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  “Get ’em, Cole, you numb bastard!” Someone yelled, and Trace looked up in time to see the ATV crash into another screaming bug. The creature flew up against the front shield, limbs skittering, thrashing like an insect with a broken back. Trog slowed and replayed it before switching to the next cam, to the seemingly endless amusement of the watchers. They did love their diversions.

  Trace stayed near the machines, standing at the back of the lounge area. The prostitute, Ri, kept trying to catch his eye, but he ignored her. She’d get her own patch supply, probably fuck for extra; she didn’t need him, and he didn’t want her. She’d figure it out quickly enough.

  “Suck on that, motherfuckers!” The transport hit another bug and Frank’s voice boomed through the room to enthusiastic applause. Frank was a bully and a moron, but he did know how to play for the com and cameras. The Chase brothers stayed quiet.

  The pilot, Tommy . . . It was best that he wouldn’t be staying. He was a little too bright for Trace’s taste, he liked his people happy and dumb, and Tommy Chase didn’t strike him as either. Of course, he was a highjack . . . But he wasn’t as cowed as Msomi’s puppets usually were, even with baby bro up here to provide incentive. Lee or Moby was supposed to break down those types before they even left Earth, but it seemed not to have taken in Tommy’s case.

  Trace yawned. No matter, he’d be gone tomorrow, him and his lop brother. So would the abrasive Frank Cole, which would be a relief for a number of people, mostly workers that Frank had threatened while drunk—so, pretty much all of them. No one would miss him. Hell, Trace had been double-paying Ana Lewis to keep fucking him, and Ana wasn’t even all that picky.

  He makes it, I’ll tell everyone to stroke him up, get him out of here on a high note. Cole would be fired up after the shoot, looking to keep the high going—dangerous in short-timers. Last bulldog to come back from a good pen run had trashed his room and picked one hell of a fight, and he’d still had two weeks to go.

  Trace would have someone get Cole drunk, slip in some blina extract. The stuff the chems were turning out these days would sedate a bull elephant. Ana could fuck him, he’d sleep until departure. It was a regular trick, ordering up some last minute brotherhood, keeping the violent ones from wanting to go out on a destructive note. It usually worked.

  Bugs chased the ATV across the screen, everyone laughing and drinking, more bets being made on how the three men would do clearing the lock. The ride was only foreplay, after all; the main event was the bug shoot.

  “Lee’s back,” Trog called out. “No problems getting in.”

  Trace nodded. There wouldn’t be; the flyer came in through the drop dome. Besides, every bug on the planet was chasing the ATV. Or prepping the suffocating cattle for breeding, or eating Mighty–Raif leftovers.

  “Who’s failsafe on Lee?” Trace asked. “John or Lyle?”

  “Lyle.”

  “Have him go back up Stinky,” Trace said. The failsafe was just a worker who stood by during entries and exits, ready to manually lock down the doors in case something went wrong. With Frank Cole leading a couple of fish through a lock clear, it seemed prudent.

  The ATV bounced and slammed its way back toward the compound, bugs all over it—and for the first time in what seemed like forever, Trace found himself remembering his one trip out to the pens, on Big Mike’s last day as manager. It had been exhilarating and scary as shit.

  Fantasia had been open perhaps a year, and Trace had only come up for a visit. Running Adrian Msomi’s Pacific Rim operation had grown tiresome for him, and he’d needed a break. Besides a nasty split with a long-time girlfriend, there had been that embarrassing shit with Ray—fucking Ray Turner, an old buddy for whom he’d personally vouched to Msomi, and who’d turned out to be a treacherous jerk-off. When Adrian had mentioned that Fantasia’s current manager might need to become unemployable—it seemed that Mr. Big had been skimming substantial quantities of product for a little side business—Trace had been interested, enough to make the trip. He’d taken one look around and been entirely convinced that this was the place for him; the thought of leading the strange group of cons and workers who lived here, creating his own little badass kingdom . . . he’d immediately started training to run the compound, sending word to Msomi that he’d be staying awhile. He’d taken Big Mike out to the pens a week or so after and sent him the way of a few cattle. Being that close to the things, a single thickness of blast-door between him and the screaming monsters as they’d carried Mike away . . . That had been something else. On the very next drop ship, Didi had come into his life, cementing his commitment to making Fantasia his home. If they went back to Earth, he wasn’t certain she would stay with him. She was smart—she had even trained to be a pilot, at one time—and beautiful, and easily manipulated, as most 7ers were. Here, there was no question that she was his.

  Thinking of Didi made him ache. He had given himself to her, completely, and she had submitted to his will in every way he could dream . . . But there was a part of her that was always just beyond his grasp, that seemed to get further away the harder he tried to get to it. He thought he’d never love again, after Samara had left, but meeting Didi had torn away all his inhibitions, made him like a child again. If she had any idea of the power she held over him . . .

  “Here they come!”

  “I say at least one of the fish pisses himself, any takers?”

  “Three in the lock, and Cole gets ’em all!”

  “I say they all get Cole!”

  Raucous laughter, and more bets, more drinks, more excitement. The ATV crashed through another group of bugs and slowed, on the last outside cam now, pulling up to the outer lock.

  “Fly, cocksuckers!” Frank yelled, and hit the zapper. The crowd of bugs sprang back from the electrified transport, shrieking, and Rijke opened the lock. The ATV shot in, the lock coming back down—

  —and two, three bugs went in with it, the last narrowly avoiding a tail smash by the door. It flicked the long, black appendage out of the way at the last instant, disappearing into the closed lock. The bugs outside went crazy, throwing themselves against the barrier—and inside, the Fantasians were on their feet, shouting and laughing, as crazy as the bugs in their own way.

  The inside camera came up, a good, clean view of the ATV being pounded on by the trio of screeching black bugs, and the crowd hushed, every gaze riveted to the big screen. This was the best part, the part where anything could happen, always over too fast for the workers.

  Trace leaned against the monitor bank and yawned again, hoping no one else would die today. It seemed unlikely . . . Though watching the prying, howling bugs onscreen as they crawled over the ATV, he thought he wouldn’t be placing any bets.

  * * *

  The ride was a lurching, bouncing nightmare. Pete and Tommy sat in back, harnessed across from each other, Pete not sure where to look each time one of the aliens rocked the ATV, each time Frank shouted something manly and smashed into another bug. He tried closing his eyes, but then he could really focus on the horrible sounds they made, like mutant elephants being fed into a wood chipper. He kept thinking about what that girl in the thinsuit had told him back at the compound, Taryn-something, about animals being used as surrogates for the monsters—kept imagining how that would feel, knowing that you had something terrible living inside your body, growing and eating and becoming one of those things out there. Between that and Frank’s driving, Pete was strongly considering puking his guts out.

  Tommy sat there like he did this every goddamn day, looking toward the front, only a slight tension in his jaw to indicate any anxiety. The clatter of the ATV and the ongoing alien screams made conversation impossible, and there was nothing to say, anyway, they’d make it or they wouldn’t and talking wouldn’t change anything.

  He was glad he’d spoken up, at least, gotten Lee to send Frank with them; it was well worth the minor humiliation, since Cole had actually dealt with the XTs before. Pete just hoped that he was as badass as he pr
esented himself when it came to killing bugs.

  The ATV slowed. Pete leaned forward and looked front, saw the same shit he’d seen since they’d started this godawful ride. Darkness and flashes of glistening black, but now the flashes were closer, the transport was stopping and the aliens pushed up against it. He could see bony limbs and clawed hands, metal teeth snapping at the plexi window. The transport rocked. Pete grabbed one of the harness straps, reminding himself to breathe.

  “Fly, cocksuckers!” Frank yelled, and an electric hum thrummed through the ATV, and the alien screams rose in volume and fury—but they fell away a little, too, and then the transport was moving again, fast—

  —and the cries fell further, and Frank slammed to a stop a half second later. The ATV rocked again, less than before, and in the sudden near stillness there was another shrill, trumpeting call, piercing and terrible, and Pete felt his nuts try to crawl into his body, felt a line of sweat pop on his upper lip, beneath the nose filter. He looked forward again, saw spiny fingers clawing at the front shield, saw another of the giant bugs stride past, hunched over and dripping goo from its long, obscene jaws.

  Two? Three? More? The transport was safe from the mob, but at least two XTs had come in with them. Two they were going to have to kill if they wanted to go back inside, which Pete very much did.

  Tommy unstrapped himself and stood. He grabbed one of the deflect hoods, held it in the hand that wasn’t holding the Glock. Pete hurriedly did the same, his gut in knots.

  “Got three inside, confirm me,” Frank said loudly. Another screech from outside covered the response from Ops, but Frank nodded. He stood up, grabbed his shotgun, turned to look at Tommy and Pete. He stared them up and down, a look of disgust on his coarse features.

  “Bug chow,” Frank said. “You’re just gonna get in my way.”

  The ATV rocked again. Tommy nodded at Frank.

  “You’re right, we probably will. So what can we do to help?”

  Frank took a single stride forward, all he could manage within the confines of the narrow transport, pushing his red face into Tommy’s.

  “Don’t need help from pussy lops like you,” he said. From a meter away, Pete could smell his sour breath, the reek of body odor. “You saying I need help?”

  Tommy didn’t flinch. “I don’t know you,” he said, slowly. “I don’t know what you need. But we’re here and we have guns and I’m figuring you don’t want us to wait in here while you clear the lock. Or do you?”

  Pete could see the wheels turning, Frank’s angry gaze going momentarily blank before turning angry again.

  “Fuck, no,” he said. “You think I’m gonna go risk my ass so you pussies can stay here? Fuck you!”

  Tommy nodded, his expression suggesting that Frank was offering up valuable information. “Right, sure. So what’s the plan?”

  Frank obviously wasn’t used to being deferred to. He glowered a moment more, then shrugged.

  “Shock ’em off, go out firing,” he said.

  Tommy nodded again. “Which way you want us to go?”

  “Doesn’t matter, you’re chow anyway,” Frank said—then added, “I’ll go left, I guess. You go right. But watch for me on the other side. You shoot me, you’re fucking dead.”

  Pete nodded along with Tommy this time, his heart really starting to hammer as he drilled it into his head, back of the ATV, we’re headed toward the back, Frank’s going to the front. He couldn’t remember being this scared, not ever.

  “You hear that, Trog?” Frank turned his head slightly and bellowed toward the front console, nearly giving Pete a heart attack. “One of these pussy lops shoots me, you open the lock back outside, give the bugs another couple of fucks!”

  “Got it,” came the raspy reply, and Pete could hear laughter and cheers behind it. Great. He’d managed to forget that they were being watched, that a roomful of people—safe and sound, drinks in hand—were enjoying the show. Not that he cared, much, but it was extra incentive not to shit his pants once they were facing the XTs.

  “All right,” Frank muttered, and walked back towards the front. “I zap ’em, you open the door.”

  The transport rocked again, maybe slammed by one of those giant, muscular tails. Pete had no doubt that given long enough, they’d find a way in. All the more reason to get moving . . . But he felt frozen, felt like his legs were made out of cement. Tommy stepped past him, put one hand on the sliding door’s tap panel. He slipped the deflect hood over his head, adjusted the nose mask, and crouched slightly, holding the gun in both hands.

  “Pete,” Tommy said, more of a question than anything, and Pete nodded, pulled his own hood on. He forced himself to step to the door, breathing deeply, looking down at his weapon through the bleary face shield. There was no safety. We go right, to the back. Right, to the back. Aim for the head.

  “And—go!” Frank shouted, and the ATV was thrumming again, and then the door was open, the alien shrieks impossibly loud.

  Tommy jumped out and then Frank was there, barreling past Pete, shoving him into the door frame. Pete half fell out of the transport, the sound of gunfire blasting through the thin, cold air, rapid shots and then a thundering boom, a howl of muted laughter from Frank—

  —and Pete saw a giant black form dancing toward them and he pointed and pulled, the weapon jumping in his hands. The bug screamed and kept coming, smoking fluid spraying from its midsection, and then Tommy shoved him back, pointed, and fired another rapid series of shots. Pete saw the thing’s long head split apart, saw greenish-gray matter burst out of the top, saw the bug sway and drop.

  Frank shouted something unintelligible and the shotgun roared again. Pete tried to look everywhere at once, saw another bug leaping toward Frank, standing at the front of ATV, he was facing away, firing at another one—

  —and Pete squeezed the trigger of his weapon, the head, get the head, he couldn’t tell if he was hitting it but the thing was still lunging, its bony arms outstretched. Frank pivoted at the last instant, fired—and hit the thing directly in the throat. Blood sprayed, the giant head flying backward, taking the creature with it. It clattered to the floor in a smoking heap, its jaws snatching feebly at nothing.

  For a beat all three men were turning, staring, counting—and then Frank raised his shotgun over his head with one beefy arm, turned to look up at the camera.

  “Yeah!” he screamed, shaking the weapon, pulling his deflect hood off. He looked savage with glee, with triumph, his face and head shining with sweat. “Fuck, yeah! You see that? Stomped those fuckers! Stomped ’em!”

  Pete looked at Tommy as Frank continued to rant, dancing in victory next to the decapitated bug corpse. Tommy took off his hood, blew out a deep breath. Pete fumbled with his; the rush of cold air felt good on his skin, and with the hood off, he could actually hear the sizzle of acid blood as it etched the rock, see the rising wisps of bitter smoke around the alien bodies.

  We made it. We made it.

  Pete let out a shaky laugh, and Tommy’s shoulders dropped. He suddenly looked exhausted, but he was also smiling, turning to look at the XT he’d killed.

  “Nice shooting,” Pete said.

  “Not bad for a lop,” Tommy said, and then they were both laughing.

  6

  John Kaye sat at the computer station in ship’s Ops, rerunning the satellite captures of Fantasia’s surface, watching the computer overlay topo maps. He had the small bridge almost to himself; most of the team was asleep. This close to the operation, they wanted to synchronize, be rested and ready for the big event. They’d make the drop within twenty-four hours.

  The ship’s auto steadily carried them toward Msomi’s planet. Daniel Aaronson had pulled watch—he was the team’s main hacker, he would have been up, anyway—and sat across the room, his attention focused on a handful of screens; he watched for various alerts in the complicated system of digital manipulations they had going, keeping their approach hidden. Neither man spoke, and the over-bright room was still but
for the humming of machinery.

  Kaye would sleep soon enough. He’d already written up several fairly simple tactical plans, each relating to some aspect of terrain where they might set down, all with contingencies for any number of necessary strategic changes—but he wanted to look at the XTs again, needed to. He tapped up the footage he wanted, a three minute loop from the satellite.

  Look at them, he thought wonderingly, watching them run. The recording was from an area near the compound, made when the drug supply ship had dropped into Fantasia’s atmosphere. There were dozens of the strange, dark creatures, all moving roughly east. Widening out, he could see a couple hundred of them, some emerging from partially buried caves, most just coming from out of camera range somewhere. The silent footage was riveting.

  He’d memorized everything the Grant Corporation had given them on the XTs. Two meters tall, relentless, violent, strong. Powerful acid for blood. Inner and outer jaws. Multiple growth stages, requiring embryonic implantation in an animal host. Neo-Pharm had managed to interview two people who claimed to have spent time on the planet—both had been paid extremely well for the information—but after reading their accounts, Kaye had been skeptical. Both witnesses worked in the sub-trades, not exactly credible. And anyone could tell a story. For the kind of money Neo-Pharm had put down, he’d suspected just that; inventing giant bugs that bled acid and laid babies in cattle seemed a lot more likely than actually seeing them. But as he watched them, now, swarming across the low, dark hills, running hell-bent to try and catch a drop ship they couldn’t possibly reach . . . none of what the convicts had said seemed all that far-fetched anymore.

  He studied their movements, their strange, loping gait, the obviously treacherous tail action. Fighting the Fantasian’s “bugs” on the ground was out of the question. Out in the open, they’d be run down before they could expend their first mags. If this were a police or military op, he’d insist on firebombing or chemical tacticals, no direct contact at all. With a not-so-legal resolution action, materials inside the compound needed to be confiscated, people questioned, perhaps executed. And while the final result would involve a burned-out shell of a manufacturing facility, bombing the crap out of it before getting inside wasn’t an option.