue! He
hes 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 fiducia-
ry control were entirely legal. And often as not. to
get the leverage you needed for truly inspired buy-
outs, 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 com-
pany. but since for Daniel Grant manana was al-
ways golden—well, he'd pay them manana, when
he had the money

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

"Look, Moriy. Sit down, pull up a glass of the
warm south, get to know this delightful creature ...

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         33

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 swal-
lowed 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

n month of her life, just get-
ting this show on the road.

Colonel Aiex 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 ciga-
rettes. 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 Dan-
iel Grant and his scientists wanted on this
mission—along of course with the rest of the ma-
rines, her own hard ass included.

84

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         15

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 crow-
bar and prize open a couple and have yourself a
gander. I'm afraid, though, that it's all pretty insu-
lated and locked up and you'd be pretty hard-
pressed to lock the stuffing back in."

The guy was a ciwy, probably worked for the gov-
ernment. 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.

u

IAVIO BISCNOFF

It hit her then: what was important to bureau-
crats?

"Ooopsi" 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 in-
terstellar 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 gradu-
ally 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

ALIENS: iEIBCIBE         97

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, gas-
sing. "Kozlowsld! Yeah—she's tough, good, but
she's a woman. She's got some give to her."

Alex Kozlowski smiled to herself. The prepara-
tions 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 out there among the stars and planets and xe-
nos, 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.

U          DAVID BISCHflfF

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 shut-
tle?"

"Grant?" She went closer, eyeing him suspi-
ciously 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 sony. 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 as-
pect 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—"

ALIENS: GENOCIDE          99

"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. So-
matic repair: straightening of poise, sucking in of
stomach, stiffening of upper lip. Psychological re-
pair: the psychic armor erected. The eyes recov-
ered, 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."

"1 trust my officers here . . . just as I trust you

fflfl          DAVID IISCHGFF

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 preoccu-
pied 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 work-
ing 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 mil-
itary 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.

••hen Grant closed his eyes,
he could see Fisk's face, grinning at him.

But he was tired. So tired.

He sat in a comer 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

lfl1

182 DAVID BISCHOFF

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 insur-
ance 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 muscula-
ture 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 nailers there, doubtless thinking
that the explosions above were part of the show,
were still going at it to the heavy localized pound-
ing. He hadn't dared to stop for the slightest mo-
ment. 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

ALIENS: BENOCIDE         103

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 com-
petent, but perfectly content in that state, and per-
fectly 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 expedi-
tion, Mr. Grant."

"A last-minute decision."

Henrikson assimilated this information and nod-
ded, 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 im-

w DAVID BISCHOFf

portant 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 ma-
rines 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. Eu-
rope, 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 uni-
verse. 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."

Granted expected an inner groan of cynicism to
echo in his head. Instead, he found the words
oddly striking a sympathetic chord within him.

"That's a compellingly homocentric view of the
universe, soldier."

Henrikson nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry ... I've
had people tell me that men are just accidents in

AllENS: BENOCIDE         185

the scheme of things. I don't think so ... Why ...
Because we're men. We stand for something,
goddammit. We've got values and order and . . .
hell . .. purpose to bring to what amounts to a lot
of godless space."

"Indeed. Indeed! That kind of feeling would be a
wonderful rabble-rouser ... I mean, that would go a
long way to heal the wounded spirit of humanity!"

"I know, sir. I know." Henrikson nodded gravely.
"And that's why I'm here."

"Excellent. Well, you know, Corporal, I think
we're going to have lots of time to discuss pertinent
applications of that philosophy while we're on our
mission. In the meantime, I think I'd like to take a
little time to compose myself before the blast-off of
this shuttle. You know ... for meditation ... a little
cat nap, perhaps ..."

Henrikson looked over at Grant. 'Ah. Yes, you do
look a little tired. How thoughtless of me. Please,
dose your eyes. Relax. Snooze, I have my own inner
warrior's form of meditation. We shall meditate to-
gether."

With that, the corporal's eyes trained onto the
front of his couch, and focused.

Well, so much for that. Rest and meditation was
even valuable to big boy here. He should have tried
that tactic before.

Oh, well. He knew he'd have someone of interest
to talk to on the mission. He just wished now he'd
brought along one of his PR men to jot all these
golden thoughts down.

Grant let his heavy eyelids close.

He found peace for perhaps thirty seconds, be-
fore he heard the clamor of feet boarding the boat,

108          DAVID BISCHOFF

closets opening, packs being stored, voices jab-
bering among one another.

**... look, chum. I'm telling you, that was the
way it was ... the music was the soul of the beats!
The hot, cool black music of the streets, man.
That's where the streaming ice lava of the poetry
came from to begin withi" The voice was annoy-
ingly adenoidal and high-pitched.

"Look, Jastrow! I make one single comment the
other day that I enjoyed reading the old free verse of
the twentieth century ... and you think I'm talking
about the beat poets! I'm talking about a number of
writers, including William Carios Williams . . ."

Grant cracked his weary eyelids.

Couple of privates in fatigues and caps. White
boy, black boy. White boy was the one carping on
the literary and music themes. Unfortunate, but he
could tune them out.

"Williams! But Williams was John the Baptist to
Alien Ginsberg!"

"Sorry. Never heard of him."

" 'Howl'? You read twentieth-century free verse,
and you've never read 'Howl'?"

"Well, come to think of it ... Perhaps I have ...
but I still don't see the connection between free
verse poetry and jazz."

"Sheesh. Not just jazz, budz. Be-bop! Here, let
me show you."

The conversation had become detached, as
though Grant were listening to it through a tin-can
telephone as he drifted into exhausted sleep.

Blaaaaat... !

High-pitched, running hell-for-leather up some
spidery octave.

ALIENS: 6ENOCIDE         187

Bleeet ... BLEEEEET ...!

The sounds were fingernails and Grant's brain
had turned to chalkboard.

He jumped up, awake and disoriented. He hit his
head on a low overhang and flopped back onto the
couch.

Hank ... honk HONNKKKKK!

He looked over. Sitting on the edge of a grav-
couch was a black man wearing glasses and a gri-
mace. His hands were over his ears. Opposite him
was another bespectacled guy with a pocket-
protector face. His thin lips were clamped on the
mouthpiece of a big baritone saxophone.

Both had boot-camp bodies, but faces innocent
of the heart of war.

Blat... blat... Blat!

"Can't you hear it, Ellis?" he said, unclamping.
"I have seen the finest minds of my generation—"

The natural force that was. Corporal Henrikson
reared up like a vengeful statue. "You guys want to
give the rest of us in here some peace?"

His muscular hovering said it all. The salt-and-
pepper twins blinked, flinching back.

"Gee—sorry, Corporal."

"Just playing a little Bird, man."

Henrikson stood rock-hard. "Well, I'm clipping
your wingsl This is not a place for that thing. Now
over your head .. . maybe."

Ellis looked as though he agreed, but Jastrow got
a hurt-litde-boy expression on his face as he put
his musical instrument away in its case.

"I could use a few Z's anyway, Jazz," said Ellis,

"Yeah. Maybe you're right. We'll continue this
conversation later, though, huh?"

108 AVID BISCHOFF

"Whatever." The man sounded resigned.

Henrikson bent over Grant. "You okay, sir?"

"Sure. My ears are still ringing and I'm wide
awake. But I'm okay."

"We got a good fifteen before formal boarding, so
maybe you should use them."

"I'll try. Corporal. Believe me, I'll try."

Henrikson shot one more warning look at the
newly arrived duo and then resumed his grav-
couch. Grant found EUis and Jastrow peering at
him curiously, obviously wondering who he was.

Grant could feel it even through his closed eyelids.

"Name's Grant. The reason you're on this mis-
sion," he said. "Mind if we meet formally later? I'm
trying to get a little rest."

"Oh!"

"Oh, sure, sir. Sorry."

"Yeah. Right. We'll be real quiet." Whisper.
"Sheesh. That's Daniel Grant, man! And you had
to squeal that sax in his ear."

"How could I know? I didn't even see him!"

The whispers died into uneasy silence and once
again Grant found himself slipping into an uneasy
coma.

Which ended all too soon.

He'd been having a dream about his parents, and
he hated to dream about his parents, so it was just
as well. Still, it was all a little annoying.

The clump-clump of steps didn't wake him. He
barely heard it: background noise.

The shifting of bags, the snap of storage cases.
No problem.

However, when a body fell directly onto him—
that woke him up.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         108

-Ooophhht" he said.

"Gahhh. Oh, dear .. . damned floor! All these
knobs and braces. Sorry!"

That the person was prominently female miti-
gated the hurt and shock somewhat, and not just
because of the softer bits. She looked good and she
smelled good, even in fatigues. She was a busty
brunette with hair about as long as the Marines
would let you wear it if you weren't male, and rich
dark eyes that now looked thoroughly repentant.

"That's all right," said Grant, flashing on the im-
mediate lady smile. "I was hoping to get some rest
before takeoff, but these things happen."

She pushed herself off of him with ease and a
great deal more grace than she'd shown in tripping
onto him. "I do better in faux grav, for some rea-
son. And null grav? I'm a swan." She shrugged.
"I'm just a space babe, that's all there is to it, and
I'll be glad to lift off this—" Shfe batted those splen-
did doe eyes. "Say. Haven't I seen you ... My God!
You're Daniel Grant, the big tycoon! I've seen you
on the vids!"

"That's me."

"You look awfu—I mean, I guess you could use
some rest." She hobbled over to an empty grav-
couch, and Grant, despite his weariness, was un-
able to take his attention off her delightfully
swiveling hips. She turned. "I'd heard you were
somewhere behind this mission. I didn't think I'd
get to really meet you though!"

"Well, get used to it. Private," said Henrikson.
"He's coming along with us for the voyage."

"No kidding! Well, isn't that . . . Isn't that news."
She swiveled back over, unconsciously smoothing her

110 DAVID BISCHOFF

hair, and gave him her hand and a markedly breath-
ier delivery "My name is Edie Mahone. Private First
Class—but I'm still young, and I really think I have
quite a bright future with the Colonial Marines."

Grant felt a little nonplussed and couldn't help
automatically turning on the charm—and wonder-
ing at the same time what this particular woman
was doing in the Marines .. . and on this mission
in particular. As he studied her though, he got an
impression of strength beneath the apparent
ditziness. The oh-gosh business was just an act.
Beneath it. Grant could tell, was strength, and it
turned him on. It challenged him.

"You have an interest in xeno development
then?" said Grant.

"The bugs? Oh, no." She shook her head, shud-
dered. "Hate 'em. But then, who doesn't? I can see
your question coming. What's a nice girl doing in a
place like this?" She shrugged. *Tm just a space nat-
ural, I guess, Mr. Grant. I wasn't fooling you . .. And
on top of that, I'm a tactical weapons specialist."

"Weapons specialist?"

"Yes, sir. Top scores." A mischievous playfulness
shaded her voice.

"I'm just glad you weren't carrying any grenades
when you fell over me."

"Hmmm? Oh, yes ... yes, of course. Mr. Grant,
I really am sorry, and it's such a surprise ... maybe
this mission isn't going to be such a grim business
after all."

"I certainly hope not. Now, Private Mahone—I
hope you'll come to my cabin sometime for drinks
and we'll have a nice long chat. In the meantime,

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         in

my sanity could really use a little rest before it gets
rattled by takeoff."

"Of course. Of course, Mr. Grant ... sir. I'll just
hop into a couch over here and leave you alone . ..
And -, ." She did a double take. "Drinks? Did you
say drinks with a tycoon! Of course, Mr. Grant. I'd
love to! I'm a regular media hound and I watch you
all the time. I even bought that unauthorized pa-
perback about you—is it true that your wife di-
vorced you when she found you in your marriage
bed with four naked women?"

Grant chuckled mischievously. "And a parrot.
Don't forget the parrot, Private Mahone."

He was pleased the legend lingered.

The starstruck private shook her head and rap-
turously wandered back to her couch. Was it an
act? He didn't know. And he didn't care.

Drinks with an attractive private who would
probably be disappointed if h6 didn't make a pass at
her. After that tragic debacle last night, he was
hardly in the mood for romance right now. But
weeks into a space cruise with a bunch of scientists
and hardened soldiers? The dominant Grant hor-
mones would doubtless trot themselves out into
quest-and-conquer mode. A willing female partner
with the requisite assets was something that
cheered him immensely.

Now, though, to sleep for just a brief sweet mo-
ment,

Grant let his head flop down into the cushion,
gratified at the silence that the cabin had cloaked
itself in. Respectful silence.

This wasn't so bad, shipping out on a boat head-
ing light-years away from Earth with a bunch of

112 AVIB BISCHOFF

scientists and marines. It was his mission, after
all ... And he seemed to be getting the appropri-
ate obeisance from his people.

This was good. This was very good. A kind of
calm descended upon Daniel Grant. His knotted
muscles unwound, and a sense of control of his en-
vironment began to knit itself around him. Yes, yes,
perhaps it would work out for the best that he was
coming along to supervise, to oversee . . . no, to
control. The boys in the office knew well enough
how he ran things by now. They could do exactly
what he would do, whatever the situation. He
didn't have to be around. Instead, he should be
doing exactly what he was doing. Heading for parts
unknown, spreading his influence, his dominion.

Daniel Grant ... a great man, destined for the
stars.

The cadences of his self-congratulations lulla-
byed him into that blessed relaxed land just short
of slumber, where not even his mother was waiting
to natter at him,

Ah ...!

Sweet, gentle peace ...

WOOOOOOONK/

WOONNNNNNNK/

The Klaxon rang like hell's own trumpet.

"That's the fire alarm!" cried Jastrow.

"Shit! Something's wrong with the shuttle. We
gotta get out of here, Mr. Grant!"

"Please," murmured Grant. "Just let me lie here
awhile. I'll die if need be. Just let me sleep."

"No can do, Mr. G!"

Grant felt himself being pulled up out of the
couch, and physically carried down the ramp.

ALIENS: CENOCIQE         113

The cooler air outside was like a slap across the
chops. He blinked, felt himself being jounced ...

And then suddenly stop still.

"Let me down!" he demanded.

"Do what the man says, turkey! Now!"

Henrikson dropped him onto hard sheetcrete.

"Ow!" Groggily he scrambled up to his feet ...

And found himself staring into the bores of
10mm blasters.

Connected to those blasters were Colonel Alex
Kozlowsld and a group of marines, travel sacks at
their bags.

"Belay arms," said Kozlowsld, striding up to
them, arms on hips. If we were a group of bugs,
you dopes would be bug food now! Emergencies
demand emergency measures!" A toothpick stuck
out from the side of her mouth. She worked it all
the way to the other side of a scowl. "Isn't that
right, soldiers!"

The marines, who somewhere in the midst of all
this had managed to effect uncomfortable poses of
attention, immediately responded.

"Yes, sir!"

Kozlowsld worked the toothpick.

"Besides, I haven't assigned seats yet, have I?"

"No, sir!"

Kozlowsld walked over to Grant, and stooped
down beside him. "Welcome to your mission, Mr.
Grant ..." She spat the toothpick.

It stuck into the loose fabric of his pants.

"Welcome to my command."

Grant sighed and closed his eyes again.

This sheetcrete was actually rather comfortable ...

9

&

Markness.

Darkness and dreams.

Dream logic tangled in its own shreds and chips
of reality and magic.

For six weeks, Daniel Grant dreamed or didn't
dream, but in the overpowering darkness, the
dreams were all he knew.

Moebius strips of dreams. Jump cuts. Swirls of
victory and laughter and glory.

The depths of the past, into secret and overpow-
ering fears.

Mostly, though, it seemed a short sleep, for the
dreams were only brief releases of hypersleep to al-
low brain function and REM.

In the glass-case cubicle, embedded like a fly in
amber, when the mechanism and gas mix slowly
began to gently pry him from his slumber, Daniel

114

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         115

Grant only vaguely sensed the springing of the lock
mechanism of his case. He clung to his dreams,
clung to the darkness, a sleeper drunk on sleep.

"Mr. Grant?"

A gentle female voice. Whose? It was sweet and
kind and understanding. The kind of voice his ex-
wife used to use, in their early love, when he gave
himself only to her.

She seemed very real now, very much a part of
reality in this darkness.

"Daniel?"

Martha. He'd been dating a lot back then, back
in the halcyon days of Neo-Pharm, when he'd first
bought it and was working on the beginnings of his
empire. She was a model his ad company had
hired for commercials. He'd swooped down and
never come back up ... not for a long time, any-
way. Suit, to this day, he was not sure why there
had been others, years down- the road. Old bad
habits? Part of the life-style he'd loved? Pure stok-
ing of an overblown ego?

He wasn't sure, and he wasn't troubled about it.

Except for moments like these, upon waking, when
he doubted himself when he felt vulnerable.

"It's time to wake up, Mr. Grant."

Wake up? Where was he?

"We've got a lot to do."

That voice. It certainly wasn't Martha's. He real-
ized that now.

"So hop to it."

It was a hard voice now, a voice used to being
obeyed.

Grant realized that he was cold. He felt quite na-
ked. Shivering, he raised himself.

Tit DAVIB IISCNOFF

He pried open his eyes.

Peripherally, he saw the overhanging cables and
cold metal of the hypersleep chamber.

In front of him, crouching, was a good eight feet
worth of talons, bony notched spars and open, an-
gry jaws.

An alien\

He screamed.

He cringed.

Then he scrabbled back, instinctively throwing
up his arms in a helpless gesture to protect him
from this, the deadliest creature in the known uni-
verse.

Even as he squirmed, trying to grapple over the
side of his hypersleep cubicle, what shreds of his
rational mind that still operated realized some-
thing.

The thing wasn't moving.

It was just hovering there, a few feet away

And come to think of it, couldn't he barely see a
bulkhead through the murky black of its articulated
body?

A shudder, a zwip! of light passed through it.

It wasn't real ... It was a ...

From the left a woman in khaki fatigues stepped,
holding a modular control unit.

Colonel Kozlowski.

The beast before him was just a hologram.

"Thought you might need to get your juices flow-
ing." She tapped a control, and moved the hologram
away "Welcome to the U.S.S. Razzia, Phase II."

"God damn you, Colonel!"

She raised a dark eyebrow. "You want to be a

ALIENS: fiENOClOE         117

part of the gang, don't you, Grant? Just consider
this a very mild hazing. You're a member of the fra-
ternity now!"

He wasn't groggy at all. The adrenaline had man-
aged to kick weeks worth of sleepdirt out of his
head. Still, his heart was racing and he was
damned angry

And, what with only a pair of briefs between
himself and nakedness, damned near naked!

He hopped out of his cubicle, one of ten spiraled
around a central control and supply center. All the
duraplas casings were lifted now, like translucent
insect wings.

They had obviously let him snooze awhile longer
than normal. All the other cubicles were empty.

"Why am I the last to wake?" he said, getting up
and out of the thing, steadying himself on the side.

"You seemed real tired when we left, Grant. We
all thought you could use a little extra sleep."

"How far are we from our destination?"

"The gravitonic engines are cut off. We've got to
use regular impulse engines to cruise among plan-
ets. We'll be in orbit around the Hiveworld in four
days." She smiled, "Are you ready for some action,
Mr. Grant?"

"It would appear I've already gotten some, Colo-
nel."

"What. From Black Fang here?" She smiled.
"Just a training hologram. No reason to be embar-
rassed. Some younger recruits have soiled their
skivvies because of Black Fang. Looks like you
pretty much did okay"

Grant snorted. "You have quite a warped sense
of humor, Kozlowsld. I guess we're going to have to

118 AV BISCHOFF

talk about that, and some other things in a few
hours. Right now, I'd like to get some pants on."

"Too bad. You look so cute that way." She
laughed and started walking away. "Come, boy!
Come! Fun's over. We've got some work to do."

The holoprojection ghosted along beside her as
she walked away toward wherever.

Grant shuddered. He took a deep breath, got his
bearings, and headed off in the direction of the
locker room where he'd left his clothing.

In the few days aboard the U.S.S. Razzia before
he was tucked away in hypersleep, Daniel Grant
had had very little time to familiarize himself with
the full extent of this very large ship. He'd spent
some time overseeing the operations of his scien-
tists and he'd spent time getting some natural
sleep. That was about it.

However, he did make sure he remembered
where he put his clothes.

He wasn't crazy about the immense and metallic
coldness of the ship. The liner he'd taken from his
home planet had at least catered to some human
amenities. It gave some feeling of warmth and so-
ciability. Here, aboard the Razzia, it was just a pure
case of military utilitarianism. There was about as
much decor inside the ship as on the outside.

All in all. Grant was just as happy to snore the
time away.

What the hell was going on back on Earth now?
he wondered. He'd warned his officers to stay in-
side, to hire security, and to reinforce measures.
He'd even had them tender a small payment to
Fisk's "company" Nonetheless, he couldn't help

AtlEKS: GENOCIDE         119

but wonder. Still, whatever was going on, there was
absolutely nothing he could do out here, light-years
distant in some godforsaken quadrant of the half-
known galaxy.

The locker room was down a narrow corridor.

Showers, toilets, benches,

It looked, smelled, tasted, felt like something out
of his high school sports hero's days. Funky, but
somehow homey Oddly comforting.

A tall blond man was in the comer, buckling the
belt of his pants. Oddly enough, he was wearing
dark glasses. They made him look more like the
MacArthur school of officer than a corporal.

"Henrikson? You just get out of cold sleep, too,
buddy?"

The corporal turned and looked at him. "Early
this morning. Just finished exercising, sir."

"Just kicked my butt out of bed now. Wonder why
they kept me down so long?""-

"Maybe they just wanted things spick-and-span
for you, sir."

"You have a first name?"

"As I told you before, sir. It's Lars."

"Oh, right. That's it. Lars. Tell you what. You can
call me Dan."

The corporal nodded. "Thanks . . . Dan."

Grant found his locker. Racked his brain. His
memory coughed up the combination. He twirled
the dial back and forth. The lock snapped open. In-
side were the ciwie scientist grays they'd provided
him with, since he hadn't brought along any of his
own clothes, and-the duds he'd come in with were
pretty shredded.

He put his pants on.

120 DAVID DiSCHOFF

"You know," said the corporal, "times like these
make me wish I could pop a tab or two of that
Xeno-Zip you make. Unfortunately, tests have de-
termined that chances are pretty good I'd go ber-
serk even on the regular stuff. Damned skittish
metabolism."

"Oh, well," said Grant paternally. "I'm sure
you're a damn fine soldier without it." He grew
thoughtful. "I'll tell you, Lars. You must be pretty
sick of that colonel of yours."

"Colonel Kozlowski. Our commanding officer."

"She had a bug holo waiting for me when I woke
up."

"No kidding. She must like you then."

"Like me? Scared hell out of me. Said it was
some sort of hazing."

"Tough. She's pretty tough all right, the colonel
is."

Grant was surprised. "C'mon. We're friends. You
don't have to pull that loyalty crap with me. Tell me
the truth .. . you've hated her for months, right?"

In a we-men-gotta-stick-together tone.

Henrikson's face was peculiarly immobile. Be-
hind those shades, his eyes were unreadable.

"Mr. Grant- I guess you could say I feel like I've
taken you under my wing. You don't know much
about the military ... and here you are on a mili-
tary craft. There arc things you have to understand
about the military . . . and I guess it's not that
much different from business life. Maybe even sim-
pler."

Grant smiled. "Right! I knew we could be
chums." He continued Velcroing his suit. Damned
thing! It sure as hell chafed!

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         121

"I'm a corporal, I haven't been in the Colonial
Marine Corps that long. But I have previous mili-
tary experience."

"Exterminating bugs?"

"That's not all the military does in this universe,
Mr. Grant . . . Sorry. Dan. Sir." He sighed. "What-
ever. At any rate, my point is that it's dog-eat-dog,
here. Domination, but in a codified, respectful
fashion. I've only served under the colonel since
she culled me from the ranks to be on this mission.
She's earned my respect."

"Oh. But she seems to have some kind of chip on
her shoulder. Think she's just trying to make up for
not having one between her legs?"

"Like I said, Dan. You've got things to learn.
There are codes and games. Just like everything in
life. You leam the ropes ., ." He shrugged. "Maybe
these little attitude snits ... Well, I guess you've
pulled a few in your time at Grant Industries."

Daniel Grant considered. "I suppose I have. In
my own charming way Good point."

"The colonel is totally in command. And she
treats every one as an equal. And if she chooses to
dump a little extra shit on your ears ..." A brusque
shrug. "Well. then like I said, Dan. She must like
you."

Grant thought about that a moment.

"Fair enough, Henrikson. That doesn't mean 1
have to like her, does it?"

Henrikson put a hand on his new friend's shoul-
der.

"Any woman ever treat you like this before?"

Grant considered. "Yes. My wife!"

"And what did you do about it?"

122 DAVID BISCHOFF

"I divorced the bitch!"

Henrikson smiled. "Well, you'll have to marry
the colonel to do that! I reckon the captain of the
ship's got the legal right to do that."

"Marry ... Henrikson, I wonder who's got the
more warped sense of humor. You or me!"

"From what you tell me, sounds like the colonel
does. I'll watch for that little holo trick. She hasn't
done that number on me—yet."

"She must not like you, Henrikson."

"No, I guess not." The corporal gave a farewell
nod and started leaving the locker room.

"You're a lucky man, Lars."

"We'll see, Dan. We'll see."

The big man was gone.

Grant sighed. He Velcroed his ship shoes, and
made a pit stop at the head.

Next stop: his scientists, and his little secret proj-
ect.

That should make him feel back in the saddle
again!




u

H

•low we doing, Pilot?"
asked Colonel Kozlowski.

The man was bent over away from her, obscuring
the motions of his hands. Around him ranged a
convex field of lights. LCD screens played spectac-
ular spectrum games. Lume-points glittered, wait-
ing for computer input. From this angle, she could
see his bald spot, like the top of a hairy egg.

"Fine, Colonel," he said in a monotone. "Almost
finished."

His elbow swiveled. His head nodded.

One last telemetry check?

The culmination of a final primary diagnostic of
the Razzia's sys/ops and structural integrity after
its long cruise through sub-Einsteinian planes of
warped mathematics?

One more little flourish of his hand and he

123

124 AVID BISCHOFF

turned to her. "What's up, Colonel?" He'd turned
so that now Kozlowsld could see that his hand was
nowhere near any of the controls. He held a pencil
and a book of crossword puzzles. The blocks in the
puzzle were all filled now.

"An interesting form of duty report, Captain,"
said Kozlowsld coldly.

The man's lined, pale face remained impassive.
He shut the book, slipped the pencil behind a
large, hairy ear, and folded his arms together. "You
forget, Colonel. You got a nice long snooze. I got to
wake up for a few weeks, to check on things. Part
of my job. Got to keep something going to prevent
the ennui from driving me nuts. Little diversion of
mine." He tapped the book. "Got a whole library of
them. After twenty-six years in the Marines, I got
lots filled, too. Next year I retire. Bought a nice lit-
tle chicken ranch on the Ulna colony. And then, I
don't want to see the inside of another freakin' in-
terstellar vessel... or for that matter the inside of
another crossword puzzle book again."

"Just the inside of chickens."

The pilot-captain's name was Hastings. Phillip
Hastings.

Hastings shrugged. "The ancient Greeks used to
study bird entrails to predict the future. Wonder
what a split-open one would tell us now."

"A few tomorrows of many spilled bug guts, hope-
fully. I take it by your inaction that everything is
functional, we're on course, minor things like
that."

"We got navigators and copilots and engineers to
take care of that garbage, Colonel. I just oversee
and coordinate." Hastings looked like a good sol-

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         125

dier gone to seed. Beer belly Slack skin that had
that waxen look that toned muscular bodies get
when they don't get exercised for a few years. He
had thinning brown hair and a network of burst
capillaries in his nose. From the look of him, he
wasn't just going to raise chickens upon retirement.
He was going to do some serious drinking.

Nonetheless, she—and doubtless Daniel Grant
as well—had been assured that he was the best in
the business. That he was a burnout did not seem
to be important.

"What can I do for you, Colonel?"

"I'm briefing the troops. I thought you might like
to join us."

"I'm not going down to that hellhole. Why
should I?"

"I thought you might find it educational. These
bugs have popped up all over the universe—and
they spread via ships, as you. know. Thought you
might like to know some tactics against them.**

The captain sucked a lip. "Thanks, Colonel. You
going to tape the meeting?"

"Yes."

"I'll watch it some other time."

"Miles and miles of crossword puzzles to do be-
fore you sleep?"

Hastings scratched his nose. "Something like
that."

"I am in command. Captain. I can order you to
be at that meeting."

"Then you already would have, wouldn't you?
You gave me an option and I'm exercising that op-
tion." He leaned forward and tapped LCD displays.
"Besides, we're in a planetary system now. A

121 DAVID B1SCHOFF

strange system can have all kinds of phenomena
waiting. Gravity wells, black holes ... as well as the
usual meteor showers, comets, asteroids ... I like
to ride close shotgun at times like this." He tapped
his book. "Besides, I've got some more puzzles to
do."

She was ticked off at the guy, but he'd rum-
maged up a good excuse, so she really couldn't pull
rank.

She just wished the admiral had given her some-
one with a better attitude, that was all.

"Just make sure we don't crash into any moons,
Captain."

Captain Hastings turned to his left where a min-
iature holotank filled with blips and sparks and
readings hung. "No moons in our immediate fu-
ture."

He opened his puzzle book and went back to
work.

Kozlowski turned and stomped away.

She stopped at her cabin first- She went inside
and splashed some water into her face. Had she
done the right thing? Should she have made Hast-
ings go to the meeting?

He was right about not really having to, but his
lack of interest, his insolence, annoyed her. She
had the command here. He should be doing not
only what she told him—but what she suggested as
well.

Kozlowsld wiped her face with a towel, looked
into a mirror.

She had a lost look to her eyes.

Light-years from home.

ALIENS: GENOCtOE         127

She'd fought for her planet a very long time.
She'd learned the basics of space travel so that she
could carry the battle against these creatures to
their home. Now, though, like some mythological
being, she felt cut off from a source of her power.

Nonsense, of course. Foolishness. All just knots
and complexes of neural patterns, easy enough to
blast apart. She was a fighting machine and she
was just taking a ferry to another part of the battle.

Still, why did she feel so homesick?

She'd popped out of hyper-sleep a full two days
before the others, so she could do some work with
the tactical computers as well as knock some of the
stasis sleep out of her brain. Wrapped up in maps
and facts, figures and projections, inventorying
weapons and supplies, and rebriefing herself on
the armor, she'd been in her own little world.

Now, though, with a day full of the troops waking
up, the whole thing was starting to get to her.

Thirty troops were going to jump down right into
the thick of thousands, maybe even millions of
creatures that could give even biblical demons a
scare, with only some half-proven experimental
weapons to do the job.

Okay, girlie, she told herself. Just knock that look
right off your repertoire. Either that, or get it out of
your system, here and now.

There was no reason for this kind of doubt. The
Hiveworld had been raided before. True, there had
been casualties. However, there had been survi-
vors. She'd studied their reports. Wilks. Billie
whatshemame. Nasty stufi, but compelling.

Kozlowski had no illusions.

You deal card hands from the bug decks, you

128 AVID BISCHOFF

came up holding some casualties. Now, though,
here on her first big extra-Earth mission, she'd
watched the troops get up today, stretch and go
through their metaphorical thawing, and when she
saw the vulnerability in their eyes, that moment of
terror, that oh-shit-here-we-are expression, she felt
what they felt,

Even with that asshole Grant.

Ever since what had happened with Peter Mi-
chaels, maybe she was just getting soft ...

Of course there was a reason she'd pulled the
holostunt with Grant. He'd been making noises be-
fore sleepytime that he wanted to jump down with
them for the mission, to see it firsthand. She was
just trying to discourage him, that was all.

Maybe, just maybe the meeting would rattle him.
When she thought deeply enough about all the im-
plications, it sure as hell rattled her.

She closed her eyes, did some inner self-
composure exercises. What came up wasn't calm
and a deep peace, though. What came up was
Daniel Grant. She didn't feel good about him being
here. Not good at all. For complex reasons she
didn't care to deal with just right now.

Even though she'd promised herself she wasn't
going to do it, she went to her bag and pulled out
a medicine bottle full of the reason Daniel Grant
bothered her.

She cut a tablet of Fire in half. She'd tried to
give it up, no go. Maybe after this fracas was over.

She washed the half-tablet down with a glass of
water.

Then she finished getting ready for the briefing.

I

•he bug wavered, capered,
lunged.

Drool cascaded down its mouth into the shad-
ows.

Its exoskeleton seemed to glow with evil, spikes
sticking out of its back erecting.

The thing looked like a dinosaur attempting to
shapeshift into the Devil.

"Yum yum," squawked a reptilian voice. "Fee fie
fo fum. I smell the blood of a bunch of bums!"

Uneasy laughter rippled among the assemblage.

"Any of you sweethearts want a date with my ovi-
positors?" it snarled. "Looks like we'd have a won-
derful party. You all look like absolutely splendid
hosts."

Groans.

Colonel Kozlowski twirled the dial of the holo-

129

130 DAVID BISCHOFf

projector, and the bug program faded. She let her
voice assume its normal timbre as she looked out
at the group of amused, anxious marines.

"Okay, listen up, people. I promise you right now,
this is going to be no party But we didn't come all
these light-years to party, did we? We came to help
make this galaxy safe for peaceful, sentient life. As
long as these things infest any of our planets or
ships or space colonies anywhere in an uncon-
trolled and above all misunderstood fashion, the fu-
ture of humanity is threatened."

The briefing room felt like the interior of a metal
egg, subtly lit in the curved comers. All of the sol-
diers assigned for planetfall sat in rows of comfort-
able, slanted chairs, as though in some military
theater. They sat at a kind of alert attention. Pro-
fessionals. Damned good people all of them, and
Kozlowski should know. She had helped to select
every single one of them,

In the front of the room, alongside her podium,
was a table where the big shots in the mission sat,
ready to support her in her explanations. Grant. A
few of his scientists- Some crew members.

"These killers, these reprehensible aliens, have
just got their claws and their blood and their teeth
and their incredible powers of survival as weap-
ons . . ." She paused for impact. "Our ignorance is
their primary weapon, and I hope to diffuse a little
more of that with you today"

The soldiers all looked entranced. Hanging on
her words. These people had been briefed on xenos
before, but now they greedily lapped up the Infor-
mation she was presenting. She was familiar with
the phenomenon. When you were a soldier, you

ALIENS: fiENDODE         131

could act as macho and as confident as you wanted
to—but if you didn't listen and absorb every ounce
of information handed to you, you could find your-
self dead. Smart soldiers learned to listen. These
grunts were smart and capable. Quirky, maybe, but
she'd gone through the choices with the command
herself, and not one of these people didn't belong
here.

Too bad about people like the captain, Grant,
and his castle of Frankenstein scientists. But then,
if she had control over everything, pffti The aliens
would be instant slag, and Peter Michaels would be
back.

Anyway, she had some interesting information
here.

Her theatrics at the beginning had probably not
been necessary, but she liked to put a little piz-
zazz into the proceedings.

She began with the parameters of the mission.

"Quite simply, people, as much -as I'd like to say
all this is perfect and noble in our mission, it's not.
We're going to a planet which is the origin of the
xenos in this sector of the galaxy. We'll be using a
specially fitted lander. People, we've got the latest
in technology at our disposal. Basically, we're going
in to do a robbery. Now, ultimately I have no doubt
this will be in humanity's best interest so take
whatever nobility you can from your participation
here. However, what we're up to here is the biggest
heist of queen mother jelly in history"

Jastrow waved an excited hand. "Why?"

"Officially, I can't tell you. You're just supposed to
do what you're ordered to do. Unofficially, though,
I don't give a shit." She grinned. "Xeno-Zip."

132 lAfIB IISC19FF

An excited buzz sounded In the meeting room.

"That's why Daniel Grant is here," someone
whispered.

"Heck, I use that stuff," another said. "It's
great."

"That's right, people," said Kozlowski. "We're on
a glorified drug run. Take my word for it. though.
I'm personally assured that it will make someone a
great deal of money—"

Laughter.

"And maybe even help the human cause as well.
In any case, be assured. We're taking the Alien-
Earth War to the source, and we'll most certainly
kill lots of xenos in the process. Call it hard-core
vengeance if you like. Call it just another job. to
any event, we're here together so I can provide you
with some information and equipment designed to
preserve your sorry lives."

Quickly she rattled off some of the basics about
the xenos, their behavior, their attack patterns, in-
dividually and in groups. She summarized what
was known about the Hiveworld, and what the
main hive itself looked like, from the information
provided by the previous expedition. It was all like
a mantra, and she ticked off the info, point by
point.

"Now then. As for the interior of the hive ..."
She thumbed the projector to a prepared setting,
kicking in the holotank in the comer.

Like some magician she conjured up a vision
from the depths of Hades.

Here was the familiar bowellike tomb, ropey with
intestoid projections and ridged with tubing.
bumps, and alien growths, organic in the very

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         133

worst and most frightening sense. All hellishly lit in
orange and yellow. In the central portion of this
chilly sight squatted a huge bulblike protuberance,
like a half-planted flower bulb. However, instead of
bright and colorful plumage, from its pustulelike
side it sprouted tubings that connected to other,
slightly smaller bulbs.

And from its top, like Mephistopheles happily
squatted atop a pile of his own excrement, rose a
gently swaying royal giantess.

An alien queen mother.

"All right." She snapped on a cursor-blip pointer
and guided it over to the central sack. "What we
have here is a quite realistic computer animation
suggesting what we might find in the alien central
chamber, once we locate it.

"This is where we'll find that royal jelly that Mr.
Daniel Grant has sent us after," she said.

Grant, seated at the table in a position similar
enough to the chairman-of-the-board's attitude to
make him comfortable, leaned back, hands behind
the back of his neck. "That's right. And if you can
trap a queen mother, that would be okay by me."

"Trap?" said Private Jastrow, a little dubiously

"It's been done before," assured Private EUis.

"Sounds awfully dangerous!" piped Private Ma-
hone, looking quite doubtful about the whole en-
terprise.

"Private—this whole trip is dangerous. You knew
that when you volunteered. Anything involving
these things is dangerous ..." Kozlowski stepped
up the magnification threefold, focusing in upon
the queen. "Alice in Wonderland time, people. Lis-
ten up. We're going in the hive, and pulling this

134 DAVID BISCHOFF

stuff out. Along the way, we will not be delicate. In
any event, be assured . . . we've by no means come
here to preserve the species. Kill all the creatures
you want," she said brightly.

Easy laughter.

"So then, let's cook up a little preliminary strat-
egy on how you pry open a bug hive, shall we?"

With the aid of more prepared graphics, she de-
lineated the technology, science, and tactics that
would allow a group of marines to storm a nest of
the nastiest monsters in the universe.

"So .. . basically—guns, guts, and lots of luck\"
she said. She paused for a moment as her people
tried to assimilate her words.

She let them twist in the wind for a moment as
a parade of aliens wilted before the onslaught of
cartoon marines. The blasts from the heavy milli-
meter carbines tore through the heads and cara-
paces, splashing splinters of alien exoskeleton
hither and thither along with gobs of alien blood
that fell upon the marines and the scene like can-
cerous amoebas.

Kozlowsld froze the animation.

"What's wrong with this picture?"

Jastrow raised a tentative hand. "Wishful think-
ing?"

"Yes. Fantasy, perhaps. Only showing the aliens
eating marines wouldn't exactly be the best way to
raise your morale, would it?"

"Not particularly, no," mumbled Ellis.

"Wait a minute," said Henrikson. "All that alien
blood on the troops. It doesn't seem to phase them.
That stuff makes toxic waste look like cotton
candy"

ALIENS: SENOClOE         135

Kozlowsld snapped her fingers, "My man\ Ex-
actly! "

"What about the acid blood?" said Edie Mahone.
"Can you tell us something about that?"

"Some good news for you all there. We do have
something special for you. Something that's going to
buck your morale right up." She smiled. "But first,
let me remind you it's still very important that at
close distance you try and avoid the torso. The splat-
ter potential is quite bad. It's best to go for the
knees." The cursor in the air flew to one of the
strong and knobby alien lower joints. "As many of
you have already discovered, a shot to the knee will
not only hamper the alien's mobility ... but such a
wound also minimizes bleeding and spatter poten-
tial. A discreet coup de grace to the head at that
point is made possible. But then, of course, if you
haven't actually been in battle with the things, you've
at least had simulation chambec. experience . .. save
perhaps for Mr. Grant."

"I'm hardly going to exactly participate in the may-
hem, now am I, Colonel?" said Grant.

"As you've never handled a gun before, I hope
not ..." said Kozlowsld dismissively "Now then . ..
I've kept you all waiting long enough ..." She pulled
out a corn unit. "Thank you, Doctor, for waiting in
the wings. You may come out now, and by all means
bring your assistant with you."

She turned to the audience, most of whom were
on the edge of their seats with suspense.

Kozlowsld turned quite serious.

., . Michaels, his head molten and sizzling, skin
sliding from naked skull. . .

She suppressed the memory

13S AVID BISCHOFF

"I know the blood issue is of great concern to afl
of you, so I'm happy to present an innovation that
should all but do away with your fears."

Yeah. Right.

Pep talk. Maybe that's what she'd given too much
of to poor Peter. Maybe if he'd been properly scared
shitless and quaking in his sweatsocks, he wouldn't
have had to act like the Big Man and gone to that
trap.

She swallowed down a dry throat, resumed.

"For more on that, I turn you over to Dr. Zato."

Dr. Zato, one of Grant's squids.

The man waltzed into the room like a stand-up
comedian just called on to do his act. He was a
toady little guy, who blinked as though the light was
too much. Receding hairline. High IQ dandruff!

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said in a high.
munchkin voice, "I give you your next best friend—"

The assistant walked into the room. slowly, clearly
a little weighted down by what he wore, but not un-
comfortably so.

Armor.

"Here it is, folks. The Z-110 Acid-Neutralizing
Combat Wardrobe."

The assistant wore a streamlined, snazzy-looking
jumble of plates, silver and blue in hue. A combina-
tion of insect and tortoiseshell. On the back was a
compact storage unit. A narrow-visored helmet fitted
snugly over his head. An antenna angled out of the
back.

Kozlowski had seen it before, but the sight of it
still impressed her.

And if it could do what Doc Z. claimed—well, all
the better!

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         137

"Efforts to produce an armor resistant to the in-
tense acidity of the alien blood have proved imprac-
tical."

EUis waved his hand, got called upon. "Yeah. I al-
ways wondered about that, Ws've got the chemical
composition of the alien's exoskeleton down cold.
That isn't eaten up by alien blood, clearly And it's
light enough. How come its elements aren't used for
armor?"

"Well, that would be all very good. Private, if you'd
care to be encased in a toxic suit."

"You can't make an alloy ... or have that stuff as
the uppermost layer?" insisted Ellis.

"Incompatible. What we have here in the aliens is
a different kind of chemistry Part carbon-based, part
silicon-based—and maybe something eke."

"But we're starting to learn to use their DNA."

"Fooling around with genes and chromosomes
doesn't necessarily mean we've got everything solved,
Private. These things are still mysteries wrapped in
enigmas. Believe me, your suggestions have been
tried." He shook his head patronizingly "Just doesn't
work."

"So there was some land of armor that wasn*t af-
fected by the alien blood?" said Mahone.

"That's right. But it was too heavy Now if we were
working in low-gee environments, maybe. Such is
not the case on the Hiveworld. These suits were al-
ready in the works when this mission was estab-
lished. We tailored the batch we brought along just
for this occasion—with all your specific measure-
ments in mind."

"No chance to return these, huh?" said Jastrow.

"That won't be necessary, I assure you. What

138 OAVID BISCHOFf

we've got here is a new process, but we've been test-
ing it for years, and we've got it down exactly"

He went over to the suit and poked the side of the
arm.

The surface gave.

"What we have here is a light, effective armor,
covered with a permeable membrane controlled by a
mechanism in the back of the suit. It's kind of like
having the whole suit engulfed by a friendly jellyfish
that will grow back immediately if hit. Its function is
quite useful.

"Before, the suits that worked were too heavy.
Therefore what we have here is a self-contained os-
motic demi-atmospheric suit that does not resist, but
extirpates.M

He poked the suit again.

"The moment alien blood touches this wardrobe,
the threat is eliminated altogether;"

He took a vial marked ACID from his pants pocket,
twirled it open, and poured drops onto the shoulder
of the suit.

The top layer frizzled, bubbling.

Kozlowsld had to make herself watch.

The bubbling was only for a moment, though.

Fluid welled, swallowing the add.

The membrane closed up the hole within mo-
ments, and it was as though the acid had never
been.

"Yeah, but how tough is that stuff?"

"It's a form of plastic, and it can be cut.. . but it's
even better than skin ... it naturally re-forms into
its previous mode within seconds, and chemically
nebonds itself A healing process, if you will."

"What about inside. I mean, we haven't exactly

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         13S

been trained in those sort of suits," said another
man.

That's one of the beauties of the things. In all de-
tails, the interior, the articulation, and the booster
servos of the suits are identical to what you all have
been trained to use. The other aspects are self-
regulating. Maintenance will be needed, of course,
but only after an encounter with the enemy I should
emphasize that this armor isn't perfect. It will wear
out, though it should stand up during battle. None-
theless try and avoid any alien blood you can. Don't
go wading in it." He nodded to his assistant, "Go
ahead. Let them have a close look,"

The man strode around the room,

The soldiers poked and prodded the model.

"Goddamn. I'm going to feel like rubber-boy!" said
Ellis.

"This is going to give a whole new twist of the say-
ing 'Bouncing back!' " suggested Jastrow.

"Okay," said Kozlowsld. after giving them a couple
of minutes to handle the merchandise. "You'll all
have the opportunity to get used to these suits in
special exercises we have planned every day for the
remainder of the journey. But for now, listen up!
'Cause this is how we're going to use these things."

And she told them.

12

o.

Vne drink down.

Two more to go.

"Another glass of bubbly, my dear?" said Daniel
Grant, pulling the bottle out of the thermo-adjuster
and tilting it even as he asked the question.

"It is awfully delicious—but . .." said Edie Ma-
hone, holding out her hand.

Givg glug glug.

The quite large glass filled with bright, dazzlingly
effervescent fluid.

"Of course you will. You're off duty, you need to
relax, and we've got three whole days before your
mission," said Daniel Grant. "Our mission!"

He refilled his own glass with the double-
strength champagne. Damned good thing he was
feeling generous with his team on the Razzia. He'd
fitted them out with his own concept of hardship

141




141

supplies. Hell, if they had to go to the other side of
nowhere to suck some bug juice from some god
forsaken planet, at least they should do so in style.
Now, he was reaping the rewards of his own munif-
icence.

"Well, if you insist. I know your time is valuable
and I hate to take it up by asking you really silly
questions. But I have been following your career,
and I do have more questions."

Somehow the alcohol seemed to have unlocked
this woman's pheromones. She smelled good,
damned good, and Daniel Grant breathed her scent
in greedily Of course she wore no perfume—a ridic-
ulous and foolish luxury for a person on a hig^ily un-
glamorous journey in a tin can through space with a
bunch of males. That didn't make any difference.
Hell, he was tired of perfume. What he had here be-
fore him was the dangting, rounded hair and breasts
and lovely limbs of a full-blooded woman.

His last date had hardly been fulfilling. And the
gritty details attendant to moving the Razzia and
himself toward hyperdrive and hypersleep had
pretty much put a hold on his appetites. But as
soon as the sleep-rheum drained from his head, he
immediately became aware of how homy he was.
The incident on the shuttle made him naturally
think of Private Edie Mahone. After Colonel
Kozlowski's briefing, he'd suggested that after eve-
ning mess she might like to stop by for that prom-
ised drink. He always enjoyed talking to fans about
his career, and he was quite upset about the gross
inaccuracies of that trashy book about him, and
wanted to set some things straight—

142 AVID BISCHOFF

. . . uhm, so to speak.

Two to go.

He'd sized her up. She was a three-drink girl. In
two drinks she'd be pliable. Three she'd sit closer,
lean those dark eyes toward him, let that sweet,
fresh, scrubbed scent of her dart in for a kiss.

Then snap! Like a patient angler fish, he'd swal-
low her up for a delicious hour or so, and then spit
her back out. They'd both be happy, sated, and bet-
ter able to deal with the grim realities before them.

She brought the topped-off glass up to those full,
moist lips and drank half the glass in a couple
swallows. He was impressed and gleeful at this.
"My, but this is wonderful stuff."

"My own special vintage!" said Grant. "You're
one of the few people who've actually tasted itf"

"Goodness! Then I shouldn't be so shy, should I?
I don't want to be impolite when I'm so privilegedl"
With that, and a down-the-hatch determination to
her face, she took the large glass and swallowed the
rest of it.

That had been a very large portion. This, per-
haps, would be very short work!

"Yes, right." In a moment she'd probably have to
step off to his private toilet and he'd slip the last bit
of liquor into her glass. He had to play it cool
though now. "You were asking me about my
youth?"

Edie Mahone had an odd expression on her face.
She seemed not to be listening to him, just in a
kind of trance.

"Edie? Edie . . . are you all right?"

"Mr. Grant . . ."

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         143

"Daniel. . ." he said. "I told you, you can call me
Daniel."

She got quiet. She closed her eyes.

Hmm, thought Daniel Grant.

Maybe two glasses of the old id-tickler was all
that was necessary!

He scooted closer.

"You know, Edie .. . We're basically just two peo-
ple ... a man and a woman with needs ... out in
the middle of nowhere ... We should comfort one
another, the way that normal human males and fe-
males do ..."

Edie Mahone snorted. She sniffed, and the
straight line described by her Ups crumpled into
misery. Tears dripped from the comers of her eyes.

"Oh, Daniel. .." she mewled, and then dissolved
into a quivering mess onto him, arms wrapped pro-
tectively over her abdomen. "I don't know what I'm
going to do ..."

"Uhmm . . . Edie . . . what's wrong?"

"I made a terrible mistake. I never should have
come along on this mission. It just seemed like the
right thing to do at the time. I just wanted to be
light-years away Light-years from him."

"Him?"

"Chuck!"

Chuck. Oh, yes. A boyfriend. The usual story.

Grant began to stroke her back comfortingly. He
could feel her muscles relax. Oh, yes, this was go-
ing to be soooooo easy!

"Tell me about him?"

"What's to tell?" she said in a monotone voice.
"Love with the wrong guy. He was in my troop.
Started sleeping with our lieutenant. No way to com-

144 DAVID BISCHOFF

pete. Only thing to do is to ship out. Chuck wasn't
going to. So I'd tested high in all necessary catego-
ries, I've got the skill and the experience. And now
the reason. But now that I wake up here . , . Now
that I see those pictures, I remember what it was
tike, the one actual nest experience I had." Grant
could feel her shudder. "It's worse than cold and for-
bidding out here. And those things. They're worse
than devils."

"There, there, dear. I know how you feel." She
was wearing a green fatigue shirt with buttons
down the front. He slowly unbuttoned the top one.

"I know you do. I can feel it. You're really a sym-
pathetic man, a good man . , - beneath that hard,
caustic surface. I could tell that ... even in the
book."

Another button.

"You're a very special woman, Edie ... You de-
serve comforting." Another button. He could see a
fleshy swell of bare bosom, held in check by a tan
bra. Out here in the harsh and cold of space, it
struck him as one of the most erotic sights he'd
witnessed.

He slipped his hand inside her shirt. Soft, warm,
pliable.

Ah!

She said nothing. She hardly seemed to notice,
wrapped up in her own misery.

Maybe she didn't really want this. Maybe she'd
just let him have his way, like a trusting lamb, help-
less before the slaughter. Maybe he really shouldn't
take advantage of this vulnerable soul this way . . .

Bullshit, he thought, remembering his personal
philosophy Plunder while the plunder's available.

ALIEIS: GEIOCIDE

145

"You know, Edie, I can't think of anything more
soothing than if we gave each other hot oil mas-
sages. You'll feel much better. Now let me just help
you off with this scratchy old uniform and then—"

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 onel I'll get rid of them!"

She stuffed herself back into bra and fatigues,
sobering up in record time.

"Granti" 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 Kozlowsld
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?"

14fi DAVID BISCUFF

"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 per-
fectly 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 dis-
cretion. Permission to leave, sir?"

"Permission granted," said Kozlowski in a dis-
gusted 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 confronta-
tion 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 presi-
dent, 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 aghnt 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 soften-
ing makeup, and those scars she wore like
medals . ..

If you turned down the lights a bit and smudged

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         147

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 cham-
pagne 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 Colo-
nial 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.

1«

OHIO BISCUFF

"I'm here. Grant, to officially request that you al-
low 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 go-
ing 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 ac-
tual vessel. He doesn't seem to care much what's
going on on Decks E and E"

"The captain? He's a burnout. He does just the
minimum to get by, counting things out by cross-
word. I honestly wonder why he was given this par-
ticular 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!

Kozlowsld 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.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         149

"111 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 ex-
perienced. 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 pate. Crack-
ers, 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 com-
pany"

She sat and she sipped. She sampled the crack-
ers and pate. 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

150 AVID BISCHOfF

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 ar-
ranged!"

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 mum-
bled.

Clear-eyed and feeling very good indeed, glass
balanced on a raised knee, Alex Kozlowski regarded
the scene. Totally in charge. Grant had extra cham-
pagne, all right. He'd had it trotted on up to his
cabin, no problem. A strategy meeting, she'd ex-
plained 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 cham-
pagne, he'd put a hand on her left breast.

She'd cold-cocked him.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         151

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 an-
other 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
pate and crackers. Grant just sipped.

She wasn't going to be able to drink any more be-
fore the mission. Drinking now was stretching
things. But she figured she might as well enjoy it—
and enjoy this first-class liqu®r—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 re-
ally getting snookered.

Pretty queasy stuff.

Cold mother. Distant father. Money the end-all
be-all in the family No love and affection. A foot-
ball team approach to sex and affection as con-
quest. 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.

152 DAVID 81SCHOFF

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 1 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

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         153

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
Kozlowsld. "Eat the best pate." 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

154 DAVID BISCHOFF

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 lis-
tened.

Peaceful, content snores.

She opened the door and stormed out.

Now she knew why she was ticked off, and it ab-
solutely annoyed the hell out of her.

She was attracted to the jerk, dammit.

13

o

Uaniel 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 Kozlowsld."

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

155

151 DAVID BISCHOFF

a piece of the view. She decided against it. She
didn't want to give him the wrong idea.

Silence shd between them, which surprised her
for a moment. Silence didn't seem in Grant's lexi-
con 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 hang-
overs 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 im-
proved 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 sym-
metry. 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 re-

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         157

treated 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 cof-
fee.

She had a notion. "Here you go. I think I've got
something that will help." She fished a small con-
tainer 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 him-
self.
• "just show me those decks. Grant."

"This way. Colonel."

Corporal Lars Henrikson waited for them at the
turbolift.

158 AVIO BISCHOFF

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. Pat-
ted. "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, compres-
sion, 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 refer-
ences, 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 se-
lection of Henrikson was a male thing, some off-

ALIEHS: GENOCIDE

159

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, es-
pecially 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."

Without further explanation, Grant cycled open
the door and led them through. The lights were
more muted here; it had almost a submarine quality
Aquas and red and shadows. As her eyes adjusted,
Kozlowski immediately noticed the equipment.

Banks of it, spread along the ways. Tubing and
bulking computers and flanges. Cables and glass
and blinking lights. A number of men were clus-
tered at the far end in front of a window that
looked like something out of an aquarium. Grant's
scientists, doing their geeky scientist thing, mystery
wrapped in machinery and mundanity

It smelled in here. Acidic. Oil, electricity, cof-
fee . . . and something more.

Something that made Kozlowski's hackles rise.

She recognized it. Faint, but there.

Bugs.

No, she told herself. That can't be right. What
would bugs be doing down here?

"Isn't this supposed to be a storage chamber?"
she said lamely, trying to get Grant to talk, trying to
get the creepy feeling out of the pit of her stomach.

"Oh, yes," said Grant, leading them down some

160 DAVID BISCHOFF

stairs. "And in a way, it still is. But the cargo! That's
what's a little unusual."

The steps clanged and echoed.

"So, Grant," said Henrikson. "Why all the se-
crecy? Why just us?"

Nice of him to echo her own thoughts.

They were walking forward, and through the
murky light in the glassed tank she was able to pick
out a few details.

Cables, dangling equipment.

Something bulky and organic in the very middle.

And by it ...

An egg sack.

And the discarded shell of a face hugger.

She walked up to the window in a haze, aston-
ished, looking in upon the gruesome scene en-
closed in metal and glass.

"Well, Corporal, I know most marines have come
to really hate the aliens," said Grant. "I'm afraid
that what we've got down here would really hinder
the morale necessary for the operation."

A thickset man with a boyish face and a cowlick
in his mass of blondish hair scuttled up to Grant,
lab coat swaying about his ankles. In whispers they
conferred together in the comer. The man pro-
duced a clipboarded chart that Grant nodded at
and then pushed away He took the scientist gently
by the arm and pulled him over to meet his guests.

"This is Dr. Murray Friel. He's in charge of this
project down here—the science part, anyway"

"Yes—I've met the commander, but not the cor-
poral," said the doctor.

Kozlowski remembered now. There had been in-
troductions and handshakes on Earth, and then

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         161

the batch of docs, including Friel here, had been
swallowed up on these decks. Brief glimpses in
other parts of the ship—that was all. She'd met a
lot of men like Friel. Plump red-cheeked guys,
smart, but with no real experience. They all
seemed to have the same arrogance as Friel here
had. He was in his own little world—and owned
every comer of it.

But it wasn't Dr. Friel that preoccupied her now.

She was looking at something else.

It looked like a misshapen excuse for a body, but
with limbs and head cut off and lengths of esoph-
agus and intestine connecting it with organic ma-
chines nearby.

Liquids pulsed through these, feeding it.

"What is that thing?" said Kozlowski, recovering
her aplomb, overcoming her initial horror.

"Friel . . . care to do the loners?" suggested
Grant.

"Certainly. It certainly isn't very attractive . . . but
then, neither would your interior bits, awkwardly
displayed. You must excuse me, but I feel rather
proprietary toward it. You see, in a way, it's a part
of me." He stepped forward, a pudgy palm placed
up against the glass. He gazed at it with an odd
kind of pride. "You see, it's a donor clone, DNA
clamped so that it would grow simply the torso, no
brain, limited nervous system. A machine regulates
it. These things are usually produced for the pur-
pose of organ and tissue donation." His fingers
drummed on the glass thoughtfully and then he
turned back to look at her. "I'll admit, it isn*t the
most attractive creature, but it's proved useful." He

152 DAVIB BISCHOfF

tapped his arm. "I'm proud to say its cells of orig-
ination were retrieved from my wrist."

The odd, smirky fellow who had been introduced
before to her as Dr. Amos Begalli sidled up. "We had
a little coin toss. We all wanted to be the one . . .
Dr. Friel won. He's like a proud father now, waiting
for a son to be bom."

Friel shrugged. "It's an interesting experience, I
must say"

Kozlowsld shook her head. She was finally allow-
ing herself to assimilate the evidence presented
here to her. She .turned to Grant. "I've seen this
before," she said through clenched teeth. "You're
breeding one of those damn things!"

"Take it easy, Idddo!" said Grant. "First, every-
thing is quite secure here. The torso is in special
suspended animation. It can't blow until the right
switches are hit. There are reinforced windows.
Special alloy cages. Alarms and an automatic laser
lattice should something unforeseen happen."

"But that thing in there . .. it's living ..."

"Only on the crudest terms," said Dr. Friel. "It
doesn't feel any pain. It doesn't think. It's just bas-
ically a mass of tissue that serves a purpose."

"But if a xeno gets loose on this ship ..."

"Colonel, Colonel—the dangers are well known
and plenty of precautionary measures have been
built into the fail-safe system, I promise you!" said
Grant. "Believe me, at Neo-Pharm we've been
doing this kind of thing for years . . . And that
woman Ripley did it years ago successfully. Our
technology is far superior now. We know how to
deal with it."

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         163

"But why are you bringing along something like
this when we're going to a planet full of them?"

"An experiment," said Dr. Friel. "Naturally we'd
like to come back with necessary alien DNA and
queen mother royal jelly to create our own colony
for purposes I've been told you are acquainted
with. Also perhaps even captured eggs. But we
want to work with the product of our own DNA
manipulation. To create our own kind of queen,
utilizing the necessary royal jelly from what you
good soldiers are going to retrieve for us. We'd like
to work with some different material than we've
had on Earth."

Dr. Begalli beamed. "Yes! You see we've got ev-
erything thoroughly regulated here . . . Metabolic
control. We've got it set up so that baby won't pop
until we've got the jelly we need available for her
queening."

"Lovely," said Kozlowsld. "just lovely."

"In addition, of course, on these decks we've got
the necessary tanks and holding pens for the jelly
and captured eggs, refrigerated alien DNA .. . Oh,
all manner of good stuff, Colonel. But you can see
why your troops might be a little upset."

Friel shook his head. "It's understandable why
people are so afraid of these things. However, with
the proper applied measures of science, Neo-Pharm
is proving that what has up till now appeared to be
a threat to humanity—can in fact be a great help.
We've just begun our work in the area of drugs and
medicine . . . Heaven alone knows how our under-
standing of the alien DNA will help us in the fu-
ture." He sighed happily "And to think . . . I'm to be
like a father to a whole aspect of what may be the

164 AVIO BtSCHOFF

most significant advance in human evolution. Its
chemical interaction with xenobiology! Who knows
what wonderful new vistas await usi"

"Try horrible pain. Try death. Try species extinc-
tion!" said Kozlowsld.

Dr. Friel flinched with the intensity of Kozlowski's
response. "I don't think, Colonel, you appreciate the
beauties and intricacies of the alien genetic gifts."

"1 don't think. Doctor, you appreciate the threat
these things are—" She paused, calmed herself
down, took a gulp of air.

Grant seemed taken aback. "Colonel . . . Alex.
You were there at the initial meeting. I saw you
there . . . you heard everything. You're aware of our
ultimate goal. You know what you're here for."

She swung on him, outthrust finger just short of
his nose. "Make no mistake, Grant. I may be here
to head up this mission to facilitate your personal
and professional goals. That's secondary to my duty
to the armed forces I serve—and my own purpose.
Which is, quite simply, to do everything I can to
make sure these bugs are either rendered into a
threat equivalent to cosmic cockroaches—or thor-
oughly exterminated." She lowered the finger. "Any
bugs crushed underfoot along the way are all the
better."

With that, she turned and stalked the hell away
from this chamel house in the belly of a starship.

14

i

everyone knew that service
chow sucked.             •-

You didn't join the Colonial Marines for gourmet
food, that was for certain.

Still, as Kozlowsld accepted the food dumped un-
ceremoniously on her plate at the cafeteria line,
her stomach cringed at the lumps of colorless, re-
constituted whatsits her meal comprised. She well
knew that all the food groups were represented,
that this was vitamin and nutrient rich stuff. There
just wasn't much taste or appeal to it, that was all.

Still, the gig was two days away.

Gotta carb up!

She stepped over to push a button that would
put a dollop of what the machine claimed was
mashed potatoes on her plate. She positioned the
plate under the nozzle, still not quite there . . .

165

IBS          DAVID BISCHOFF

She'd been a bit preoccupied ever since she'd seen
that cloned torso down on Grant's deck. The merg-
ing of alien and human to her had always been the
height of obscenity. Eradicating that threat had
been what her life had been about now for over
twenty years. Her use of Fire she'd rationalized as
an exercise of dominance over the aliens . . . Now,
though, she wasn't so sure. Unfortunately, she sus-
pected she was hooked on the stuff. She'd been
okay this morning, no bad champagne headache,
just a chemical pall of gloom riding her. A quarter
pill wouldn't banish it. A half pill didn't give her the
buzz she realized she wanted to get through the
day She'd taken what amounted to an entire pill,
something that she'd only done before in battle ex-
ercises and war itself.

And the stuff had unwound in her, like the tal-
ons of a bug, zapping her neurons . . .

She shuddered, tried to forget about it. When
this mission was over, she was going to throw her
pills in the garbage. Clean up her act. Live clean
and healthy But she knew that she needed the
Xeno-Zip to deal wii'" what was coming up in her
life—and it pisse^ '•"^ "^F. Especially with her con-
flicted feelings about Daniel Grant. Especially after
what she'd seen down there.

She tried to tune out the chatter in her head, to
focus on getting some of this food down, despite
her lack of appetite. She took her tray and sat
down, alone, at the side of an unoccupied table.

In another comer of the room, Jastrow was noo-
dling on his saxophone. The man didn't play well,
but he didn't play badly either. At least, if it wasn't
exactly melodious, it wasn't that grating either.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         167

However, his buddy, who was sitting beside him as
usual, didn't seem to appreciate it.

"Could you give it a rest, Jastrow?"

"What's wrong, Ellis? I thought you liked mu-
sic."

"I like music fine. But not blaring in my ear
while I'm eating."

Kozlowski listened to them bicker. Better than
concentrating on this crap that she was stuffing
into her face. Jastrow stopped playing and they
talked. They talked about Henrikson, who had just
come in, walked through the cafeteria, taken his
food, and was walking out again.

"Hey. Check it out," said Jastrow. "Henrikson's
doing it again. He's taking his food to the room.
Oh, man, the bet's still on here ... I say he's a syn-
thetic!"

"Gunme 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 com-
bat."

"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.

1fifl

DAVID BISCHOfF

"Shit, man! Let me go!"

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

"Henrikson!" screamed Kozlowsld.

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

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

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

"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. Kozlowsld dismissed him. He
took his food and went off again toward his quar-
ters.

Kozlowsld 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?"

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         m

"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,
Kozdowski enjoyed the small talk. She was still an-
noyed 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 phero-
mones, 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 se-
curity. 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 bas-

178 BAVID BISCHOFF

tard. 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 prowl-
ing 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. Un-
derstand?"

"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.

ALIEBS: GENOCIDE         171

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

Padding past open doors, feet paced over to con-
trols. 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 dor-
mant by electronic and biochemical means, shiv-
ered into juU life over a matter of mere minutes.

It shook. It gasped. Sparked by the energies that
had been shot through it, aad 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, it plunged
through the bones, through the skin into the free-
dom of gaseous atmosphere.

The torso exploded.

Blood spattered. Bronchial tissue splattered up

172 DAUB BISCNOFf

like the eruption of a volcano. Bits of broken bone
sponged 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 dan-
ger, it began to scuttle for the darkness of a comer.

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 scut-
tling, 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 con-
trolled three separate particle beam weapons, aim-
ing 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 en-
tirely 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.

15

••hen 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 Grartt paced beyond the reach of any
add, punching the air and cursing. "Goddammit.
Goddammiti What the hell went wrong! I'm look-
ing 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 star-
tled, then sighed and folded his arms. "I don't un-
derstand. I'just don't understand."

173

174 DAVID BISCHOFF

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 equip-
ment. 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 sab-
oteur."

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

"Uh—I trust you checked your doctors' psycho-
logical 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. Col-
onel? You despised it the moment you saw what
was going on here- I could tell!"

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         175

"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 any-
more."

"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 orga-
nized 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

17fi OAVIO BISCHOFF

Kozlowski. "Something tells me you would have
gotten more than you bargained for with Dr. Fhel
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."

Kozlowsld shrugged. "It's hard for me to be frigh-
tened 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 infiltra-
tion? Don't you see? You and your soldiers have al-
ways 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 sug-
gest 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 vig-
ilant. 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 Beelze-
bub."

"Thanks, Colonel."

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         177

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

That's alPwell 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 med-
icine 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."

lt! 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 geo-

178 AVIB BISCHOFF

graphic 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, be-
gan 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 Ma-
hone, 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 EUis. "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

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         173

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 hom 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 speon."

**! don't know, man. I feel some heavy vibes be-
tween 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 Kozlowsld entered the ship.
She'd already stowed her personal weapons and

180 AVID BtSCHOFF

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 mis-
sion. Our priorities are inside that nest . .. our ap-
pointment 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 mis-
sion 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 am-
bled over to Fitzwilliam and Tanarez, me lieutenants
who'd been pegged as pilots for this boat. They were
huddled over their banks of controls, doing final di-
agnostics of their system arrays. "How's it doing,
guys?"

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

"Yeah." said Tanarez, not looking up from a

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         181

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 con-
fidence, 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 passen-
ger 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 ban-
quet 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

182 DAVID BISGHOFF

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.




D

I uocking 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.

1B3

184 DAVID BISCHOFF

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

She desperately wanted a tab of Fire. Maybe the
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 Raz-
zia, there had been the heady feeling of null grav-
ity 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 Kozlowsld's taste. She much preferred the mol-
lycoddling you got on a passenger shuttle. A slow,
smooth descent. Friggin' Marine landers, though,
acted like sperm charging out of the gate for an ap-
pointment with a pretty egg.

They were still well above the clouds, but the at-
mosphere started buffeting the lander, shaking it
like a toy Kozlowsld 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 cab-
in's air control wasn't working well, and it was a bit
hot and humid. Kozlowski could smell her own

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         185

sweat. It was a comforting smell. What she didn't
tike much was the sweat from the others.

"TurbulenceF called Rtzwilliam, up in the pilot
blister; with the best view. She'd chosen Lenny Fitz-
wflham herself He was a top expert at this kind of
planetfall, a ranging muscular guy with a Texas ac-
cent 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, Sheriockl" 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."

"Going to 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 sus-
pected that there were going to be some gouges in
the armrests after this from the digging in of fin-
gers. Including hers. Nobody puked though. That
was something.

in

DAVID BISCHOFF

The twirling lengths of gray cottony clouds
seemed to reach up like an ocean of mist and ab-
sorb 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 pi-
lots. Fly by the seat of your pants, but even if your
wings had sheered off and your elector was jammed,
at no dme abandon your laid-back Texas accent.

Kozlowski took a luxurious breath of bad air. It
tasted good through slightly less constricted lungs.

"Can't see a goddamned thing," said Argento, the
dark-haired mustached sergeant who sat behind
her. Argento's brooding eyes and bushy eyebrows
and bushier mustache made Tanarez look like the
Blue Boy. He was like a Neanderthal with all that
hair and stolid attitude. But there wasn't a man in
the Corps who knew his way around artillery, light
or heavy, better. Kozlowski had worked with
Argento the year before, and when the possibility of
his coming along arose, she grabbed it. He had a
rich, deep voice that inspired confidence in him
from the git go. He was a man's man and a fine
poker player, too.

"Do you really want to?" said Jastrow, suddenly
talkative. "If ignorance is bliss, let's enjoy it for an-
other half hour, huh? Me, I'm just going to rest my
eyes."

That seemed like a good idea to Kozlowski. Un-
fortunately, she was too high-strung to give herself
even that much of a treat. She had to see it all.
Somewhere, in this hellish cloud cover, might be

JIIIEI:: BENBCIIE         117

something she needed. In the first break, when she
got the lay of the land—that might make a change
in her strategy that might save lives, might give this
mission the edge it needed for a thorough success.

So, for long minutes she watched as the lander
pierced the cloud cover.

Occasional comments arose from the troops, but
generally there was silence.

Finally, the cloud cover started to break up.

Kozlowski peered out through the port.

As far as she could tell, they were still a couple
miles up, but she could make out some of the land-
scape below. She'd seen pictures of it before of
course in her studies of this godforsaken planet.

Uke Mars, the report had said. A few mountains,
lots of volcanoes, but for the most part flat and
peeked. More atmosphere than Mars. Breathable
even. Not nice, though. Not nice at all.

The pictures had clued her in to the starkness,
the hellish wasteland quality this place had. There
was something stricken about it, something unholy.
Kozlowski wasn't a religious person, but that was
the first word that came to her mind.

Unholy

Damned, was the second.

Shakespeare could have used it for his "blasted
heath" in the play Macbeth.

"Still can't see much down there through the
cloud cover," Fitzwilliam was saying.

"Anything coming through the telemetry topogra-
phy scan?" said Tanarez.

"Hey What do you know? Calculations totally
correct. The sucker's down there!"

A thrill of elation filled Kozlowski.

188          DAVIB BISCHOFF

The moment the Razzia had entered parking or-
bit, its heavy-duty sensors, on full power, had got-
ten to work. The coordinates of the original alien
hive were known. And sure enough, it didn't take
long to locate the ugly hive, poking up from the flat
land like a huge unlanced boil.

"What the hell is this?"

"What?"

"Just take a look, will you!"

Begalli's eyes grew bright with excitement. "I
suspected as much!"

About a hundred miles away from the original
hive, there was another hive. A hive shaped differ-
ently from the original, according to the sensors.

Sure enough, up close, the sensors were showing
it was indeed an alien hive. So far so good. Now
they just had to determine if it was the flavor alien
they wanted.

The misty clouds swirled away from the ship,
and they got a better view.

Somehow, even from way up here, Kozlowski
could tell that things weren't quite right,

"Jeez," she heard Tanaiez say. "This unit checks
out. So this reading must be correct."

"Yeah? So what's it say?" Fitzwilliam shot back.

"Well, judging from the surface activity" She
could hear the slight gulp in Tanarez's voice, break-
ing up that Yeager effect. "There's some kind of
war going on down there!"

"Let me look!"

Grant's eyes were suddenly open and eager. He
strained forward on his belt, his hands frantically
scrabbling at the catches.

ALIENS: SEXOCIBE         189

"Grant!" she barked at him. "We haven't landed.
Keep your goddamned butt parked. We don't want
your brains all over the ceiling."

Grant halted his efforts to release himself. None-
theless, his desire to see what was going on down
there had not diminished. "What's going on?
Begallil Talk to me! How does this work into your
high-flown theories?"

Begalli was wearing a shit-eating grin. "Couldn't
be sweeter, boss."

"We're looking at aliens swarming like ants
around a hive and that's supposed to be sweet?"
said Grant.

Kozlowski wasn't too worried. They had the tech-
nology to deal with this. Just a detail. The brass
were going to like this—they were going to be able
to check out how well the new stuff worked.

"You bet. You ever hear of the xenos fighting
among themselves wholesaler Colonel?"

"Nope. Not the batch that came to Earth."

"Exactly. Because they were all the same breed,
the same race. They smelled the same to each
other. They worked together. The fact that there's
conflict down there tends to prove that what we
suspected would happen, has."

"Uke what?" demanded Jastrow, eyes round and
a little protruding with fear.

Kozlowski didn't blame him. Looked like a god-
damned African ant war down there. Hundreds
and thousands of the bastards, swarming,
swarming . ..

"Okay, okay Classified material. Sorry. Shouldn't
have brought it up in front of the troops," said
Grant.

190 DAVID DISCMOFF

That pissed Kozlowski off, but she didn't say any-
thing. Wouldn't do the soldiers any good anyway
Would just take their minds off the job at hand.
Nonetheless, she knew what Begatii was talking
about, and dammit, it did make sense. She just
hoped it wouldn't complicate things, mucking over
the mission beyond redemption.

The theory was, of course, that aliens without a
controlling queen would branch off into different
packs. Breeding might (and apparently did) give
rise to bugs with recessive traits. If these bugs were
allowed to continue to breed, the result would be a
new race . . . and hurry over to start up a new hive,
complete with a new queen.

This was a new hive here.

Call them the Democrats.

But apparently, the old fart bugs had gotten things
together and spawned a new queen mother . - . and
millions of workers. And although the new Democrat
hive was a long way away, eventually they'd located
it. Their queen mother had sent off her armies to
destroy the interlopers into the genetic xeno broth.

Call them the Republicans.

She looked out at the troops. There were naked
questions beside the fear and misgiving in their
eyes.

"What are you assholes looking at! Plan C takes
this kind of situation into account." She smiled
grimly "Just look at it this way . . . We're going to
be able to kill more bugs."

"Pardon us, Commander . . ." said Fitzwilliam.
"Plan C starts the same way they all do ... Land as
close to the hive as possible. There are thousands
of aliens down there now."

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         191

Colonel Kozlowski grinned. "And hopefully there
will be thousands there when we land—only burnt
aliens."

Grant shook his head. "Well, I guess those bugs
aren't the only specialists in genocide."

They continued their descent.

17

••hen they were a mile
above the hive, the mist had cleared enough to use
optical magnifiers to good effect.

Sure enough, there was a war going on down
there. As vicious a war as Alex Kozlowsld could
imagine. Thousands of struggling bugs going at
each other.

Fangs and talons.

The ruddy landscape was running with alien
parts, alien blood, spasming monsters.

How long had this been going on?

Kozlowski's best guess, ofthand, was that this
was just the latest of many attacks. She saw alien
skeletons littering the landscape. One more battle.

That wasn't all the crew of the Anteater saw,
though.

132

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         193

"Run this over with me again, Begalli," said
Grant.

"Very quickly, sir, the creatures have had a freak
genetic oftshoot. Normally a queen mother would
stamp this out immediately. With no queen
mother, though, another colony has been allowed
to take root and thrive. As for the possible differ-
ence caused by the recessive gene theory ... we'll
just have to examine them closer, won't we."

The most important thing the magnified view on
the screen pointed out was that Begalli's theories
were entirely correct.

One set of bugs had a vague reddish cast. The
rest—the defenders, it could be seen, because they
were the ones streaming from the portals of the
huge hive below—were the usual dark color that
Kozlowsld was accustomed to.

Begalli whooped. "What did I tell you. And ten to
one, they've got unpredictable Internal differences.
I can't wait to find out. There's also got to be other
kinds of life on this planet that have learned to sur-
vive the xenos. If possible, I'd like to check on
them."

"Celebrations later, fella. For what I'm not sure.
They all look nasty as ever. And as for other forms
of life—yeah, I guess the critters have got to eat
something. But that's not why we're here, is it?"
Kozlowsld unhooked her belt and hurried up to a
place beside the pilots. "Okay, fellows. I've got this
wonderful idea. You usually use force impellers as
well as a few retros to land, correct?"

That's right."

"Anything to stop us from using the thrusters to
land? That should cook a lot of them pretty good."

194 AVIB 81SCHOFF

"Sure. Lots of fuel consumption though," said
Fitzwilliam.

"We just need enough to get back."

"We've got plenty to spare for that," said Tanarcz.
"I could do a configuration of the primaries and
tertiaries that would do the trick."

"Good. Then do it. Bum the bastards, and make
sure they're well done."

"Okay. That looks like the main entrance to the
hive. Not as close as we'd like, but it's the only op-
tion," said Fitzwilliam.

"That'll be just fine," Kozlowski said after study-
ing the computer schematics that the pilot had
called up on the screen to illustrate the lay of the
land.

"You'd better sit back down, Colonel, and buckle
that seat belt. Rockets are a little bit rougher than
force impellers ..." suggested Fitzwilliam,

"So I've noticed."

The craft was rumbling and rocking like a son of
a bitch. Kozlowski stumble-walked back to her
chair, strapped herself in again, and watched the
action, eyes gleaming.

The Anteater slowed down.

There was a mighty wrenching as the rockets cut
in. Fitzwilliam was right. It felt like they were rid-
ing a jackhammer down. She had to clench her
teeth to keep them from rattling.

She looked up to the magnification screen. The
bugs had stopped fighting. Some were waving their
heads, as though attempting to look up, to make
out the source of the terrible rumbling in the sky
with their primitive photosensors.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         195

"I hope the bastards don't have the sense to
run," she said under her breath.

"Unfortunately, the instinct for survival is para-
mount in the creatures," said Begalli, above the
roar. "They're disoriented, but as soon as they
sense the presence of the ship, they'll start to scat-
ter. Fortunately, there are enough of them clustered
that they can't scatter fast."

"Can we go down quicker?" said Kozlowski, ex-
cited.

"Not and get the effect you want!" screamed
Fitzwilliam.

"Besides, we want 'em good and crisp! We don't
want any of that blood eating away at the hull or
support struts," said Tanarcz.

True. Very true. C'mon, Koz. Use your head .. .
not your hate and bloodlust.

She looked up again at the screen.

The shadow of the craft showed now, spread like
a blot on the land and the mass of aliens.

Who began to scurry.

The shadow narrowed, darkened.

"Shit!" cried Tanarez. "That outcropping over
there!"

"Yeah. I see it," said the other pilot. TU take her
another twenty-five meters away. Tight fit, but I
can land this baby on a dime."

The confidence in Fitzwilliam's voice encour-
aged her.

She could feel the shift of the ship. It slewed
sideways, and started down again.

Catching a bunch of the bugs by surprise.

The tongues of intense puce and orange and

136

1i s P M n F r
i a b n u r r

ocher shot down to the ground, licking across the
arid ground.

Lapping at the creatures.

Unable to take her eyes off the scene, she
watched as the rocket flames covered and con-
sumed hundreds of the beasts. Hundreds more not
directly in the fires nonetheless burst into incan-
descence at the horrible heat.

Fried.

"Incredible," she whispered.

She watched as long as she was able as the
aliens were immolated. A black swath of alien
ash ... lovely. The Anteater, in just a minute, had
wiped out enough to fill a couple of nests back
home,

Unfortunately, it looked like there were plenty
left to take their place.

"Hold a moment. Scorch the ground a little
more before we land," said ntzwilllam. "We've got
about all we can. I just want to make sure these be-
low are properly cooked."

"Sure."

The craft jerked, and hung for just a few sec-
onds.

Smoke was curling up now past the viewports,
obscuring the scene. Kozlowski closed her eyes.
Afterimages of the skeletal demons torching up
flickered across her vision.

Then the ship descended again, this time land-
ing on its struts with a wobbling jolt. It swayed,
then stilled.

A red light shifted on.

"All right, grunts!" snapped Kozlowski. "We've

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         197

got ourselves an emergency combat landing on our
hands. It's showtime^

Now everything was in the hands of an Irishman
named Seamus O'Connor—and the marvelous
new technology at his fingertips. O'Connor was a
guy she didn't know that well. He was a technician
who'd helped develop the procedure he was about
to use, a sandy-haired gentleman with a soft voice
and a twinkle to his eyes in social situations, but a
rock-solid attitude of concentration during brief-
ings and exercise. He looked like the kind of per-
son who got a job done, and then went off to the
pub to play pipes and whistles and have a few
pints.

She looked out at the heaving mass of aliens,
outlines in the soot. And if that didn't work, they
might as well just take off again out of here!

"All right, O'Connor," FitzwiUiam's voice crackled
through the 'lobephone. "I've cut the engines. The
smoke is pretty much dissipated. "Do your duty be-
fore any of the things put on their boots and stomp
back in,"

"Roger, Skipper."

Corporal Seamus O'Connor scratched his beard.
He adjusted his grav-chair for a better view of the
control panel. He'd been training for this moment
for months in virtual reality sims. Unfortunately,
somehow it wasn't quite the same here. He'd never
had xenos crawling all over the place before. He'd
never had a field of dismembered and burnt bugs
to negotiate before.

What O'Connor operated were the PEHs—the
Perimeter Extension Harpoons. The marines had

198 AVID BISCNOFF

learned pretty damned quick that in dealing with
hostile life forms—i.e., bugs—force fields were
quite useful. They'd been in use to a certain extent
in the routine humdrum of company galactic life,
but as soon as the nasty things with a penchant for
destruction were discovered, necessity became the
mother of invention yet again. Power was in-
creased, but in landings like this one it was rapidly
discovered that the Fields could only be beamed
out a short circumference around the ship. In situ-
ations involving the need for expanded territory,
their reach had to be expanded,

Some kind offence had to be constructed, utiliz-
ing force-field generating devices. However, in a
theoretical hostile situation, neither men nor ro-
bots could be expected to trundle out and erect
these posts.

Hence the harpoons.

They'd been tested before in the field, of course.
Out in deserts and plains, among rocks and what
have you. You just played Moby Dick, and shot
them out to likely-looking spots. When they
thunked in properly, you pressed a button for re-
mote control and—ZAP You had yourself a wide
but snug little force-field cap within which to work.

O'Connor's job now was to get those harpoons
out.

He touched a button and the ports opened.

He did a quick analysis, adjusted the aim, said a
prayer . ..

And fired.

Four harpoons—each seven meters tall and two
thick—burst from their ports, sailed out into the

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         195

alien atmosphere, trailing their power cables like
baited hooks tossed from fishing rods.

They sailed majestically and gorgeously

C*mon you beauties, thought O'Connor.

Hit your marks.

The sharp points, capable of boring into rock,
struck the surface of the alien planet and—marvel
of marvels—stuck.

"Bull's-eye!" O'Connor cried.

The radio crackled. "No time to rest on your lau-
rels. Looks like those bugs haven't been discour-
aged much. They're coming back in!"

"No problem!"

O'Connor leaned over and pulled the switch.

The posts sparked. A shimmer of power traveled
down the lines, and then spread like electric color-
ing in water, connecting the posts, the cables, and
swirling along the ground.

"Outwall activation has been initiated,"
O'Connor reported, a note of triumph in his voice.

Dozens of aliens caught in the power grid were
simply sheered in half. Others heading back in to-
ward the lander simply bounced off the field, limbs
and heads bent or smoking.

O'Connor grinned to himself, and put the field
on automatic. He'd done his job.

Now the troops were going to have to do theirs.

This was why they had worn their suits:

So they could go into action at a moment's no-
tice.
"We've got some cleaning up to do, people," said

Kozlowski, motioning for the troops to hurry along

250          DAVID BISCNOFF

into the hangar deck. "This is what we came to
do."

The rest of the crew already had their helmets
on, so she couldn't see what their faces registered.

"It's why we're drawing a salary"

She put her own helmet on, tongued on commu-
nications-
gentlemen," she said. "I do believe we're
ready."

"Roger, Colonel. Hatchway opening initiated."

The carbines, plasma rifles, and other automatic
weapons of the assembled rattled upward, position-
ing themselves for firing.

No depressurization was necessary. However the
PSIs were not the same, so there was a distinct es-
cape of air a& the hatchway opened. A chiaroscuro
of dark colors and smoke wavered between them
and distant jagged rotten-tooth mountains. Before
her oxygen-rich mix started to whisper through her
suit's ducts, she fancied she smelled the land be-
yond.

Burnt carbon.

Burnt silicon.

Alien acid.

Never-ending death beneath an eldritch, evil
sun.

She had a regulation upper-pill in her hand,
ready to take it. Looking out, though, she realized
she didn't really need it. She threw it away,

A surge of victory ran through her.

"C'mon, people,*' she snapped through her mi-
crophone, staccato calling of a parade into a battle
on shores not made for humans. "Let's earn some
money."




I

•he operation was basically a
clean-up proposition.

The landing had cindered hundreds of the bugs.
The force-field perimeter had locked out the re-
mainder. Only about twenty-five of the aliens had
made it past the harpoons before the field crackled
on.

These were the current targets.

These were the bugs that had to be crushed.

Vague colorings or internal differences didn't
seem to matter. From the way these things acted,
all were every centimeter the crazed berserkers
their cousins were.

The hp of the ramp had not been touched down,
and one of them leapt on it, scuttling up toward
them, slavering and tearing away at the air.

281

DAVID BISCHOFF

"Simultaneous!" she cried and lifted her own ri-
fle and fired.

The blast of weapons was so strong converging
on the bug that the force lifted the thing up a good
meter and slammed it back another ten. Damned
good thing, too. It disintegrated into a splatter of
parts and blood in midair.

"Keep that shit off the hulll" Kozlowski cried.
"Okay now, move it!"

As practiced before, the troops moved out,
plasma weapons first. A robo-wagon trundled out
after them, bearing extra weapons, supplies, and
automatic support keyed from the Anteater. As
soon as the first four marines cleared the bottom of
the ramp, they started blasting. A wave of fire, like
a manic flamethrower on amphetamines, roared
out, whacking into a group of five bugs scampering
into the melee.

They all fell apart in the hellish fire.

Kozlowsld and the others were out in a flash,
bringing up the rear and selecting targets.
Kozlowski felt as though she'd just downed a cou-
ple tabs of Xeno-Zip. Adrenaline? Yes, and bliss,
too. It had been a long time since she'd fought real
xenos, and there was nothing like the satisfaction
of the prospect of one's slugs putting out the lights
on a bug to get a gal's heart to thumpin'.

"Fire at will!" she said.

She jumped off the ramp and swiveled over to
cover the underside of the lander. A space of about
seven meters existed between the base of the lan-
der and the ground. All in shadow. Unlikely that
any had scuttled under here, but you never knew.

ALIENS: BERBCIDE         203

She nudged the correct corn switch. "Turn on
the bottom lights. Control!"

"Roger."

The lights started to blink on, but even before
they were up, through the heightened "ears" of the
suit, she heard the telltale hissing.

"Damn!"

One was coming toward her.

They had descended to Mission Control, to stand
and watch beside Corporal Seamus O'Connor as
the monitors flashed the frenetic details of the con-
flict.

Daniel Grant felt giddy victory turn his skin to
goose pumps.

What a spectacle!

Whatever doubts he'd ever felt about the compe-
tency of this batch of marines disappeared within
seconds as the group fanned "out in perfect forma-
tion, their weapons efficiently blasting away Out in
the open, the alien strategy seemed simple: charge
and destroy. The Marine strategy seemed equally
simple: blast the things to bits.

The marines acted like precision-sensored ro-
bots. Their aims were deadly Like a phalanx of de-
struction, they performed this grisly, pyrotechnic
ballet. Grant suddenly wished for some appropriate
music. Sturm und drang!

O'Connor was clearly equally impressed. "Wow."
He turned to Dr. Begalli. "Those suits you pro-
duced are working great. Used to be, you couldn't
fight these things in such close quarters."

Indeed, Grant noted.

As the radium bullets, the plasma blasts, and the

284          DAVID BISCHOFF

tossed explosives struck the aliens, rupturing the
chitinous material of their exoskeletons, they
tended to burst apart like ripe tomatoes atop
M-80s. Their "blood"—a viscous green ichor—
hurled every which way, slapping across the white
armor and helmets the marines wore.

The skin of the suit ruptured, fluid leaked out,
instantly neutralizing the horrible full-bore effects
of the acid. Then the skin "healed.** And voil&—no
harm done to the marine. Nonetheless, the troops
seemed to be trying for the knees and the heads, as
Colonel Kozlowski had instructed them, waiting till
the aliens were prone before they blasted the torso
apart.

Whatever they were doing, whatever the plan
had been, it seemed to be working just fine. True,
the alien blood was leaving pocks and craters in
the ground, but the soldiers were trained to deal
with them.

Particularly impressive in his efforts was Corpo-
ral Henrikson. Like some military juggernaut he
moved over the batdescape with fierce speed and
agility, his plasma rifle snuffing out aliens and put-
ting them to fiery deaths in what seemed like
speeded-up film.

"Man," said Grant. "Look at Henrikson got"

"Quite something," said Begalli. "He's a regular
one-man army"

"I've heard rumors. Some of the troops think
he's a synthetic," said O'Connor.

"What the hell does it matter?" said Grant. "He's
doing his job and damned well!"

Dr. Begalli shook his head. "True. True. With sol-
diers like that. we're going to get into the nest."

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         205

Grant looked up just in time to see an odd look
pass over Begalli's face. A squinting feral look, like
a rat considering the implications of a maze—and
looking forward as much to shitting in the passage-
ways as to getting to the cheese at the other end.

But then, Begalli had always struck him as one
odd customer, and so he just set the observance
aside and turned back to this marvelous bloody
sport up there on the screen.

All he needed now was a beer and some pea-
nuts 1

It was a big one.

The alien under the lander scrabbled for Kozlow-
ski like some frenetic dinosaur closing in for the
kill on what it considered a soft-bellied mammal.

"Just try, asshole," said Kozlowski, whipping her
gun up.

The lights came on full bore, stopping the thing
not one stride, but illuminating it thoroughly

She fired.

The burst of bullets from her semiautomatic rifle
fanned out perfectly Textbook. The explosive slugs
caught the thing in the kneecaps, exploding them.
The beast went down, snarling and hissing, scrab-
bling for her without missing a beat.

She drew a bead on its bananalike head and
squeezed off another burst. The thrill of compe-
tency seized her as the head burst apart. The blast
kicked back a dollop of blood onto her suit.

Her reaction was knee-jerk terror. Experience
had taught her that a burst of xeno blood on armor
meant trouble.

206 DAVID BISCHOFF

Then her brain kicked in, salving her trained re-
action with reality; this was a special suit.

Time to see if it worked. The guinea pig: herself.

The junk immediately sizzled and bubbled
through the plastic lining. Like oozing pus, the
neutralizing agent flowed out, and swallowed the
acid.

Sizzle.

Bubble.

The plastic shell moved back over the hole and
the suit was whole again.

Unfortunately, there wasn't a lot of time to feel
good about it. Already three more aliens were run-
ning her way underneath the lander. She picked off
the right one. Knees. Head. Torso. The weapons
these days were so good. The shells just cut
through that damned exoskeleton like it was the
thinnest of tin. So satisfying just seeing them burst
like that.

Overripe gourds in a shooting gallery I

Another soldier was beside her.

The nametag read MAHONE.

No discussion. Just quick efficient drawing of a
bead, and then her gun coughed off, dealing amaz-
ing damage to the beast to their left.

They swiveled as one, and their fire converged
on the central alien, only five yards away now.

The strength of their blasting shattered the
thing, and its blood blew back as well, among the
tumble and tatters of its wasted body.

"He looked like my last boyfriend!" said Mahone
over the radio, her voice sounding immensely satis-
fied.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         207

"No," said Kozlowski. "Seems to me the others
look more like boyfriends."

"Yeah. I think you're right. Let's waste *eml"

Mahone's grin showed through her faceplate.

However, before they could go and look for any
more, a voice crackled over Kozlowsld's radio. "Col-
onel. We got one on the ship!"

"Damn," said Kozlowski. "Not good!" She turned
to Mahone. "Stay here and cover me. I have to
check this out."

"Roger."

She turned and started running for the other
side of the ramp to gain a vantage point on the sit-
uation.

Intellectually she'd been aware that the gravity
here was only .9 of Earth Standard. However, she
was shocked at how quickly she was able to move.
True, these suits were a little Jighter than she was
used to ...

She didn't complain at all. She just had to adjust
herself accordingly.

"Okay, hotshots," she said to a soldier she imme-
diately recognized as Jastrow. "What's going on?"

Things looked pretty well contained. The rest of
the bunch were killing either the last standing
alien, or raking their weapons across the remains
of ones already shot down, making sure they were
dead.

Jastrow pointed. Sweat dripped down his temples
and forehead despite his suit's air-conditioning.
Kozlowski followed the direction of his forefinger.

The xeno had somehow leapt up to one of the
gemlike pilot blisters. Its talons were scratching

208 OAVIO BISGHOFF

along the structural spokes and its tail whipped
hard against the material, attempting to break
through.

Even as she stood, considering. Private EUis
puffed up, raising his rifle.

"Hold on, soldier," said Kozlowski, holding out a
halting hand. "Shoot the thing with that, we'll have
bug blood all over the hull."

Bang! Bang! The tail whipped the blister. Proba-
bly giving the pilots fits.

"Jastrow! Haul the wagon over here," she com-
manded.

Speedily, the private obeyed, grabbing hold of the
robo-wagon. Kozlowski punched open a latch, lifted
the lid, looked.

Selected what she needed.

The thing was like a squarish grenade launcher,
with various tangly things extruding. She picked it
up, put it up against her shoulder aimed at the of-
fending alien, and fired.

The projectile that shot out progressed half the
distance in a blur, but then at the top of its trajec-
tory bloomed out into a net drawn by three guided
bolos. Expertly directed, they whacked past the
bug, scooped it up in the net.

Electricity arced and zapped.

The bug was pried off its hold, and carried off
meters away to bounce hard upon the land. It
rolled, and lay there, just a faint hiss and crackle
emerging.

"Dead?" asked Jastrow.

"No way," Kozlowski said. "I doubt it. The electri-
cal charge in the mesh is probably just enough to
stun it."

AllENS: GENOCIDE         209

"What should we do?"

Kozlowski considered.

Her first inclination was to just kill it. Quick.
However, she well knew that Grant was watching
the proceedings, and may want to imprison it with
a force field m order that his scientist could exam-
ine it. She tongued her corn unit, hating having to
doit

However, like a bolt out of the blue, before she
could do a damned thing, a plasma blast fried the
bug and the net.

She swung around to see the perpetrator of this,
wondering whether to chew the soldier out or
thank him.

Standing there, looking totally competent and
umazed, was Corporal Henrikson.

"It looked like it was about to break free. Colo-
nel," the man said.

The colonel shrugged. "Yeah.^Next time, though,
check with me."

"Sure."

She looked around the field of devastation.

The bugs were squashed here, totally

She took her helmet off and sniffed.

"Ah. What a stench," she said. "Nothing like it in
the universe."




Voldlers, still helmeted and
suited up, were carrying burnt and destroyed bod-
ies of the enemy to collect them in a single pile. A
vehicle was building a border of dirt around this
pile, to prevent any possible spread of lingering
acid.

Although he wore no suit, Daniel Grant had
taken the precaution of donning acid-neutralizing
boots. What with the lower gravity, though, he did
not notice the extra weight or bulk.

On alien soil.

Grant had been born on a colony, but his own
homeworld had not been that much different from
Earth. His years on Earth had made him feel like
a native. So it was an odd sensation indeed to ac-
tually be walking on ground so far from home, and
so distinctly different in taste, touch, smell, and

910

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         211

general atmosphere. Too, there could be no doubt
that he was walking over a battlefield now.

Or that another war entirely was going on be-
yond the background buzz of the force-field perim-
eter.

Tune that out for now, man, he told himself.
Take it a step at a time. Right now you're a lot safer
here than you were back on Earth with that gang-
ster Fisk breathing down your neck!

A couple of the troops were standing by the edge
of the encampment, looking out past the clear
shimmer of the force field to the events beyond.

Swarms of bugs were moving, dodging and spar-
ring, occasionally dashing out and tearing one an-
other to bits. Not exactly a melee, and the oddest
battle that Daniel Grant had ever witnessed.
Flashes of green and black. Fillips of splashed
blood. Limbs flying and occasionally crackling into
the field, bouncing back off'-in a spray of sparks,
singed.

"Sun's up. Clouds are off," said Private Jastrow.
"Feels good."

"What, you're enjoying a nice sunbath?" said
Private Ellis, sarcastic. "God knows what kind of
deadly radiation is coming down from that suni"

"Like this whole planet is a health spa! Look,
Ellis. You take your pleasure where you can get it!
I'm taking mine here! Right now!" He held his
arms outstretched. "Ah! Wonderful! I may come
back with a tan."

"Just be happy if you come back."

"Actually, Ellis, I gotta tell you. I'm feeling relief.
Great relief."

"Heaven's sake, why?"

212 DAVID BtSGHOFF

"Everything is working great. That last bit wasn't
so bad. Not too bad at all." Jastrow smiled. "Hell,
this operation's going to be a cinch."

Fills looked out at the mass of bugs, the hive, the
stricken panorama. "Yeah . . . right."

Grant stepped up to them. "Hello, gentlemen. I
just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate your
work today."

They spun around, slightly alarmed. "Mr.
Grant!" said Jastrow

"Sorry to creep up on you like that. I didn't mean
to, really, I just want to personally congratulate you.
I was watching you guys. All of you. On the
screens. You operated like a well-oiled, absolutely
brilliant machine. It's good to be working with such
fine people like you."

The two could not help but break out into broad
smiles. "Thanks, Mr. Grant," said Jastrow.

"You know, you two may not be in the marines
all your lives. Whenever you're out. Grant Indus-
tries is probably going to have positions for guys
like you."

"That's -wonderjuU"

"So just keep up the good work!"

He moved away, to go have a look at what was
going on at the side of the Anteater. That little
speech should help boost the morale. Those two
would probably spread it among the others, and he
would be happy to repeat it. It wasn't bullshit, ei-
ther. He really meant it. He'd be happy to hire all
of these people.

First thing he'd do was set them on that maniac
Fisk.

On the side of the lander, a huge portion of

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         213

metal had flipped down on hinges, exposing a bank
of gleaming guns. A regular arsenal.

Grant felt a lilt to his step, a bounce to his walk
as he approached.

In the command control area behind this array
of weaponry, Sergeant Argento was doing a double
check to systems.

"Looks like some mean machines here, Sarge,"
said Grant.

"That they are, Mr. Grant!" Argento said from
beneath his drooping black mustache.

"What's the plan?"

"Pretty simple. We've got about seventy more
yards to go before we can start thinking about get-
ting into the hive entrance. Unfortunately, there's a
lot of activity going on out there, what with alien
species war going on."

"So I've noticed- Lovely to see them going at
each other, instead of at us."^

"Yes, sir. Well, we synchronize openings in the
field to allow for explosive discharges. Then we
bomb the territory between us and the top of the
entrance, to clear off as many bugs as possible.
Once the things are either dead or scattered, we
blow out another PEH. Sink it in, turn it on—
extend the force-field perimeter. Little trickier on
this kind of rock but nothing harder than what
we've just accomplished, really."

"And then we go for the gold."

"Exactly"

The silvery weaponry gleamed in the alien sun,
sparkling with promise.

Grant gave the sergeant a thumbs-up sign.

"Here's to a campaign without a hitch."

214 DAVID BISCHOFF

"Yes, sir." Argento returned the gesture. "With-
out a hitch and then back home for the biggest
party in one of your best casinos."

"You've been to one of my casinos, Argento?"

"Yes, sir. The Beach Blossom, last year. Lost my
shirt, but I had the time of my life!" Argento was
grinning, showing even, white teeth.

"You don't know how happy I am to hear that,
my friend. Yes, an excellent concept. A party for
you all ... At my casino, the Beach Blossom at
New Atlantic City!"

"Without a hitch!"

"That's right, soldier! That's pretty much what I
promised your commanders before we started this
trip—and now, thanks to the wonderful technology
here, look where we are!"

He walked over and stood just meters away from
a red and a black alien, slashing at each other.

It was like watching a movie.

He felt totally safe,

He put his hands on his hips and laughed.

Piece of cake!

They were playing horseshoes outside the lander.

Alex Kozlowsld wasn't quite sure where they'd
gotten the stuff. Probably fashioned it in the metal
shop on board the Razzia for just such a possibility,
and then stashed the stuff on the Anteater.

Clang!

Private EUis's throw was a ringer, twirling around
the post.

"Good shot!" said Jastrow.

Cheers arose from the audience.

Those two! What a pair! When they'd asked per-

AllENS: GENOCIDE         215

mission to set up the game, Kozlowski's first incli-
nation was to say no. However, the pressures were
so much that she not only assented, but went the
next step.

Why not a picnic? The clouds had cleared and
there was a sun shining through. They'd done the
first part of the mission extremely well, and there
was still a few hours till the rest of the operation
could be properly set up.

So, instead of making her marines eat their meal
inside the cold and antiseptic Anteater, she'd al-
lowed the sandwiches and sodas to be set up on a
folding table just outside the ramp. You had to be a
little careful—if something went wrong with those
force fields, you wanted to be able to make it back
into the hold of the lander ASAE

Jastrow finished his game, then moved to stand
by the force field of the perimeter with his saxo-
phone. He serenaded the ^aliens with John
Coltrane-like free form squawking, with an occa-
sionally more melodic passage thrown in for fun.

She was eating a tasteless sandwich layered with
energy-rich Vit-C sauce for a boost, listening to
Jastrow's jazz, and along with some heavily carbed
macro-drink, when Daniel Grant sidled up,
chomping confidently on his sandwich.

"Regular holiday."

"A bit bizarre, I agree," she said. "They need it
though. There's worse ahead. Much worse."

"What? Things are going great."

"Grant. This is a war. Already we weren't quite
expecting conflict on this level. Me, 1 would have
preferred to wait until these things killed each
other, then moved in."

218 DAVID BISCHOFF

Grant shook his head. "Not in the schedule.
Things like fuel involved . .. money .. . time ...
Most especially time." His jaws worked thoughtfully
around a mouthful of sandwich. "I don't have
much time, back on Earth. Can't waste any hover-
ing above this Hiveworld. Wonder what's going on
back there, anyway"

"Maybe you better concentrate on this particular
hellhole."

"Yeah right. But I came here because I need to
talk to you a moment."

"You are talking to me."

"Alone, I mean. Not in earshot of the troops."

"Ah." She examined her wristwatch. She was out
of her suit, taking the opportunity for a little bit of
freedom. She didn't know how long she was going
to be in next time she donned the thing. Probably
too long. "How about inside the ship?" She wasn't
that crazy about it out here now, anyway Sun or no
sun. Those bugs crawling and lumbering and fight-
ing out there bothered her, dammit.

"That will be just fine."

She took another bite, another sip, nonchalantly
gestured for him to follow.

Even as she walked into the locker room, she felt
a little better. There was the smell of B.O. and gym
shorts, sure, but at least it was human and familiar.
The whiff of those bugs out there triggered all her
inner alarms.

She spun on him, slapping her fingers clear of
crumbs. "What's up. Grant?"

He sat down on a bench. "These troops . . .
they're good."

"You're telling me something I don't know?"

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         217

"I'm sure they're going to pull this mission off,
just fine."

"I sure as hell hope so. You dragged me in here
to tell you that?"

Grant got up and began to pace.

"I don't know. That sabotage thing has got me
worried."

"Consider yourself reassured. I think if they were
going to strike, it would have been by now. Besides,
think about this one. Grant. Right now, the num-
bers are down. They're in the same boat we are.
We sink, they sink." She shrugged. "Besides, if
there is a saboteur, I'd be happy to lay odds that it's
one of your scientist bozos. Now there is a collec-
tion of premium losers."

"We do have a scientist along, remember.
Begalli."

"Rat-face. Yeah. I'm watching him, don't worry
I'm watching everybody. But take it from me. I'm
watching my own ass most of all/'

"Me, toot It is a nice one."

She laughed out loud. "You're a hard case. Even
while you're sober, and I smell like a horse after the
Derby"

"You smell fine."

She nodded. "That's what Michaels used to say."

"Michaels?"

"Peter Michaels. Old lover. We used to fight to-
gether. Hell, we used to waste those bug hives, he
and I. What a team." She shook her head. "God,
we got into this incredible habit. After a gig, we'd
come back. We'd be so hot, we didn't even bother
to shower. We just stripped our suits and screwed.
Sheesh- Couple of crazy homy kids."

BHID BtSCHQFF

She looked over at him. His face had turned a
bright pink.

"Something wrong. Grant."

"Nothing. Nothing, Alex. Only ..." He smiled. "I
know women. Sorry about the old drunken stupor
the other night, but you know, you're not bad-
looking .,. And you're pretty damned tough and
not exactly the most feminine creature I've ever
encountered ... I like you. Moreover ... I think
you like me. I can sense these kinds of things,
kiddo. So I was wondering, once this is all
over . .."

"You touch me, you asshole, and I'll cut your
genitals off and stick them up your nose."

He shrugged. "Just thought I'd try." He got up to
go. "Well, off to my possible death."

She stepped over, spun him around, yanked his
head down, and devoured his mouth with hers.

Just as the surprise wore off and Grant warmed
up to the osculation, she pushed him away so hard
he almost tumbled over the bench.

"Godi" he said, catching his balance. "What was
that all about?"

"Just don't let it go to your head, okay?" She
smoothed her mussed hair and stormed from the
room. enormously upset at herself.

She'd liked that a lot, dammit.




I

Bhe troops were lined up and
ready, their helmets back onfand properly secured,
their weapons cocked, primed, fully loaded and
hungry for action.

A silence descended upon the troops, bordered
by the buzz of the force fields and the snarling tu-
mult of the fighting aliens between them and the
entrance to the blacks' monolithic hive.

Kozlowsld could feel their tension.

Or was it just her own tension, multiplied by
twenty-five? This was going to be the make-or-
break of the mission,

Thankfully, the ranks of the bugs had thinned
somewhat. Whether many of them had simply been
killed or crawled into holes somewhere she didn't
know She just hoped they hadn't gone into the hive.

She tongued her comm. "Troops ready."

219

220 AVtO BISCHOFF

The bounce-back from Control Central. "All set
here." O'Connor's brogue. "Sergeant Argento?"

She looked back to where the sergeant sat, be-
hind his banks of big weapons.

"Guns are sighted and ready," said Argento, fin-
gers playing expertly across the controls. "I don't
see a more optimum time,"

Kozlowski looked up. She could have wished for
a little more light. The clouds had closed back up,
tight.

Oh, well, it didn't really matter that much. They
had a good five hours till darkness. That would be
more than enough time.

"Right," came O'Connor's voice. "Opening force-
field apertures."

Kozlowski looked up toward the top of the force
field. The field looked like a thin wavering skein of
gray normally. It would open just—

There!

A wide hole sphinctered, and Argento wasted no
time.

The big guns thundered.

The many millimetered shells sailed out per-
fectly, hammering onto the landscape. Whole clus-
ters of bugs were destroyed, even more thrown
back in the explosions.

More shells, differently directed, hammered out
of the guns, exploded on the landscape.

When the smoke cleared, Kozlowski saw that a
wide swath had been cleared. A trail of craters lay
in the valley that led up to the opening of the hive.

"Harpoon away!" called O'Connor.

The appropriately aimed gun on the side of the
lander thumped. Amid an explosion of gases, the

ALIENS: GENOCIBE         221

harpoon launched. It sailed over their heads swiftly
and majestically, trailing its cable like a kite caught
in a gale. It threaded the hole in the force field eas-
ily and whooshed toward its target.

Even back here, many meters away, Kozlowski
could hear the large harpoon thunk into place,
burying itself in the ground right on target.

A hearty "Hurrah" sounded from the troops.

"We have a successful landing!" chirped
O'Connor's voice. "Prepare for perimeter exten-
sion."

The troops grew quiet. Kozlowski braced herself,
getting her rifle ready Theoretically, when O'Connor
pushed the right combination of switches and levers,
the force field would move out like an arcing gate—
only expanding as it did so.

Whacking all bugs en route.

However, in the activity, there was always the
possibility that one of the aliens would slip through
unharmed. That alien would have to be dealt with,
immediately, hence the preparedness of the troops.

She could see the force field flicker erratically as
it moved.

"Take it a little slower," she instructed.

"Can't," replied O'Connor.

With a whoosh, the force field was patterning
out and then—snap!—was in place.

Leaving behind a scattered handful of aliens, in
various states of disrepair and shock.

"Kill 'em," said Kozlowski.

The troops moved forward, bullets and plasma
leaping out to smack into the survivors. It was all
over in a matter of moments, bug pieces scattered
to the winds of destruction.

222 AVID B1SCHOFF

And the force fields were buzzing away, the tun-
nel within easy striking distance.

"Yes!" Private EUis's fist smote the air.

Cheers broke out among them all as they broke
ranks and several broke out and headed deeper
into the newly taken territory.

"Wait a minute, you assholes!" screeched
Kozlowsld. "I didn't order you . . ."

The force field wavered.

The troops all stopped in their tracks.

Kozlowski could feel something wrong before she
saw anything.

But when she saw it, what was wrong was pretty
obvious.

The newly planted harpoon was starting to list.

"What the hell—"

"Shit, what's going on—?"

"Oh, my God! We couldn't see it when it
struck ..."

"The thing landed on a couple of intact bugs."

That was the only explanation, and the veracity
of it, and its implications swept through Kozlowski
like electricity.

"Fall back\" she cried.

The alien acid must be eating through the
base .. .

The upright harpoon shifted more, and the force
field flickered again.

Then the thing toppled, its extended antenna
breaking up.

The southern force field went down.

For a terrible moment she felt like an EVA astro-
naut with her suit ripped off.

"Get back to the original lines!" she screamed.

ALIENS: GENOCIOE         223

At first the surrounding bugs didn't seem to no-
tice. But then, with the damnable speed of their
breed, they perceived that the strange almost-
invisible wall that had kept them from new prey
had evaporated.

A few tentatively began to straggle toward the
troops.

The soldiers who had gone the farthest out
turned to run back. The aliens coming through
seemed to sense their fear. They loped forward in
the attack.

"Cover them!" screamed Kozlowski. She fired a
volley as close to the troops as she dared, catching
a couple of the bugs in their thoraxes, stopping
them cold.

But others took their places.

"Okay!" she said after chinning her corn.
"They're past the original wall. Get that back up."

"Trying," said O'Connor. ""Something's short-
circuited!"

"Doit, dammit!"

"Argento!" said O'Connor. "Get that other har-
poon off. That will do the trick."

By this time, Kozlowsld had her hands too full to
make commands, let alone comments.

The bugs were starting to come in.

Not the whole horde, thank God, or they'd be as
good as dead.

She started blasting, just hoping her people had
the sense to come in out of the storm.

"Shit!" said Daniel Grant. He pounded his hand
hard against a bulkhead. "Shit shit shit\"

224 DAVID BISCHOFF

"Steady, Mr. Grant," said Dr. Begalli. "I'm sure
they've got alternative plans,"

O'Connor was leaning forward, stabbing at the
controls. "Goddammit, Argento. Fire the thing!
Manually!"

A voice crackled over the radio. "Can't. Can't
find an opening. The things are swarming back
into the crater."

"Then make an opening!" said O'Connor.
"That's what you've got the starboard guns for.
Blow 'em off!"

Grant watched disbelievingly.

Without a hitch.

Falling apart. Right before his eyes. If those
troopers came out of this one without a casualty, it
would be a miracle.

The point man—the one the farthest out—had
to turn and blast with his weapons.

Grant watched with helpless horror as a bug
scuttled up the backs of two of its fellows and leapt
high into the air, landing directly on the man's
back.

The soldier fought.

Grant had never seen such a fight.

Even though suddenly the aliens were all around
him, like ants around a lump of sugar, they quaked
and blew apart from the plasma blaster.

Then the havoc there stilled, and Grant could
see the things scrabbling away, carrying bloody bits
of suit, and pieces of the soldier, like trophies.

He had to turn away.

Without a hitch.

He'd never before seen his optimism turn to
sewage, right before his eyes. His stomach turned,

ALIENS: BENOCIDE         225

and he felt as though he was going to throw up. He
contained himself, though. He reached down deep
for strength, found it.

"Hell with the perimeter. Just have him blast
those things! Cover the retreat!"

"I'm sure Argento is doing what he can."

"Look, can you get at least a partial up. Use
what you got, man! Give them some time!"

He'd come light-years with these people, eaten
with them, come to respect them in an odd but
compelling way. And now they were being torn
apart before his eyes.

O'Connor nodded. "I can try, sir. I can try."

Sergeant Argento cursed.

How the hell was he going to kill all these bugs
alone? Should he start blasting, like O'Connor
seemed to want—or should he clear out a crater
and send off a harpoon?

He decided to do both. He blasted away with all
the guns, making sure he didn't hit any of the
troops. The shells streaked out, scattering whole
swaths of bugs, and making craters.

Not exactly as far as they would like, not as close
to the entrance of the hive as they needed—

But it would have to do.

He sent off another volley.

Excellent! It was giving the troops a fighting
chance.

He swiveled the guns slightly to the right, con-
centrated on aiming—

And then heard the hissing.

Damn!

He reached down for his hand weapon and spun

226 AVID B1SCHOFF

around, but it was too late. The bug jumped down
from the hull of the Anteater like a spider pouncing
on its prey.

Its secondary set of jaws rammed through
Argento's neck, speckling his guns with rich arte-
rial blood.

They were moving back.

She'd watched Rodriguez go down. Go down
bravely and well, taking a lot of bugs with him and
maybe giving them a second or two extra to retreat.
No time to grieve now, Kozlowski knew.

It was time to fight.

And she'd never fought quite like this before in
her life.

Her rifle was discharging so quickly she could
feel the heat come off the thing even through the
gloves of her suit. With skill and precision she
didn't know she had, she slammed away at the
monsters, blowing them apart as fast as they came
at her.

The thing was, she didn't have to think about
what she was doing, it was all coming automati-
cally. Because of these suits, the acid-splatter factor
was not significant. She didn't have to aim at the
knees, and then finish with their heads. She could
just keep the rifle level and rip off fire at precisely
the moment her instincts and skill dictated.

All the rest of the soldiers seemed to be doing
equally well. The aliens were going down in huge
numbers. The problem was that their numbers
kept on getting replenished.

Sensing something on her peripheral vision, she
wheeled around and found one of the bugs almost

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         227

on top of her, its gooey saliva dripping as though in
preparation for a feast.

She fed it a blast of plasma.

The thing's head lifted up off its neck in the gout
of fire and flipped back like some obscene rocket
aborting in its takeoff. She ripped off another
round of fire to give herself some breathing room,
and then took stock of the situation.

They'd all made it back to within the original pe-
rimeter ... all but one.

Private Jastrow was just outside the area, his rifle
blasting away.

"Jastrow!" she said. "Step back, dammit! Step
back so we can put the field on!"

The man's radio apparently was not working. He
did not respond. He just kept firing away at the
things.

She was going to have to go out there and drag
him back in, dammit. She started wading through
the pile-up of dead bugs, firing away, then stopped
dead as she looked back in the direction she was
going.

The bugs covered Jastrow.

One was blasted away, but another took its place.

The radio screeched. "EUis! EUis, I need some
backup! EUis!" There was a muffled scream, sig-
naling the end of a jazzman's military career.

"Argento! Start pounding the perimeter wall!"
Kozlowski radioed.

No response.

What had happened to the guns, dammit! What
was going on!

"Argento! Push them back with the guns!"

228

AV

Bl C (> U I) E E

i a u n u r r

Another voice on the radio: "Argento's down,
Colonel. There's a bug up there!"

Shit. Only one recourse now.

"O'Connor! Reactivate the southern wall!
ASAP!"

Another bug charged her, dripping with human
blood.

For some reason, Daniel Grant could not take his
eyes off the gory demise of Private Jastrow,

He was stricken by grief, an unfamiliar emo-
tion. He'd actually liked Jastrow, he suddenly re-
alized. He hadn't realized before that he could
like anybody. That concept just didn't seem ap-
propriate to the kind of businessman he was.

He felt helpless. If only he could do something!

Then he heard Colonel Kozlowski's command
come in.

At least she was still alive.

"Will do. Colonel," said O'Connor. "I've got the
thing rerouted, and I think it's possible."

No more from the colonel. Grant watched as she
swiveled and her plasma rifle shredded an ap-
proaching alien.

O'Connor leaned forward, hand outstretched to-
ward the switch that would effect the renewal of
the force field.

Dr. Begalli reached forward and stopped him.
"Wait!" he said.

"Wait my ass! What's going on?" said Grant.
"More and more of those things are starting to no-
tice the breech. You've got to close it up. Lives are
being lost down there!"

O'Connor reached for the switch again.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         225

Begalli said, "No!"

Grant stood up and pulled Begalli back. "What
are you trying to do, Doctor?"

But O'Connor paused as well. "He's right!"

"Right? What are you talking about?"

"Marines!" said O'Connor through his headset.
"Get someone up on those guns!"

"What are you doing?" demanded Grant.

"Dr. Begalli's right, Mr. Grant. There are too
many of those bastards down there. Only thing
that's going to kick them out is that gun array First
off, there's going to have to be someplace to go to.
Second place, using those guns with the force field
up full is damned dangerous to the lander. That's
what Dr. Begalli means."

Begalli looked furtive about the whole thing.
"Uhm . . . Yes, of course. That's what I mean."

"Does the colonel know that?"

"Yes, sir," said O'Connor. ^They ail know that."

When she killed the alien that almost got her,
Kozlowsld didn't have time to enjoy its death throes.

"Get that bug off those guns! Get 'em going
again, dammit, or we're cooked," she said, survey-
ing the situation, "Private Mahone! You're the clos-
est. Do it, dammit!"

"But, sir—"

Mahone was on one knee, spraying charging
bugs, keeping them at bay.

"We'll keep them at bay. Do it—"

A pause . . . and then Private Mahone was up.
She sidled on, and Kozlowski got a look at her face
through the mottled faceplate. She looked uncer-
tain and scared.

230 AVtD GISCHOFF

"Mahone. That xeno squatting up there by the
guns. Looks an awful lot like that old boyfriend of
yours, doesn't he?"

"Yes, sir. He kinda does."

Immediately the private began to hustle. She
moved up the steps on the side of the lander. The
alien hunkered over the remains of Argento. It hissed
at her, wobbling like a spider guarding its prey

"Don't let it bleed on the guns, Private."

Two steps forward.

The private dropped to the steps, avoiding a
lunge from the alien. Brought her plasma rifle up
at just the right angle.

Fired.

The force of the fiery discharge impacted on the
thing's torso, pushing it over the edge even as the
blast cindered it. The thing wilted to the ground
and dropped, a flaming husk, not even giving a
good heartfelt spasm.

"Good show, Mahone. Now, you think you can
fire those guns?"

"Yes, sir." The private clambered up the stairs
and over the body of Argento. "They're all starting
to look like somebody's boyfriend'"

She jumped into the seat.

Immediately the guns started to swivel, pointing
downward at the bugs already inside the force field,
and those still crawling through.

They spoke.

The shells came hot and heavy . . . and well
placed.

"Okay, guys. Let's get out of the rain, before we
get blown up as well," said the colonel, motioning
an ally-alley-in-come-free.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         231

The troops seemed all too happy to obey, retreat-
ing and contributing their own fire.

The result was a rout. Between their concen-
trated wall of blasts and the powerful guns above
them, those aliens not smart enough to retreat
through the opening of the force field were obliter-
ated

Soon, all that moved among their ruins was
smoke.

"Okay, O'Connor. Give it a try now."
The force field shimmered back into place.
"Okay, people," Kozlowsld said. "Fan out and fin-
ish off any still alive!" She sighed. "Then we can
count our dead."

21

i

•he task was grisly, and it
took a while, but the remains of the dead were
placed in body bags, zipped tight, and then lined
outside the ramp to the Anteater. All it would take
was the okay from Kozlowski and they would be
carted back into the freezer inside the lander.

When the bags lay in a row beside the lander,
Colonel Kozlowsld called for a moment of silence
for the dead. When that was over, she spoke.

"I'd better say something now, because I might
be the next one to go into one of these things.
These were good people. There will be plenty of
time to honor them properly and grieve later. They
gave their all to the mission. Others may not recog-
nize their contribution later. But we always will.
Argento, Jastrow, Rodriguez, McCoy, Lantern,
Chang. Their shells may be zipped up, but their

232

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         233

spirits are still with us, and will be as long as we do
our jobs with dedication and sincerity"

She bowed her head and observed her own mo-
ment of silence. In her mind, she heard a sweet
snatch of some tune that Jastrow had played once.
It sounded like hope, even now.

"Okay," she said, keeping herself stem and busi-
nesslike.

The bags were put on a wagon and taken up the
ramp.

A raucous squawking made Kozlowsld jump.

She turned around, hand going to the sidearm
she was wearing.

Sitting on the edge of a folding chair that had
been used for lunch was Private Ellis, lips around
the end of jastrow's saxophone. He moved the
mouthpiece. "Sorry, Colonel."

"That's all right, Private. I'm just a bit on edge."

"Think I can ever leam t» play this thing?"

"Why would you want to?"

"Jastrow. He always wanted me to try. I always
told him I had no musical ability and besides, there
was spit all over it." He sighed. "That part doesn't
seem that important anymore."

"Sorry about your friend."

"Yeah. I figure we've gotten about a thousand or
so bugs for every man killed here."

"It's not worth it, is it?"

"No. It's not."

She felt someone looking at her. Turned.

Daniel Grant was walking down the ramp,

She was about to get on her soapbox and rant at
him, but then she noticed his face. It was white. In
his eyes were the beginnings of tears.

234 AVtD BISGHOFF

She turned away and let him come up to her.
Let him start the conversation, if he wanted to.

"I want you and your people to know how sorry
I am," he said finally, after a long silence. "I guess
when you see life turning into death so abruptly, it
puts thing in perspective."

"Some business we're in here, eh. Grant?" she
said.

"Some business." He nodded thoughtfully. "My
problems . . . they can't compare with this." He
sighed. "We can't quit now, though, can we?"

"No. My country sent me here to accomplish
something. It's my duty to do that. You'll get what
you came here to get. Grant."

"And maybe more than I bargained for."

"Definitely"

"Colonel. There's going to be a linkup with the
Razzia in ten minutes. We're going to confer on
the situation and decide a course of action. Natu-
rally I want you to be there."

"Yes. I'll be right there."

She turned and continued to do what she could
in the time remaining to her to give her the confi-
dence and grit that she herself felt rapidly escaping
from her.

It was a makeshift conference table at best, but it
would have to do.

"I've just finished a full transmission to Captain
Hastings of the events that have just occurred
here," said Corporal O'Connor. He swiveled and
turned a switch. "He's waiting to join the confer-
ence. Permission to let him in?"

Grant nodded.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         235

"Permission granted," said Kozlowski. "We'll
need all the input we can get."

Captain Hastings bid his regrets at the turn of
events. His voice sounded even more subdued
than usual.

"Now then," said Grant. "We've got a situation
on our hands. I'd like to say, why don't we just give
it another try with the perimeter extension har-
poon. However, after what we've just been through,
I don't think so."

"It's possible we're going to have to," said
Kozlowski. "But that doesn't mean we can't explore
other possibilities. Dr. Begalli .. . you seem to be
the resident expert on the present situation with
the aliens. What's your prognosis?"

"Clearly our projections were quite accurate,"
said the man, after scratching his large nose.
"There is a genetic offshoot of the aliens, and the
originals are attempting to eradicate them. Only we
never anticipated this kind of scale ... Or that it
would hinder our actions to this degree."

"Not quite true," said Kozlowski. "We've got the
technology. It's just not working as well as we
would like."

Begalli's ferretlike eyes flicked back and forth
over those assembled. "Despite our feelings of loss
and frustration, I cannot forget just how correct my
projections were about the recessive gene. Some-
thing that was quite unlikely. Naturally we're sorry
for the loss . . . But after years and years, my sci-
ence seems to be correct." He tapped his finger
emphatically "What we all want is in that hive. It's
the answer to our dreams .. . Maybe, ultimately
even to the whole alien conflict."

236 AVID BISCHDFF

"Why would you say that?" said Henrikson.

"We came here to get the queen mother royal jelly
and we've got to do that. Do you know how much
we've been working with in these last two decades?
About two hundred gallons' worth, that's all. Our
tank here can go up to well over two thousand gal-
lons, and I'm sure we can fill it. With that amount to
work with, all kinds of possibilities will open up.

"We can leam something, I suppose, from this
red and black alien business. Still it's all academic
curiosity. There are no practical applications yet.
With the jelly, those applications may be possible."

"Oh. like what?"

"The key to the genetic control of the aliens! It
could be in the queen down there and her royal
jelly! Sorry, Mr. Grant, but there's a lot more at
stake here than money for your company, and
hyperspeed for the armed forces." He tapped the
table emphatically, "Why do you think the red
aliens are attempting genocide on the blacks?"

"Isn't it the same old story? They're different?"

Begalli shook his head. "You've got to have a cer-
tain amount of intelligence to be bigoted. The xe-
nos aren't that smart. No. It's because on a very
real level, the existence of difference threatens
each other.

"Eradication is programmed into the species. I
would daresay that in hives every once in a while
red eggs are laid—and immediately destroyed by
the queen or the queen's guards. When we re-
moved the queen from the black hive and killed
her guards, it probably allowed time for these freak-
ish red eggs already laid to develop and grow . . .
And then escape and build their own hive."

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         237

"Look, this is all very interesting," said
Kozlowski. "But how is it going to get us past the
war going on down there, and into the hive, where
we can do our job? And get out with our butts in-
tact, I might add!"

"Yes," said Grant ruminatively "A definite priority."

"Let's look at it this way then," said Begalli. "What
we have here is warfare on a grand scale. Each of
these alien races would like to eradicate the other.
Annihilate. This mission is deeply embedded in their
chromosomal structure." He shrugged. "Now if we
just tilt that warfare in the favor of the blacks, that
would be to our definite advantage. We don't want
mutant jelly We want the black jelly, the stuff we
know something about and can use."

Hastings's voice crackled over the radio. "I got
lots of great weapons up here, folks. If you want,
we can just nuke the red hive."

Begalli nodded. "Excellent! That might just work."

"How?" Grant asked.

Kozlowski nodded. "Well, it would loll off the red
queen mother for one thing and with her any psy-
chic control of her drones. Which would send the
red army into disarray"

"More than that," said Begalli. "Without that
control, instinctively the red army would retreat to-
ward their hive. Equally instinctively the black
army would pursue!"

Grant snapped his fingers. "Leaving the black
hive wide open!"

"That would be the theory, yes ... It's the best
choice, in my opinion," said Begalli. "We'd still
have to deal with the black guards, and they will be
bigger and fiercer. But they would be limited in

23B DAVID BISCHOFF

number. What we're facing out there is a problem
of sheer oppressive volume."

Grant smacked the table. "Yes. We're going to
have to do it, I think! Opinion, Colonel?"

"Sure. Why not. At the very least we're going to
kill a lot of bugs!"

"Captain. How soon can you have those war-
heads ready?" said Grant.

"Couple of hours," came the voice.

"Excellent. We can accomplish this well before
nightfall," said Kozlowski. "Get started, Captain.
We can always postpone till morning if necessary."

"I don't think that will be necessary," said Hast-
ings. "I'll get right to it."

Grant was nodding, his face intent. "One more
thing, Colonel. I'd like to come with you when you
go into that hive."

"What for?" said Kozlowski. "You're a civilian.
You're not trained for this kind of work."

"I feel responsible here. I feel a moral obligation.
You need extra people. I can aim a gun and shoot
it. I—"

"Okay," she said.

"I want—" He blinked. "What?"

"I said you can go. There's a spare suit about
your size down in the holding tank in the locker
room. We'll go over the situation here in a few
minutes, I'll brief you on a few things you'll have to
know . . . And then you can suit up."

Grant's mouth flapped for a moment like a fish
out of water.

"It'll be good to have you along, Grant!"

Henrikson and Begalli excused themselves to
start preparations for the next assault.

ALIENS: CENOCIDE         235

"All right, people," announced Kozlowski. "Now
that we've got a plan, let's chew over some details."
She felt charged again.
Those bugs were going to pay
Big time.

Kozlowski was letting him go along!

A few minutes after the hour-long meeting, Dan-
iel Grant was making his way down to the locker
room, brain buzzing with the "briefing" that he'd
just received. He felt beat up with facts and in-
structions, as though somehow Kozlowski had put
him through a brief but intense boot camp under
the whip of Drill Instructor Koz herself. Not fun!

Not that he wasn't sincere about wanting to go
along.

He just hadn't really expected for her to agree to
his volunteering.

Well, nothing for it now, old man. You're in for
the full nine yards now. Play it out, do your job, and
this will turn out fine! Just fine!

He entered the familiar smell of the locker, par-
ticularly ripe now from the recent press of ripe
bodies that had just passed through

Where was it that Kozlowski had said the spare
suit was? Oh, yes, over in the cabinet yonder.

No lock, no latch.

Sabotage was the last thing on Grant's mind, he
was so preoccupied with the lessons he'd learned
about alien killing.

He opened the door and saw the suit, and
reached for it.

What he did not see was the alien egg pod sitting
in the shadows.

22

i

•he thing stood like an ob-
scene, fleshy orchid bulb.

Grant smelled it before he saw it.

That now-familiar, intense acidic blast of stench.

As he reached for the suit, his foot stubbed
against the growth. It gave like a stink cabbage.

He looked down,

At first, he didn't want to believe his eyes.

Then he saw the tangle of talons, wiggling at the
opening of the bulb, like the beginnings of a sand
crab, emerging from its shell,

He froze.

He'd seen alien larvae before, of course. He'd seen
them prey on test animals plenty of times. Only they
had been behind thick glass at the time ... Now this
one was mere inches from his face.

240

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         241

It hissed at him. and began to come out faster,
bending the petals of its deadly flower as it came.

"Screeeee!"

It launched.

Directly for his face.

Sheer desperation somehow prized the freeze
lock off his muscles. Off to his right was a hanging
suit. He reached out, grabbed it, and pulled it be-
tween himself and the face-hugger.

It bounced off it and flopped onto the floor.

Grant had just enough time to let off a yelp and
take a step away from the thing before it animated
again, leaping up toward him as though its legs
were spring-loaded. As though his face were metal
and the thing were a magnet, it headed straight for
his eyes.

He reached out and caught it.

The talonlike claws tore at his skin. The pain
shot up his arm, causing him to throw the thing
down. It hit the floor, but it had "clearly discovered
Us mission. It jumped around and was about to
leap back up at him, when a blur flashed off to the
left and a suited foot kicked it square in its crabby
ass.

The thing hit the wall like a hockey puck smack-
ing the sidelines, sluiced along the floor.

A rifle went up, tracked, sighted.

Energy sizzled out.

The blast smacked it like the finger of God,
smushing a demon. Some of its acid came out,
bubbling a small hole in the floor . .. But most was
consumed in the incendiary blast.

He stepped back, his legs hit a stool, he sat down
hard.

242 DAVID BISCHOFF

"Thanks," he said.

"Just my job," the person said, with bite.

He looked over to his savior.

It was Colonel Kozlowski.

"Looks like one of your pets wandered off the
beaten track," she said, already going for a bucket.
She put it in a shower stall, started filling it with
water. "I'm losing count of the screwups in your
'harmless' project, Grant."

Grant shook his head. "I don't understand. I only
authorized one creature for incubation." He drew
in a breath, savoring it. "Take a look in the armory
closet there!"

"In a moment."

She took the bucket and sluiced the water in the
small crater. Hissing steam rose up, and that was
that.

"The closet."

Grant nodded. "That's where the thing came
from."

She looked and grunted. "Yep. You got yourself a
pod here. Grant."

"I was the only one not armored, so it's obvious
this thing was planted to get me when I came back
here." He smacked a fist into a palm. "It's got to be
Begalli. He must still be working for those
scumbags at MedTech. I want you to put that bas-
tard under arrest—hang him . . . keelhaul him . . .
something."

"Yo! Rein yourself in. Grant. Then come here
and take a look at this."

Grant walked over reluctantly He looked in the
closet. Kozlowski was pulling something off the
side of the pod.

ALIENS: SENOCIDE         243

She pulled it into view.

"You know what this is, right?"

In her hand she held some kind of metal clamp,
attached to a bottle-shaped thing.

"Of course," said Grant. "It's a timer clamp. It's
used to hold the lips of an egg shut to ensure the
creature can't escape during transportation."

"And it automatically falls off when the timer ex-
pires," she continued for him. "The planter is no-
where near the eggs when it activates. Looks like
it's got a motion sensor on it, too. Anyone could
have walked into this trap."

"So."

"So anyone could have planted this egg." She
stood up. "Even me."

"This is just a regular chest-burster. I did not au-
thorize this to be shipped out. Just that larvae
queen." He shook his head. "I still don't feel good
about that guy Begalli. He's>been acting strangely"

Kozlowski sighed. "He seems clean to me. Any-
way, he's the only alien expert in the landing party,
and he's been giving us good information, by my
lights."

"I don't know."

"Maybe you don't know this, but all radio signals
are scrambled by the content of the shell in those
hives. Once inside, we'll have no communication
with the lander. We're going to need 'that bastard*
in there more than any other crew member. With-
out him, this operation is dead in the water. You
still want me to bust him?"

Grant thought about this.

He didn't like it, not at all. MedTech could very
well be behind this whole sabotage business, and

244 AVID BISCHOFF

most certainly Begalli had been purchased from
MedTech.

Had they purchased him back?

Was Foxnall back on Earth rubbing his hands
with glee, waiting for the news of the demise of this
mission, the death of Grant... Or would they just
act when the mission got back? How could they
possibly hope to pull off something like that?

At the same time, he well knew that Kozlowsld
was right.

Begalli knew his stuff, and they needed someone
with knowledge of the inner workings of the alien
queen's chambers, and what any change in the
norm might mean.

"No. I guess you're right."

"Good. I'm glad we're agreed on that." She
started out of the room. "I'm going to get the team
ready for our push. Take a break, have a cup of
tea—but if you're coming with us, I want to see you
out there in an hour. Capische?"

"Yes. And Colonel Kozlowsld .. . Alex." He tipped
an imaginary hat. "Again, thanks."

She stopped and turned around, "Mr. Grant . ..
Daniel ..."

"Yes?"

"This isn't exactly the kind of mission you had in
mind, is it? I know your type. The enduring opti-
mist under fire. The sturdy campaigner who uses
ignorance as a positive. Overconfidence, Grant.
That's what I think it's called."

"Sounds like a defect, Kozlowsld. Why are you
letting it into that hive?"

"Because it's also called 'spirit,' Danny boy It's
infectious and it might just put us over the top

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         245

here in a very ticklish situation." She winked at
him. "Besides, it turns me on like hell, and your
goddamned Fire has got absolutely nothing on good
old-fashioned hormones to get me in the mood for

action."

Grant found a grin coming to his face. "You go-
ing to save some of those hormones for me, Alex?"

"Sure. Danny Next time I get PMS "

She turned and strutted away.

Grant shook his head.

What a woman. He wasn't sure if he could han-
dle her.

But he sure would like to try.

23

i

I  Ihe tactical nuclear weapon
struck the red alien hive dead on.

Kozlowski watched the event inside the lander
on the screen from the Razzia's perspective. These
tactical strikes had an extremely limited radius of
effect, with minimal fallout and radiation, but
nonetheless they had carefully ascertained the
weather conditions beforehand. Everything had
been perfect for the strike. The execution had been
precise and professional.

"Good shooting!" she told Hastings.

Then she went outside where the troops were
waiting for her,

They'd heard the news on their radios and were
cheering.

"Just the start, people," she said as she strode
into their midst. "The uphill road is ahead." She'd

246

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         247

already noticed that the ranks of the battling aliens
had thinned out somewhat. "What's going on out
there?"

"Just seconds after detonation the reds just kind
of stopped whatever they were doing and started
spasming. Lots got killed, I think, and lots more are
starting to take off," reported Mahone.

"Whatever psychic link they had with their
queen mother must have been broken when the
bitch got wasted," said Henrikson, nodding.

Kozlowski visualized that moment of intense de-
struction, the impact as that multimegaton nuke
tore through the chambers of the reds, decimating
all in it, shrieking caroming nuclear wind.

Had queenie gotten off one final scream of ag-
ony, one bitter nasty farewell to her evil crew?

Kozlowski hoped so. She hoped that bitch knew
who'd been responsible. She was only sorry the
thing didn't have a little picture of her to take down
to bug hell with her.

Kozlowski turned to where Grant stood, looking
uncomfortable and anxious in his suit. Doubtless,
he was regretting his volunteering for the move
into the hive. He'd be okay, though. He had the
stuff.

"There it is!" said Henrikson, putting down the
pair of binoculars and pointing. "You don't need
glasses to see that baby"

Sure enough, off to the east, she could see the
telltale mushroom cloud, rising up past the horizon
of this fiat, bleak landscape.

Black and poisonous.

"They're taking off in droves!" someone shouted.

Kozlowski swiveled. Sure enough, the reds

248 DAVID BISCHOFF

seemed totally disinterested in the conflict now.
They were taking off in waves. Racing away back
toward their blasted hive.

Why? Instinct? Whatever the reason, it wouldn't
do them much good. Still, Kozlowsld was pleased.
They wouldn't be hanging around here.

The blacks hung back for a moment, perplexed.

Then, as though the thunderbolt of realization
had hit them, they started after the enemy who
had attempted to destroy them.

Totally ignoring the interlopers behind the
shielded vessel from another planet.

"Yes!" said Kozlowsld, stamping the ground with
unalloyed glee.

Just as planned.

"It worked," she said. "The reds are retreating to
the other hive. This one should be clear in a few
minutes."

Grant was fidgeting. He clearly wanted this all to
be over. "Then let's get moving! Who's going in?"

"Everyone but the technical crew," said
Kozlowsld. "And Ellis."

"Makes sense," said Grant. "He's taking Jastrow's
death pretty hard."

"Yeah," said Mahone. "They grew up together,
joined the Corps together, and fought for years in
the same unit."

"He's a good marine," said Kozlowsld. "He'll be
okay in a few days. But I'd rather not have him in
close combat right now. Besides, someone has to
man the guns." She walked over to the bank of
guns poking out the side of the lander. "How are
you doing up there, Private?"

"All set. Colonel."

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         249

Luckily they'd trained all the troops to use these
things.

"Right. I'm sure you'll do just fine." She turned
back and walked toward Grant. "How about you?
You sure you want to do this."

•'N0. But I'm going to."

"Good. It'll be good to have you along.

"All right then, helmets on." She fitted her own
on above her suit, clicked in the radio, waited for
the rest of the troops to check in. When they did,
when it was all finished, she chinned her radio
again. "Okay, O'Connor." The troops lifted their
guns, released the safeties. "Drop the southern bor-
der."

They moved out.

There were still a few red aliens lingering about,
and these charged in when they got a whiff of the
intruders.

But this was the kind of operation that the ma-
rines had expected, that they had trained for. The
blasts of their rifles easily dealt with the charging
aliens. It was like a shooting gallery.

Meanwhile, Ellis and O'Connor were doing
damned fine work with the PEHs. They spiked a
few home to either side of the hive's opening and
moments later the marines had a nice tunnel of
force field to make their way through, cleaning up
the couple of xenos left over and not having to
worry about the ones who'd been excluded from
the party.

Kozlowsld turned to see how Grant was doing.
She'd put him in the back, to guard the rear so he
wouldn't shoot any of the troops.

m

DAVID BISCtiOFF

He was doing a damned good job of blasting
apart the fallen aliens, making sure they stayed
down.

When they reached the opening of the hive,
Kozlowski put a hand up, halting the party.

"What's the reading say, O'Connor?" she asked
through the radio.

"Sensors show they're still on the run. No party's
coming back."

"Good news." She turned to the group. "I don't
know how long we've got in there before the three
bears come home ... but I do know we're going to
go in there and get us some porridge."

Laughter. Cheers.

"However, let's be quick about it, okay? No sight-
seeing, no rubbernecking. We picked up enough
DNA from dead reds already, so we don't have to
pack anything in ice. Moreover, we don't have to
take 'em back alive. Now as we discussed before,
what we're going to be up against in there are some
pretty nasty bugs, bigger and smarter. Take this into
account."

"Kozlowski!"

She turned and found herself helmet to red face
with Grant. He'd undone his top and was holding
it at his side, getting himself a breath of fresh air.
"Well, Colonel!" His eyes were gleaming with ex-
citement. He looked like a Boy Scout who'd just
fired his first BB gun. "Were my combat skills sat-
isfactory?"

Kozlowski granted him a patronizing scowl. "Pat
yourself on the back later, Grant. And put that
damn helmet back on!"

She got back on the radio.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         251

"O'Connor. Send up the cargo drone."

That was what they were going to be using to
carry the royal jelly back up with.

"When it gets up here, we'll drop the southern
border and head out. We all ready?"

She surveyed the covered faces, knowing already
they were about as ready as they were ever going to
be.

"This is the last radio contact till we get back
out," said Kozlowski. "Open her up, O'Connor.
Over and out."

The skein of force frizzled off.

Perfect.

O'Connor was getting really good in his manipu-
lations. The tunnel of the force field that led from
the rounded entrance of the hive back to the bub-
ble around the Razzia was still intact.

There weren't too many of the blacks left out
there, but they couldn't get in.

Unless, of course, there were other entrances . . .

Likely, but the things didn't seem particularly in-
terested. They seemed more interested in the cargo
drone that had crawled up the slight incline. It was
an automatically controlled vehicle with eight thick
wheels. Omni-terrain. One of the marines took
over the controls when it reached them.

They started down.

The tunnels were recognizably of alien origin.
Kozlowski had seen plenty of hive tunnels, that was
for certain. Nonetheless, these were a little larger
than usual, with a different consistency of building
material.

252 DAVID BISCHOFF

"I've never seen an alien nest so empty before,"
said one of the soldiers.

"I have," said Kozlowsld grimly. "And it was a
trap."

The nest on Hollywood and Vine.

It was flashing back on her.

The walls, like inside a tumorous colon ...

The prickly fear, the sick-in-the-stomach .. .

Having people with her she respected, cared for ...
smack dab in the vat of trouble and fear ... Along
with someone special, for whom she feared the most.

She remembered her feelings for Michaels. It
welled up inside of her, and she had to push it back
down, along with her fear.

This time would be different, she told herself.

She shut out the memory and went into her au-
tomatic "competent" mode.

Nonetheless, she could feel the memories
crowding in on her.

About forty meters down it became apparent that
things were different in other ways as well.

There was a convergence of tunnels.

Three separate ways to go.

"Okay, Dr. Begalli. Get your butt and that ma-
chine up front."

Dr. Begalli shuttled forward. In his hand he held
a device with a pair of green sensor extensions. A
pheromone detector. Begalli tapped a few buttons
and pointed the device in each of the directions in
turn, scrutinizing the results carefully.

"Well, Doctor," said Kozlowsld. "Which way to
the buried treasure?"

The helmeted head bobbed eagerly "Well, the

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         253

pheromone readings seem to jibe with what I ex-
pected." He pointed to the left. "Let's try that way."

They started down the corridor.

"This is why we need Begalli," she told Grant.
"The tunnels of this hive are much more mazelike
than any I've encountered on Earth. Without him,
it might take a long time to find the queen
mother."

Grant shook his head. "If you say so. Colonel.
But I'm still keeping my eye on him."

"That's it. Grant. I've found the perfect job for
you. Begalli watch. Sounds wonderfully exotic,"
she said.

"Sure. That's what I'll do." Grant's helmet tur-
reted back and forth. "Where is the little creep,
anyway?"

"You're not doing your job ... But don't worry,
there's a curve just up ahead. He just went around
that. We've just lost sight—"^

"Colonel," said Private Mahone. "The motion de-
tectors show significant and sudden activity up
ahead."

"Begalli!" Kozlowsld yelled. "Get your ass back
here!"

Just then, the suited Dr. Begalli returned around
the bend where he'd disappeared.

Kozlowsld could hear him screaming without
benefit of the radio.




whe didn't, know the little
guy could move that fast—let alone that fast with
the hindering weight of a Ml battle suit on.

Uhe

"Yaaaaaaaaaaa!" screamed Dr. Begalli as he ran
for all he was worth around the corner. He ran past
them, toward the cover of the cargo drone carrier.

"Begalli!" said Grant. "What the hell is it?"

Kozlowsld didn't have to ask.

She could pretty much guess.

"Arms!" she yelled.

She needn't have bothered. The others were
ready, angling their weapons down.

However, ready as they were, all the preparations
were pretty much in vain.

The first of the queen's guard came around the
corner and Kozlowski had to stop herself from
gasping.

254

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         255

It was big and it was fast, and it was mean.

The blasts caught it full in the chest, and it kept
on coming for what seemed like a full second be-
fore it was lifted up and slammed against the wall.
It tried to scrabble back up and tackle them again,
before a final plasma stream knocked its head
apart.

"There's more," yelled the point man.
"There's—"

The next one was even bigger, and even faster.
Before they could swing their weapons away from
the first and onto the new arrival, it was on the
first soldier.

Horrible claws tore the man's chest apart.

"Jesus!" cried Private Mahone as she was
sprayed with blood. She swung her gun around and
let off a spurt of plasma, but missed. The beast was
incredibly fast. It finished one more ripping shake
of the point man and then leapt toward the rest.

Lesser soldiers might have lost it right then, so
horrific was the sight. But they kept their cool,
aimed their weapons, and let the thing have it.

Two more "guards" attacked.

Another soldier was torn apart before the guards
were subdued, blasted to pieces.

In all her time fighting inside hives, Kozlowsld
had never seen such an intense battle conflagra-
tion. The queen's guards were incredibly quick and
agile, almost imbued, it seemed, with superpowers.
Fortunately, this crew was also the best she'd
worked with, and they'd half expected something
like this.

Within violent minutes, four aliens and two hu-
mans lay smoking and quite dead upon the ground.

25G AVID BISCHOFF

"God," was all that Private Mahone could say, ly-
ing slumped against the wall, gasping for air and
still grasping her weapon, ready if another bug
should care to call.

"No, I don't think God's around here," said
Henrikson. "This is more like the Other Place."

For her own part, Kozlowski was just numb.

"Okay, we'll pick the bodies up on the way back.
Take a quick moment for a breather, because that's
all the time we've got if any of us wants to get out
of here."

Two more dead. She couldn't believe it, even
when she looked down at their twisted and torn re-
mains. This wasn't worth it. But she had her or-
ders, and she had her duty, and she knew nothing
more than that she had to complete this mission,
or their lives and the lives lost earlier and the
months spent on this project would have been for
naught.

A suited figure peeked around the comer of the
cargo drone. "Is ... is everyone all right?"

Dr. Begalli. Apparently, his head had been well
stuffed in the sand.

Daniel Grant, who had been leaning on the side
wall, exhausted, pushed himself off and walked
over to the man. "No. Two more dead You couldn't
have warned us this would happen?"

"We knew about the guards. What we didn't
know was that they'd come charging up at us like
that," said Kozlowski. She got her second wind,
went over to have a look at the only xeno head that
had survived the mauling. "Ever see anything quite
like this. Doctor?"

Begalli gave the angry and suspicious Grant a

ALIENS: BENOCIDE         257

wide berth in coming around to look. "Oh, heaven,
what a mess—No, Colonel, I had no idea . .. Loath-
some beasts. I don't recall the report from the last
visit here giving them full justice. We knew they
were bigger, but not this nasty. This is fascinating."
He looked up from the dead beast. He took a small
piece of blasted "skin" in a bottle. "I'll have to do a
genetic workup when I get back. The queen mother
[   may equip her guards to continue to evolve." He
"-   shook his head, mystified. "Or could the things

have devolved rather than evolved. What a fascinat-
\  ing mystery! So much is down here!"

"Let's get a roll on."

<     "Yeah, Begalli. And you go first," said Grant.
"Let's see a little courage for a change."

Begalli nodded, picked up his pheromone meter,
and they were off again toward the depths of the
alien hive.

k

"The queen's chambers should be down there,"
said Begalli.

The electric torches stabbed down into the
darkness—but beyond their reach, Kozlowski saw
the beginnings of what appeared to be some kind of
bioluminescence.

"Okay," she said. "This place has had a few sur-
prises that we weren't prepared for. There still
might be more. Dr. Begalli, Corporal Henrikson,
Daniel Grant, and myself will head on down to the
chamber. Dicer, Clapton, and Mahone, stay here
and guard our backs. I don't expect the radios to
work, so let's just say if we're not back in an hour,
get back to the lander and get out of here."

Private Dicer was a skinny guy with big eyes that

258 OHIO BISCHOFF

seemed about to pop out of his head. He'd put on
an excellent display of bug killing, but clearly the
pressure was getting to him. Sweat pasted his long
stringy hair down over his forehead. Private
Clapton was a little more poised. He was a thickset
easy-come, easy-go sort with a ready humor that
he'd somehow lost now. Private Mahone looked as
though she simply could not even believe she was
here. But they were all good soldiers. They'd been
good soldiers up above and they'd be good soldiers
down here.

"Yes, sir," they chorused.

Kozlowski took the controls of the drone from a
trooper and motioned the party onward.

It took another ten minutes to get down to a
place where the lamps were necessary to see. Still,
Kozlowski kept the side lights of her suit on, just in
case things suddenly went dark.

The tunnel went around a bend.

Suddenly opened up.

It was the biggest chamber that Koziowsld had
ever seen.

Eerily lit by the bioluminescence was the scene
that the scientists had more or less predicted,

The four huge pods, radiating around a larger
pod, above which the queen towered, a true giant,
tike a devil tilted atop her evil throne.

Only the sketchy holograms could never have
hinted at the textures or the colors, the bizarre or-
ganic geometry here that threatened to drive a
mind mad if concentrated on too closely.

The queen's pod glistened and oozed with what
Kozlowski knew to be royal jelly.

The stuff that would make Grant an incredibly

ALIENS: BENOCIDE         259

rich man, that would give the armed forces what
they wanted, that would spell a success to this
bloody campaign.

"Incredible," said Grant.

However, his eyes did not glow with avarice-

"Amazing," said Kozlowski. "We've hit the
motherlode of royal jelly here." She looked at
Grant. "You're going to get your tank filled, I
think."

She patted the metal, and it echoed hollowly

"Little problem," said Grant. "What about
queeny?"

The gigantic creature perched atop the center
mound did not even seem to notice they were even
there. Its attention seemed focused off into space,
as though it were meditating.

"I'm sure it's psychically directing the rout of the
reds," said Begalli. "Must be. It's so absorbed, it
didn't even notice the death of its guards." He
quickly scanned the room again.'"Four pods. Four
guards. Excellent correspondence. Looks like we've
got this place all to ourselves. All we have to do is
to deal with the queenie, and she's just a sitting
duck!" He smiled broadly, skipping a little closer to
the gleaming, gooey treasure hoard. "Looks deli-
cious, doesn't it? Ah, what wonders that stuff must
hold. I can't wait . .." He cut himself off suddenly
and looked furtive.

"Can't wait?" said Grant. "This is my expedition.
What exactly can't you wait for?"

"Uhhmmm. Nothing. Nothing, sir ..." He
drifted closer to the pod. "Look at it all. I never
thought I'd see this much up close. God, it's beau-
tiful."

260 DAVID BISGHOFF

The queen mother was as still as a statue. As still
as death.

Beautiful? Was fear beautiful? Dread? Terror?
All the primitive juices battled now at Alex Kozlow-
ski's barrier.

Michaels's beautiful head boiling apart with
acid.

His scream.

Her guilt.

She wanted to turn and run from this place. It
was worse than she had ever imagined it. The dead
body of her lover seemed superimposed over every-
thing.

She calmed herself. She'd known that she would
never get the trauma of that dreadful Hollywood
day off her mind, that she'd have to live it all over
again in her head.

She just never realized she'd have to live it over
again in reality.

And this time it could be her skin bubbling off, to
expose the grinning skull beneath.

"Beautiful?" said Grant. "I'm not so sure any-
more. People have died for this stuff. I feel ... re-
sponsible."

"No time for self-remonstration," said Kozlowski.
"Glad to hear you've got a conscience, but we really
should finish this mission up. Begalli, get away
from there. We can't take any chances. I want that
thing up there dead, and I'm going to do it myself,
right—-
Grant, though, was on a jag. Apparently the
deaths of the other three soldiers, so close, had re-
ally shaken him up.

"I don't know," said Grant. tt! just don't know."

ALIENS: GENOCIOE         261

"Mr. Grant! You started this whole thing rolling."
"Yeah, and I'm going to have to live with it for
the rest of my life, too. I'm paying for my igno-
rance. But you, Begalli—" He brought his gun up.
"You've been sabotaging this mission from day one,

haven't you?"

"What?" said Begalli, turning back to him.
"Come off it! I've been watching you, Begalli, and
I know damn well you're up to something," said
Grant. "You're still working for MedTech, aren't

you?"

"Okay, sure ... I have been up to something.**
He took a breath. "I'm doing research, indepen-
dent of Neo-Phami. I'd planned to publish articles
on my findings."

"Articles?"
"A new kind of alien. I'd go down in history. I'd

be famous ... forever!"

"Articles?" repeated Grants

"I've got more than enough money, Grant. And I
always hated MedTech—what I want is to be ac-
knowledged for my scientific efforts. That's why I
wanted to come down here. Maybe I'll even write a
book . .. Yes, a bestselleri"

"You heard it. Grant," said Kozlowski. "The only
thing he's guilty of is scientific greed. Now back

off . .."

"So how do you know he isn't lying .. . ?" Grant
started to say, before a sudden hissing shriek froze

his sentence.

Without warning, the queen mother jumped.
It sailed through the air, and it landed just short

of Dr. Begalli. Stunned and disbelieving, Begalli

tried to turn.

m

DAVID BISCHOFF

A long set of secondary jaws streaked out from
the alien's mouth, slicing and hammering into the
back of the scientist's head, boring through and
pushing his eyes out of their sockets like red Jell-0
being squeezed through cookie cutters.

Kozlowsld was stunned. The thing wasn't sup-
posed to be able to do that. Wasn't its ovipositor
fastened to the pod? But then wasn't that just
something else they didn't know about these
aliens?

Only a flicker of a second of thought, though. Al-
ready her rifle was going up, aiming, squeezing off
a round.

Henrikson fired at the exact same moment.

Their fire converged upon the exact same spot
on the queen. It hissed and wailed, a hole blown in
its thorax. Its blood rained down upon Begalli's
head and boiled his face away. The alien started to-
ward them, forelimbs clutching and seeking.

Kozlowsld lifted her nfle and aimed at its head.

It still came forward.

Henrikson's blasts joined hers, and the thing's
head burst asunder like a ripe melon.

They backpedaled to avoid the spurting acid, and
the great queen mother writhed and spasmed in its
death throes.

Kozlowsld stepped forward, looking down at the
massive thing.

Fortunately it had come far enough that it hadn't
spoiled its own jelly

"Right," she said. "Too bad about Begalli. Let's
get this tank loaded out of here, quick."

She jumped over to the vehicle and pulled out

ALIENS: GENOCIOE         263

\   the vacuum tap. This bit was going to be the easy

^    part.

Ti!
\

J     Only when the cargo drone's tank was topped
off, did Kozlowsld pull the tap out of the mem-
brane. There was lots more jelly, but they just
couldn't take it.

"I hope this will be enough," she said sardoni-
cally.

"Yes," said Grant. "Yes. It will have to do, 1 sup-
pose."

"Something wrong, Grant?"

"I think you know what's troubling me." The
man sighed deeply "Besides, I don't get it. Only a
few people knew about the alien incubation proj-
ect. If Begalli didn't sabotage it, who did?"

Casually, Alex Kozlowsld grabbed ahold of her ri-
fle. She'd been thinking about that very same

thing.
And she didn't care for what was floating up on

her mental screen.

She was about to turn when Henrikson's voice
sounded behind them.

"Thank you, folks. That looks just fine," he said.
"Please drop your weapons. This close, one blast of
this rule can deal with you both."

25

It

H

I ienrikson?" said Grant.
He knelt and put his rifle down behind him. "You?"

"That's right, Grant. MedTech pays a lot better
than the marines. Damned interesting ride, too.
Been enjoying myself." He motioned with the tip of
his rifle. "Come on, Colonel—sir. Get that pretty
finger off the trigger and set your gun down."

She obeyed. "You're going to kill us and leave us
here, aren't you?"

"Absolutely And no one will be the wiser. And by
the time we get back to Earth, a goodly part of this
royal jelly will be siphoned off—and some of the
DNA samples will be gone as well. Just in case ... I
daresay, once it's been announced you've been killed
in action, your creaky empire will be up for grabs.
And the Neo-Pharm scientists will pretty much dis-
perse . . . The best ones bought up by MedTech."

2B4

ALIENS: BENOCIDE         265

"I checked your credentials, dammit. They were
spotless!" said Kozlowsld. She knew there was some-
body giving them trouble, but she'd always felt that
she could contain any problems. She thought she'd
read this guy, that he was straight as an arrow. He'd
given absolutely no previous sign of disloyalty

"Hey! You've got an eminently corruptible bunch
you're working for, Kozlowski." The man was grin-
ning maliciously now, savoring his victory.

"What! Are you really a synth, Henrikson?" said
Grant, clearly just as shocked as Kozlowski at this
turn of events. And no wonder. Henrikson had been
Grant's main man, his apple polisher. He'd brought
him down to show him the alien incubation. There'd
been a trustworthiness about the guy. A big
brothemess.

Why hadn't they seen through him, dammit, she
thought.

"C'mon. I'm no synth! If I-were a synth, I could
have taken those Xeno-Zips with absolutely no effect!"
He nodded over to the royal jelly. "I avoid the crap."

"But . . . but I trusted you." said Grant. "I've got
such a good nose for this kind of thing."

The grin got broader. "There's where MedTech
has got your company beat all to hell, Grant. Every
day I douse myself in a special pheromone, de-
signed specifically for leader types to sniff. Makes
you trust me, gives type A's like you confidence in
big guys like me. That's why the other grunts didn't
care for me ... they weren't the kind that like this
pheromone. You guys bought it!"

"But you've risked your life with all the rest of
us ... You've been a damned good soldier!" said
Grant.

2G6          DAVID BISCHOFF

"Yes, I have, and I've had a good time, too, folks,
let me tell you. I am a soldier. A soldier of fortune.
I raid alien nests with buddies for money. I'm an in-
dependent and damned good at it. Only there's more
money in this for me than I'd ever dreamed of—and
I get to see the stars, too." He shrugged. "Don't look
for anything deeper here. That's all there is."

"But the death of the alien baby . . . that pod . . .
the sabotage ... it just doesn't add up."

"Sure it does, Grant. I caused confusion. I hurt
the program, and I pretty much framed poor old
Begalli. Fact, when I get back with this liquid gold
here, that's what I think I'm going to tell them. Yeah.
'It was Begalli, guys. He's dead now, though, along
with poor old Grant and Kozlowsld. Boo hoo. Mission
complete. Now let's get the hell out of here.' You see.
Piece of cake."

He started laughing.

Unless she acted, they'd be dead within seconds.

However, since they'd all taken off their helmets,
there might be a shred of hope here.

Without a further thought, Kozlowsld dived for
her rifle. She scooped it up, put her finger under
the trigger.

And was blasted by the quadruple barrels of
Henrikson's weapon.

Grant watched in horror as the blast hit Kozlow-
sid's left thigh. She spun around and fell hard onto
the ground.

The next thing Grant knew, he was on top of
Henrikson. The man had been swerving his rifle
for the coup de grace—but Grant's fist sailed into

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         267

the man's bare face with a solid impact before he
could pull the trigger again.

Where that had come from. Grant didn't know But
it felt so good that he found himself doing it again.

The attack surprised Henrikson so much he
clearly wasn't sure what to do. To defend himself at
close quarters he'd have to drop the rifle. But
Kozlowski wasn't dead yet, and to give up the
weapon meant certain defeat. He lifted his other
arm—but Grant countered.

And nailed him with another punch.

Thank God he'd worked out regularly! He hadn't
done it for fights. He'd done it for his self-
confidence and for the ladies. But his reflexes were
good, and it had all paid off.

The blows had opened up Henrikson's face. He
bled from the nose and from the mouth, and he
went down like a fighting suit full of potatoes.

Grant kicked the rifle away from him, and then
booted him in the head again. Hard.

"Unnnh!"

The lights in those bright blue eyes dimmed.

"You don't smell so good to me anymore,
Henrikson!"

A groan from behind him. He picked up
Henrikson's weapon, and then went over to Colo-
nel Kozlowsld.

"Ooooh," she said. "I think my hip is broken."

Indeed, there was a smoking hole in the
overplating of the hip area of the suit, exposing un-
derpart beneath.

"Yes," said Grant. "The underplating of this ar-
mor is designed to withstand severe concussions.

268 AVID BISCHOFF

Still, you're probably right about that hip. You're
going to need some help."

He helped her up. "Yeah. Thanks." She cringed.
"I'll make it."

"Good."

"Looks like you did a number on Henrikson there.
Surprised you didn't take his rifle and blast him."

"Don't think the thought didn't enter my mind.
No, if we can get him back, I'll be able to use him
to string MedTech up by its dangling prescriptions."

"Sounds good. We go now?"

"We go."

They revived Henrikson with a few slaps across
the chops, and then they made sure that he knew
which direction their rifles were pointing.

Grant propped Kozlowsld up on the sideboard of
the drone. She could walk, sort of, but he figured
he'd better save that for later.

The suit was getting too heavy for him, so he
took off the top.

"Helmets?" she said.

"Forget the helmets. We've got enough weight to
slow us down as it is."

"At least stick them up here on the drone, dammit."

"Yes, sir."

He had Henrikson do that. The traitorous corporal
performed the task grudgingly, without comment.

"The creatures should be miles from here," said
Grant.

They started trudging back the way they'd come,
with him keeping a bead on Henrikson while
Kozlowski controlled the cargo drone.

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         269

They were just at the tunnel opening at the end
of the chamber when they heard the rumbling.

"What the hell . . ." said Henrikson, looking be-
hind. "It's coming from that other tunnel, on the
opposite end of the chamber."

"Oh, shit," said Kozlowsld.

Grant watched, disbelieving, as an alien ran into
view in the dimly illuminated distance.

Followed by another.

Followed by three . . . four . . .

A clot of the monsters burst out of the tunnel.

"They must be coming back through another en-
trance!" said Kozlowsld. "They must have sensed
the death of their queen, dammit, and started to
head back."

"And took a short cut! Well, let's get a move on
here. I—"

He'd taken his attention off of Henrikson for one
moment—one short moment!—and had been re-
warded by the big man, big time.

Henrikson's body plowed into his, knocking Grant
down, bashing the rifle from his hands. It clunked
down beside him, and Grant grabbed it up again.

Henrikson jumped on top of him and they wres-
tled for the gun. They were on the other side of the
cargo drone, away from any chance of Colonel
Kozlowski interceding immediately.

"For chrissake, you asshole," said Grant.
"They're almost on top of us."

"I'm gonna make it out of here, Grant," said the
big man. "I'm going to be the only one who does."

As they struggled, the bottle of Xeno-Zip fell out
of Grant's pocket, cracking open on the alien floor
beside him, spilling its contents.

27B DAV SCHOFF

Henrikson was distracted.

Grant used it.

He wrenched the rifle away from the man's
hands and whacked the butt across the man's chin.

Stunned, the man fell back.

Kozlowski was limping around at that point,
holding a rifle. "Stand back. Grant. I'm going to kill
him!" she said, nostrils flaring with anger,

Grant took a look at the groaning Henrikson and
the fallen bottle of Xeno-Zip and then at the ap-
proaching aliens.

"No," he said. "I've got a better idea."

He scooped up a handful of the pills, and he
stuffed them into Henrikson's mouth, holding his
hands over the man's lips so he was forced to auto-
matically swallow them.

"Get yourself on the front of that drone, and let's
get the hell out of here," he said.

"What . . . ?"

"Let's just say that it's a far, far nobler thing that
Corporal Henrikson is going to do today than he's
ever done before."

Grant put the rifle down between the Corporal's
arms and then he grabbed Kozlowski's arm and
helped her over to the lander.

The man's eyes popped open.

Inside he felt as though an atom bomb had just
gone off in his brain.

He rolled his head, and saw, just meters away, a
horde of charging, hissing aliens.

In his arms was a rifle.

Fire raged through his bloodstream and nervous

ALIENS: BENDCIDE         271

system. He felt the familiar flight-or-fight response,
only flight didn't seem necessary.

Henrikson, after all, was God!

And in his hands was a fistful of lightning bolts.

Grinning, he got up as the aliens approached.

"C'mon, you bastards!" he screamed. "Let's play!"

He'd kill them all.

Then he'd go back up and nail that bastard
Grant and that bitch Kozlowski.

Yeah!

The gun in his hand started blazing.

Something was going on down there. Something
huge. The motion detectors were going nuts in Pri-
vate Mahone's hands. And her own internal warn-
ing system, her instincts, told her that it was
danger, pure and simple.

"Cripes," said Private Dicer, his eyes bulging, a tic
working at his mouth. "I can "even feel it in my feet!"

Sweat had broken out on the brow of Private
Clapton. "Shit, man. What are we going to do?"

"Colonel says if they're not back, we should cut
and run. I say we obey orders."

Every cell in Mahone's body agreed. She wanted to
run and hide. She was exhausted in every respect but
for the terror that had filled her from the very first.
This mission was worse than she'd ever imagined.

Something deep inside her though surged up.
Something strong inside of her took ahold of her,
and she realized that it was as much her as her fear.

"No."

"Say what?" said Clapton.

The rumbling was building.

"Shit, Private, those idiots down there are proba-

272 AVID 81SCHOFF

biy getting torn to pieces. We wait here, and that's
just what's going to happen to us," said Dicer.

Dicer started moving away toward the exit, eyes
rolling with terror. Clapton started foUowing him.

"You assholes move one more step, I'm going to
blast you," she said.

Dicer kept moving and she put a blast a yard
short of him, and then aimed in a fashion that they
well knew could take them both out with a simple
tug of the trigger.

"Jeez, Mahone? Are you crazy? Our asses are in
a sling here!" whined Clapton.

"Well then rock in 'em, guys. We're going to stay
right here and give aid and succor." Her eyes
blazed. 'And you know what! I've half a mind to go
in after the others."

"You're nuts!"

"I'm looking at my watch here. We've got a good
ten minutes to wait this out. I'm just following or-
ders." She grinned. "Just doing my job."

Sweating and fidgeting, the others stopped.

Private Mahone smiled to herself. She was get-
ting something out of this crazy jellybean hunt. She
was getting her soul back.

She just hoped she was going to have a future to
use it in.

"What happened?" said Mahone. "What the
hell's going on down there?"

The three soldiers were still waiting for them pa-
tiently where Kozlowski had placed them. Seeing
them there was a great relief, a testament to her
ability to judge people.

"No time to explain." said Grant. "We've just got

ALIENS: EENOCIDE         273

to get out of here. There's a batch of aliens coming
up through the tunnel."

That was all it took.

The cargo van kept going, rolling along with a
few more guards.

Behind them, she could still hear the echoes of
Henrikson's blazing gun.

Then it stopped, and there was a shriek the likes
of which she'd never heard before.

"If we're lucky, enough of the dead things piled
up that they're going to have to clear them out
first," said Grant. "C'mon, can't we get this beast to
move faster?"

"It's flat out," she said.

Running speed. It would have to do,

It seemed to take forever, but finally they saw the
lip of the tunnel's entrance.

They rolled out, and there, like a delightful prom-
ise, was the Anteater patientty waiting for them.

With her excitement, Kozlowski could almost ig-
nore the pounding pain in her hip.

She chinned her radio on. "O'Connor! Drop all
walls of the perimeter and tell Fitzwilliam to start
the engines!" she gasped a breath. "Prepare for an
emergency lift-offi"

"Yes, sir!"

"EUis. Get those guns ready We're going to have
some visitors coming out of that hole too damned
quickly Try and stop them, if you can!"

"Yes, sir."

They hightailed it-

They were halfway there when the aliens started
gushing out of the tunnel.

274 DAVID BISCHQFF

"Now, EUis!"

"Roger."

The private started blasting. The shells devas-
tated whole sections of the emerging aliens. One
blasted the side of the hive, sending down clumps
of stuff to crush a few.

But there were so many of the things that they
just kept on coming, regardless.

And coming too damned fast.

"Hurry it up!" called Grant.

Fortunately they hit a decline, and gained some
speed.

They were almost there.

The ramp had been lowered for them. All they
had to do, thought Kozlowski, was make that ramp.
Roll up. Get in, and nip off.

That was all.

Grant was running alongside her. "Alex .. . how's
the thigh?"

"Better. Why?"

"I think we can run faster than this drone. We
might have to abandon it."

Kozlowsld shook her head. "No freaking way,
Grant. We came all the way to get this stuff. We're
taking it back with us. Do you hear? I for one want
to see you take a bath in the smt!"

Grant grunted. "Only in the nude, and only if
you'll join me."

"If we're both lucky. Grant. If we're both lucky."

Somehow, they made it to the ramp.
The drone rolled up like a champ.
"Fold up shop!" cried Kozlowski. "EUis, get your
butt in here."

ALIENS: GENOCIDE

275

The hydraulic struts of the ramp started
squealing up, hauling up the platform.

Through another door Private Ellis raced in, still
clutching his dead friend's saxophone.

"Closing up the guns."

"Damn. We've got nothing to shoot them with
now," said Kozlowsld, hopping off the cargo drone,
letting the side serve as her crutch.

"Engines firing."

"The damned hatch has got to close first!" she
cried.

Then, a flicker of nightmare:

Talons, scrambling for a hold on the ramp, com-
ing up now like a castle drawbridge in the face of
vandals.

The too-familiar banana-shaped head, the
drooling fangs . . .

A hissing insinuated through the sound of the
hydraulics.

Guns raised to shoot the alien scrabbling in.

"No!" cried Kozlowski. "The blood will eat
through the door. We won't be able to lift—"

"Hell," said Ellis. "I can't play the stupid thing
anyway."

With all his might he threw the saxophone.

Its metal base bashed directly into the alien's head.

Bank!

The creature was knocked off the door, and it
closed, tightly and firmly, no alien blood acid eating
through it.

The lander rumbled and throbbed, and
Kozlowsld could feel its rockets kicking off this foul
planet's dust with fiery disgust.

Epilogue

s

Vhe was lying in bed, with a
beautiful view of the stars through a viewport win-
dow.

She was safe and sound, and a few simple,
nonaddictive drugs were running through her sys-
tem, 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

m

ALIENS: 6ENOCIOE         277

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.
Kozlowsld 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

278 DAVID BISCHOFF

seemed to drift toward the stars and into abstrac-
tion.

"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 mis-
sion? How long do you think you can survive?"

ALIENS: 6ENOCIDE         279

"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 Idd, Grant. Per-
fect. 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 rela-
tively 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 in-
fected 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

DAVID BISCHOfF

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 prob-
lem, 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 some-
time, 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

ALIENS: GENOCIDE         281

with a lighter. She puffed the thing ahght "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 Idd.

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

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DAVID BISCHOFF is 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 bestsellmg novel Star Trek: The
Next Generation—Grounded. The scripts he's writ-
ten for television include two episodes of Star
Trek: The Next Generation. He lives in Eugene,
Oregon.