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  But he died, he thought, and closed his eyes for a moment—and saw Jack when he was about seven, smiling, laughing Jack, running to tell him something, his small arms outstretched. God. He’d been so in love with his son, with his family. But then Ada had died when Jack had been fourteen, a stupid car accident, and they’d both lost their way. By the time he’d gotten himself together enough to see to his only child’s emotional life, Jack had been irretrievable. Everything Kaye tried had been useless or worse, and his beautiful son had overdosed at the age of twenty, an addict, a thief, and a liar. Kaye understood about choices and free will, he knew that Jack had made the decisions that had ended his brief life—but he’d used drugs to do it, and there were evil, parasitic scumbags who made their living murdering bright young boys like Jack Kaye, and they didn’t deserve to prosper. If signing on with a team of killers was the only way to effect some goddamn change, he could swallow his pride. He had.

  He opened his eyes again to the silent view of Fantasia, a world created to generate death, protected by malefic monsters. Aliens protecting the inhuman, protecting their precious chemical blight. The creatures were like nothing he had seen before; he couldn’t estimate their chances, although he wasn’t worried about his own personal safety. Much of him had died with Ada, most of the rest with Jack, and all that was left was anger and a soul-deep need to punish the guilty. He didn’t particularly want to stop breathing, but he’d long since accepted that it was probably the only way he’d ever be at peace again.

  “Sergeant, you want to go down for a final weapons check?” Puente asked, startling Kaye. He looked at the team leader, standing by the lone pilot. Both of them looked back, their expressions unreadable.

  “If the runners want to make that next freighter’s window, they’re going to take off within the next three hours,” Simmons added.

  Kaye wondered for a fraction of a second if the two wanted to be rid of him, perhaps to discuss Neo-Pharm business not meant for his delicate citizen ears—how they meant to cover their tracks when the op was over, maybe, or if any of the Fantasians were to be transported home alive—and realized he didn’t care.

  “Right, sure,” he said. Simon Ng was their weapons guy, he’d already proven himself to be entirely competent, but Kaye could take a hint. He took a last look at the planet they’d be dropping to, the cold ugliness of it, and turned and left the bridge. He was ready.

  * * *

  Frank Cole packed his shit, still at least a quarter drunk and with one fuck of a hangover, stuffing clothes and shoes and his few personal effects into his duffel, hating life. Even the fucking rehydrate shot had barely touched the headache. Thank Christ for cryo, it was the only thing that was going to put him out of his misery.

  Worth it, though. Last night had been one for the books. He didn’t even remember a goodly part of it, but he remembered laughing and drinking and getting it on with sweet Ana, who was one hot pussy when she wanted to be. He kind of remembered puking, and then drinking some more. After that, he’d known nothing at all until about twenty minutes ago, when he’d waked to a general announcement on the computer, sent loud enough to wake the fucking dead; Freeman, calling the departure for one hour. Frank had opened an eye, seen his crappy, stinky little room, and remembered why everything hurt. It was time to go home.

  Outa here, outa here, his mind sang endlessly, as he finished his packing, slid his freshly washed feet into his boots. He hadn’t had much to pack, and someone would give another reminder at five minutes, so he was good on time. He cleared his throat, sucked in some sinus and spat into the thin mattress, a little welcome to the room’s next unfortunate guest. Bug World sucked the root. Work all the time, everything cost, no fresh air or sunlight or places to go. Same fucking people, day in and out, always snickering about some stupid shit. And there was Trace, high and mighty with his strawberry bitch, the lords and their pee-ons, or whatever. Sucked. The. Root.

  Frank walked out the door and headed toward the lock all the way across the compound, squinting past the lights, too wrecked to whistle but happy nonetheless. The drop ship had brought his ticket home; Moby said Cindy was croaked, had been beaten to death by a stranger with Msomi’s name on his leash, and that meant there was no case, no one to flash in front of the grand jury. His ex had turned on him the day he’d slapped her around a little, this one time he’d mixed his whiskey with a taste of licorice. Cindy had passed on some information she shouldn’t have, about Frank’s employer, and suddenly he’d been looking at ratting out a whole number of people, or all day and a night on some rock. Numb cunt. He’d said he was sorry.

  Now she was dead, though, and he could ride his Harley out somewhere nice, or get a taco, or fuck some sweet Jill half to death and not have to look at her mug the next morning. And the next, and the next. Ten months, man. It was like being buried. Msomi was still pissed at him for hooking up with a snitch in the first place, but he’d gotten Frank out of sight and dealt with Cindy, so he obviously had his priorities straight. Frank was a valuable piece of muscle, big and mean and fiercely loyal. He’d have to stay away from the organization for a little while, but that was cool. He deserved a fucking vacation after this place.

  Too bad about Cindy, though. She’d been a nice piece in her prime. Not that she didn’t deserve it—she’d fucking begged for it, going to the federals on Msomi—but Frank had beat on her pretty bad.

  Water under the fucking bridge. Frank walked past Ops, slowed, looked in. Elvis was making coffee. The big fish with the burns and ink was in there, too, talking to Freeman over by the com station. Yen, some slant name, Frank couldn’t remember. He’d seen him yesterday, but had been too busy stomping bugs and celebrating to give him much notice. Guy was fucking huge, bigger than Frank, even. Running from a slap-and-tickle, someone said.

  The two big men locked gazes for the barest of seconds, sizing one another. Yen was pumped, his tank sweat-stained and dusty; he’d obviously been on haul duty, unloading and reloading the ship. They used magnetic carts to get everything to and from storage, but someone had to load the carts, and the biggest men always drew duty. Frank had done more than his share.

  Yen looked him up and down—and smiled, rolled his gaze away dismissively. Hangover forgotten, Frank stepped inside, shoulders back, duffel dropping to the floor behind him. Fuck that guy, who the fuck did he think he was looking away from?

  “Five minutes,” Freeman said, unaware of the drama unfolding behind him, his voice echoing through the hall a beat after his lips moved. “Five minutes to get onboard, passengers for the mystery ship to the great beyond. If we have to come find you, you will be ass-fucked.”

  Freeman chuckled, spun around in his seat. When he saw Frank, he grinned.

  “Hey, Frank,” he said. “Sorry to see you go, dog. Nobody stomps ’em like you. You realize you killed seven bugs since you come up here? Seven, man.”

  Frank looked away from Yen, thinking. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Got fucked up last night,” Freeman said, drawing out the words, encouraging agreement.

  Frank grinned. “Sure did. More ways than one, right?” He glanced at Yen again, but the big slant wasn’t even looking his way any more. Pussy.

  Freeman cackled. Over by the coffee machine, Elvis raised a hand, smiling.

  “See you in hell, wild man,” Elvis called.

  Wild man. “Not if I see you first,” he shouted back, and it hurt his head but what the fuck. He’d never see any of these fuckers again.

  “Ah, ship’s taking off in like three minutes,” Freeman said.

  “Yeah, right,” Frank said. “Good luck with the fucking fish.”

  Freeman laughed. “I hear that!”

  Frank got moving again. He heard Yen snort laughter, say something in a low, punkass voice, but he kept walking. He had a ride to catch, and a bloated slant fish like him would be bugfucked on his first pen run, anyway.

  He didn’t run into anyone else on the way out, ju
st as well, outa here, I’m outa here . . . He even walked straight through the ant farm, barely slowing to throw a string of mumbled curses in their direction. He was an awesome stomper because he hated them so fucking much; if he never saw another bug, it’d be too soon.

  He walked into the lock dock—and there was Trace and Didi and Mac Simpson, the going-away committee, and the fish brothers, and fucking Albert Beck, one of the creepy chemists, holding his bag and blinking around with his big starey eyes. Frank’s lips curled. Bam-bam crazy. Even with a fat nap, it was going to be a long ride.

  “Right on time,” Trace said. “We just came to bid our farewells, didn’t we, baby?”

  Didi nodded obediently.

  “Is this it?” Frank asked. “Where’re Lee and Moby?”

  “Already onboard,” Trace said. “Moby’s checking inventory, Lee’s prepping the computer.”

  A high-pitched, rising whine filtered through the blast-door into the lock. The ship was going online. Trace offered his hand to Frank, smiling.

  “Nice knowing you, Frank. Can’t say I’ll miss you, but you did keep me on my toes.”

  Frank ignored the outstretched hand, but was pleased by the comment. Damn straight he had. He shot a look at Didi. She was a strawberry and a whore, but she was also every Fantasian’s jack fantasy. She was throwing stoned eyes at the fish brothers, though. No goodbye kiss for ol’ Frank.

  Simpson offered him a nod, and Frank tilted his chin back at him. Frank didn’t respect much, but Simpson had beat on him once, when Frank had drank a little much and picked a fight with Elvis. Simpson was seriously trained, some martial arts shit. Frank had mostly avoided him after that.

  “Trog asked me to send his regrets,” Trace said. “He wanted to see you off himself, but he had a shift to see to.”

  Frank reshouldered his duffel, already impatient with the good-bye process. Trog D. was an ass-licker.

  “So are we going, or what?” he asked.

  “Soon as Lee says everything’s up,” Trace said. “Should be any—”

  He stopped talking, put a hand to his ear, his smile going still. He held up his other hand, motioning for all of them to keep quiet—and something in the way he did it, the way he suddenly forgot to smile made Frank’s gut tense.

  “How long?” Trace asked, and a half-second later, he was addressing the small gathering, talking fast.

  “Get on board. You’re leaving now. Mac, call it in, Lee says someone just dropped.”

  “Ops would have—” Simpson started.

  “Do it!” Trace snarled, and Simpson was already talking, and the lock door hissed open behind them. There was Moby, his expression grim.

  “Come on,” Moby said. “Pilot, you first, get us out of here. Lee’s waiting. Rest of you, get to AD and hang on.”

  There was another beat of stunned immobility, and then Frank was charging for the door along with the rest of them, entirely irritated. What the fuck? And his head hurt.

  Sucks the root, he thought dismally, and hurried into the cold and greasy lock.

  * * *

  Tommy ran through the short, narrow sections of hall on the ship, almost colliding with Lee. He was waiting just outside the bridge.

  “No countdown,” Lee said, and stepped aside. “Get us out, now.”

  Tommy didn’t argue; the drug runner’s tone and manner suggested that saying anything would be a mistake. He dropped his bag on the floor and slid into the chair, grabbed up the headset, his stomach in knots. He’d slept for shit, starting awake at every noise that filtered through the tightly packed bunk rooms. His few restless dreams were of the XTs, of glittering black bone, of running and falling. But he’d actually gotten up feeling hopeful. Pete had responded to the knock at his door with a groan, which meant he’d survived, and it was already time to go home; they’d made it, they were over the hump. No more Fantasia, no more bugs, no more disturbing interactions with screwed up people.

  Breakfast, coffee, a long, hot shower, and it was time. He’d almost allowed himself to relax, standing in the lock hall with his hungover bro, listening to the egomaniacal manager make small talk. Didi kept staring at him, then staring at Pete, but Tommy did his best to ignore her. She was depressing. Pete had been unusually quiet, maybe still pissed about their fight, but he was alive, that was the important thing; they’d work it out far, far from this hell hole. Even when Frank Cole showed, as pale and red-eyed as Pete, Tommy’s optimism didn’t waver. The “crew” was small, only Lee and Moby, him and Pete, Frank, and the strange-looking chemist, Beck. Apparently, the deaths of Raif and Mighty meant that a couple of workers who’d been scheduled to leave were going to have to take the next ship home. Fine by Tommy; the fewer crazy people aboard, the better. A few hours from now, they’d all be asleep again. Relatively safe.

  And now this, he thought, wanting to ask what “this” was, afraid to speak. A ship was coming, obviously not a scheduled drop. What that meant, he didn’t know, didn’t want to; what he wanted was to get them away from this mess, ASAP.

  He scanned the numbers, hands flying over the keys, weight differential, fuel temp, lock, retros—

  “We’re in, sealed!” Moby’s voice blared over the console com. “Go!”

  Tommy clenched his jaw, entered the autofly protocol command. After a single shuddering jerk, the ship lifted smoothly, rotating as it rose up, vibrating with the power of the drive and the blast of the lifters. Tommy watched the screens, slipping his harness on one arm at a time so he could keep a hand at the controls.

  “You may have to take evasive action,” Lee said. “Can you do that?”

  “They’re coming after us?” Tommy asked.

  “Probably,” Lee said. “Can you do it?”

  Tommy watched the screens as the ship lifted out of the dome lock, searching the sensor reads. The magnetic flux pickup, the atmospheric density changes . . . he didn’t see anything.

  “Where is it?” Tommy asked. “I can’t—”

  “Answer the fucking question!”

  Tommy took a breath. “Maybe. I don’t know. It depends on what kind of ship, if they have weapons . . .”

  Of course they had weapons. Someone was coming after them to get the drugs, they had to have some means of getting to them—but they wouldn’t blow the ship up, that would be counter-productive, and where the hell was it, even the satellite wasn’t sending them anything.

  The drive kicked in, rocketed them roughly northeast. The programmed nav had them punching out of Fantasia’s atmosphere at a point some forty klicks away from the compound. They’d rendezvous with an automated freighter headed back toward Earth, be carried back the same as they’d come out. Pete had said that Msomi had a half dozen such carriers, looping endlessly through this section of the Fuckall, timed to get supplies to Fantasia and product off at regular intervals.

  “You know where it is?” Tommy asked again.

  “Can’t see them,” Lee said. He was on the computer, running satellite captures. “They’ve got blinds up.”

  “Then how do you know?” Tommy asked.

  “Not your fucking business,” Lee said, still watching his screen. “Keep the auto on, but be ready to go where I tell you.”

  Tommy hesitated, shook his head. “Look, I know you’re going to shit on me for asking, but I think it is my business. I can’t run if I can’t see. How do you know someone even dropped?”

  A silence, and Tommy was about to ask again, when Lee grudgingly answered. “Someone fucked with the satellite to keep hidden,” he said. “They clipped every trip we had in. And about two minutes ago, the local cameras went down. Same time our drive came on.”

  Oh. Tommy didn’t know what else to say, or ask. He watched the autopilot carry them away from the compound, a sick fist of dread in his stomach. Corporate? Government? Some rival gang? He cursed his stupid optimism of only a few minutes earlier, helplessly waiting to do whatever Lee asked.

  * * *

  Early on Wednesday morning, Vin sho
ok everyone out of bed, passed out various stimulants, and unlocked the weapons cabinet. The boys were ready now, standing by, psyched to kick some alien ass and bring home the bacon, so to speak—even with Ray taking the lion’s share, everyone on board was looking at seven digits of credit when all was said and done. The creepy, agonizingly long wait was finally going to pay off, and Ray couldn’t be more excited—in a last minute realization of lRic-induced power awareness, he’d decided that he was going to push the button himself.

  Ray listened to Ian Carson explaining the EMP process in terms too technical to be understood. The tech was enjoying himself, skritched and showing off, but Ray was starting to think he’d let him ramble for long enough. Vin was watching the screens and the other boys were restless. Wilson, Duffy, and Jie were watching the aliens outside, checking their Uzis. Marsten and Hess were smoking a blina stick, but just to take the edge off; they were wide fucking awake from the stim tabs.

  “. . . so really, this is an explosively pumped flux compression generator, with wave shaping circuits,” Carson was saying, and Ray nodded, not giving a shit if it was a giant cream pie in a cannon, as long as it worked.

  “The compound is going to feel it, too,” Carson added. “Nothing big, I’m sure they’re well-shielded, but their outside electricals are going to surge and die.”

  Surge and die. Ray grinned. He liked the sound of that.

  “Heads up!”

  Turner looked away from Carson, saw Vinnie rising out of his chair.