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Its metal base bashed directly into the alien’s head.

  Bonk!

  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 Kozlowski could feel its rockets kicking off this foul planet’s dust with fiery disgust.

  Epilogue

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

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

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

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

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

  This should be a time to celebrate.

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

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

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

  Yeah!

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

  The generic brand though…

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

  And she’d helped step on her share.

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

  Whatever.

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

  “Hello, Colonel. How are you feeling?”

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

  “Good. I’m pleased. Very pleased.” His eyes seemed to drift toward the stars and into abstraction.

  “You come here to talk about something?”

  “Nothing in particular. I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine. Nothing more?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Shoot. I’m not going anywhere.”

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

  She laughed. “And leave the Marines? No way. I’ve got a mission in life, Grant. And it’s not to guard your butt.”

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

  “I don’t know any other kind of life… except…”

  “Except what?”

  “Except for maybe when I was a little girl. Yeah. I had a real good life when I was a kid, Grant. Perfect. And then a bunch of monsters came down and destroyed that life and destroyed a lot of lives.”

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

  Grant seemed to consider that for a moment.

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

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

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

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

  “I don’t know… I just hope that what we’ve done on this journey does make a difference.”

  She smiled. “I’ve been watching you, Grant. I think it already has, jelly or no jelly.”

  “Thanks. I guess maybe you’re right.” He started to leave, then paused and turned.

  “Alex?”

  “Daniel?”

  “If you won’t work for me… Maybe you’d like to have a little bubbly, a little caviar, a little gourmet dinner with me sometime?”

  “Hell, no!”

  He sighed, nodded, and turned to go.

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

  He seemed confused for a moment, looked at her.

  She winked at him.

  His face flushed and he laughed.

  “Count on it, Colonel. Count on it.”

  He blew a kiss at her and turned.

  “Oh. And, Danny boy,” she called after him.

  He turned. “Yes?”

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

  “Anytime, Colonel. Anytime.”

  He left.

  She looked back out at the stars.

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

  Well, since she was just a kid.

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

  To my wife, Gail, with all my love

  CAPTAIN HOBAN’S PROLOGUE

  I was in the middle of the whole thing with Stan and Julie. I guess almost everybody on Earth knows how it ended. But they don’t know how it began. I’ve been putting together everything I know about it. I figure it started the morning Stan got the summons.

  1

  That morning Stan had to go downtown to the Colonial Mercantile Building on Vesey Street. The day before there had been a ring at his doorbell. Stan hadn’t been doing much when it came. He
had several experiments going in his cellar laboratory. The lab took up most of the space in the old frame house on Gramercy Park that he had inherited from his father. Stan hadn’t been feeling well lately, and although he tried to tell himself it wasn’t anything, some little voice within him kept on intruding, telling him, “This could be very serious…”

  He had been avoiding his doctor for a while, but now he called up and made an appointment with Dr. Johnston at the Fifty-ninth Street clinic for the next day. That was when the doorbell rang.

  The man standing outside was tall and thin, and dressed in a badly pressed gray business suit.

  “Are you Professor Myakovsky?”

  “I am,” Stan replied.

  “Are you the Stanley Myakovsky who wrote the book about Ari the ant?”

  “Yes, I am,” Stan repeated. He was starting to feel a little better. This guy seemed to be someone who had read his book, was probably a fan, maybe even wanted an autograph. “What can I do for you?”

  “I got a summons for you,” the man said, taking a folded paper out of his pocket and slapping it briskly into Stan’s hand. “You are served. Have a nice day, Doctor.” He turned and left.

  Stan went back inside and looked over the summons. He had no idea what it was about and the document itself didn’t enlighten him. It simply said he was to appear in Courtroom B at 311 Vesey Street the following day, or face the consequences.

  Have a nice day.

  What a laugh.

  It had been so long since Stan had had a nice day, he couldn’t remember what one looked like.

  * * *

  The next day he left early for Vesey Street. The Broadway trolley was running again, rumbling past the newly restored buildings of midtown. It was a bright day outside, and despite his depression, Stan started to feel just the slightest lift to his spirits.

  That lasted until he got to Vesey Street.

  Vesey Street was filled with city and federal buildings, some of them quite old, dating from before the time of the aliens, miraculously unburned during the anarchic days when the aliens ruled. Some of the buildings in this area were brand-spanking-new. There had been a lot of rebuilding since those days. Stan would have liked to have been part of the first days after humans reoccupied their own planet. It must have been exhilarating, reoccupying your own country, having a future again on your own planet. Now, of course, it was business as usual…More or less…

  Times were pretty good. America was experiencing a boom. Business was strong. A lot of people were making a lot of money. Some people, of course, were losing a lot of money. It had to come from somewhere. So it came from people like Stan.

  He mounted the stone steps of the Criminal Courts Building. Within, he found a clerk who checked his summons and directed him up a flight of stairs to the correct courtroom.

  He walked in. It was a small room with a half-dozen chairs facing a raised desk. The sign on the door had said Judge Jacob Lessner, presiding. Behind the desk sat a small man in black robes. He said, “Dr. Stanley Myakovsky?”

  “Yes,” Stan replied.

  “Come in. I suppose you know what this is about?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Judge Lessner frowned. “Your lawyer really should keep you better informed.”

  Stan nodded, although he knew very well he hadn’t been answering his lawyer’s calls over the last few days.

  “Well, this is a pretty simple matter.” The judge searched among the papers on his desk until he found what he was looking for. “This is a government order seizing your spaceship.”

  “The Dolomite?” Stan asked.

  The judge searched his paper until he found it. “Yes, of course, that’s the name of your ship. You may no longer go aboard.”

  “But why?”

  “You were sent a notice a month ago advising you of the government’s decision to take action against your unpaid bills.”

  Stan thought the paper must be somewhere among the unopened mail on his desk. He had been too depressed of late to open any of it. Most of the letters had something bad to say: how this investment or that was sliding to hell on him, or how his patents weren’t earning as expected. And even more papers about all his back taxes.

  He felt a wave of hopelessness engulf him. He tried to struggle out of it. “They are not allowed to do that. My spaceship is one of the few ways I have of conducting business. If they take that, how am I supposed to pay them what they say I owe?”

  “That is not my concern,” the judge stated flatly. “You should have taken that into consideration when you fell so deeply into arrears. In any event, I am hereby notifying you of the government’s decision to take your ship. If you have any difficulty with this, you or your lawyer can file a complaint with the clerk down the hall.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Stan said bitterly, and left the court room. A few blocks away he found a park bench to sit on. He needed to collect himself. His heart was beating wildly and he was sweating, though it was a mild day. At least, he thought, maybe my bad news for the day is over. I’ve had my share.

  That was before his doctor’s appointment, of course.

  * * *

  Dr. Johnston of the Fifty-ninth Street clinic came to the dressing room just as Stan finished knotting his tie.

  “How did my tests work out?” Stan asked.

  The doctor looked uncomfortable. “Not so good, I’m afraid.”

  “But I was here a year ago; you said I was fine!”

  “A lot can happen in a year,” the doctor said.

  Stan wanted to say, Sure, tell me about it, but he held back.

  “Exactly what is the matter?” he asked.

  Dr. Johnston answered, “I might as well give it to you straight, Dr. Myakovsky. You were correct in your surmise about those black marks on your chest and back. They are indeed cancers.”

  Stan sat down. He needed a moment to think about this. He couldn’t believe what he had heard. And yet he had suspected it for months.

  Finally he asked, “Is my condition terminal?”

  “Yes.” The doctor nodded gravely. “In fact, you don’t have much time left. A matter of months. I’m sorry, but it’s best to give you the news straight. The condition, as I’m sure you know, is incurable. But its progress can be slowed, and we can ease some of the symptoms. I’ve already made out a prescription for the medicine we prescribe for such cases.” He handed Stan a folded slip of paper. “And there is also this.”

  The doctor held out a small plastic box. Within it, packed in foam rubber, were a dozen ampoules of a bluish liquid.

  “This is Xeno-Zip. Have you heard of it?”

  Stan nodded. “If memory serves, it is produced from the royal jelly of alien females.”

  “That is correct,” Dr. Johnston said. “I must tell you it’s no cure for what you have. But it should relieve the symptoms. The stuff’s illegal and I shouldn’t be giving you this… but it could be just what you’re looking for.”

  “Does it have much in the way of side effects?” Stan asked.

  The doctor smiled grimly. “It has indeed. That’s why it hasn’t received government approval yet, though many people still use it. Indeed, it has become the most-sought-after consciousness-altering substance in existence. Although the effect is not invariable, it does give most people an intense feeling of well-being and competence. Others experience levels of their own being not normally perceived. Still others have an orgasm that seems to go on forever.”

  “At least I’m going to die happy.” Stan wasn’t smiling as he spoke.

  2

  It was cold that night. Wind demons seemed to chase up and down the streets of New York, wailing at the high-flying moon like all of the banshees of Howard Phillips Lovecraft.

  The block that Stan’s house stood upon had once been genteel, a part of Gramercy Park. Now, armed citizens patrolled the streets night and day. Insurrection and disorder were rife all over the city, brought on by the breakdown of law and order since the trou
bles with the aliens. Some people could remember the coming of the aliens, and the many deaths that had resulted from their macabre practices. Their effect on New York had been to make it seem a much older city than it in fact was, one of those ancient cities like Baghdad or Babylon. Now, after the aliens, the city felt like it had seen unimaginable evil, and was resting, a little exhausted, waiting for the good life to start up again.

  After making himself a light dinner from an InstaPac protein ration, Stan went to the living room and started a fire in the fireplace. He sat down in a rocking chair and stared morosely into the flames, listening to the wind whistling outside the window and thinking of how little time he had left.

  It was strange how, upon hearing that your life had an imminent termination date, you began to think of suicide. Stan had never before understood Schopenhauer’s saying that he got through many a long night with thoughts of suicide, but now it made sense. To kill himself might even be a triumph; it would rob the cancer of its victory. No longer would he dance to death’s tune. No longer could the pain curl him up and make him beg for relief. He could get out of it, laugh at it all, and, as Hamlet had said, “Make his quietus with a bare bodkin.”

  From the plate of apples near his chair he picked up a short, keenly edged knife and looked at it like he’d never seen one before. Where in his body should he put it in? Should it be done hara-kiri style? Or was there another manner more appropriate for a Westerner?

  And yet, tempting as the thoughts of suicide were, they were mainly interesting when considered in the abstract. He didn’t really want to kill himself. He wanted to do something. But he didn’t know what it was.

  These were long, sad winter thoughts he was thinking, and he was startled out of his reverie when he heard the front door chimes.

  Stan looked up in surprise. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He was a lonely man as he had been a lonely boy. He had gotten used to his solitary condition early in life, and had learned there was no sense struggling against it. He felt that it was written somewhere that he should be alone. This was his fate. He had no girlfriends—in fact, no real friends at all. No one came to take him to the movies or a concert, or for an evening’s drinking. Since his parents’ death four years ago in a traffic accident, he had become even less sociable. Sometimes he talked with colleagues at the laboratory, but even among people who should have been his own kind, his macabre and ironic sense of humor kept him apart. Stan lived alone in the house. He had set up a laboratory in the basement, and as far as possible, he did his experiments, wrote his papers, and lived his life at home, in solitude, among familiar things.