Illegal Aliens (8 page)

“Me too!” Chisel cried in simple-minded delight. “Let's do it again!”

In a friendly manner, Hammer gave the boy a smack on the head. “Joking. He was only joking, pinhead.”

The boy smiled in embarrassment. “Oh.”

“I’m okay too,” Crowbar said, hawking and spitting into the distance.

Drill loftily sniffed at him. “Like, who cares if you got a hole in you or not, dude?”

The ganglord started to tell the two of them to stuff a sock in it, when an odd thought occurred to him. A hole in him. The gag had worked in an old spy film he’d seen once. Maybe. Just maybe.

“Follow me!” Hammer cried, sprinting for the blast area with the gang close to his heels.

“What's up, chief?” Drill asked, effortlessly keeping abreast of his commander.

“Cross your fingers,” Hammer muttered.

The panting Chisel did. Both hands.

Thick hot, acrid smoke lay thick in the area, and the Deckers had to tread carefully so as not to trip on any of the fused machine parts or chunks of green armor that littered the blackened floor. The place looked like a tuna melt left too long in the oven, and the smell, whew, worse then a wino's kiss.

After a quick glance about, Hammer grimaced. Damn, guess his idea had been for shit. Vexed, he kicked at a half-melted lump of robot, and the startled youth saw the hundredweight piece of metal disappear from view, shortly followed by a loud clang. Wary of their footing, the Deckers advanced closer to the spot and, sure enough, there was a gaping hole in the floor. Through it they saw a corridor on the ship level below them. The street gang needed no further prompting. Heedless of the hot, jagged metal that ringed their escape route, the Bloody Deckers scrambled down the hole and raced out of sight.

* * *

Replacing the blown fuses in his control board, Squee activated the video cameras in the arena and hissed in horror when he saw the bi-level view inside the devastated test chamber.

“Gone!” he raucously informed the control room. “The primitives are gone!”

“Mrmph,” Leader Idow said unintelligibly, absorbed in the task of recalibrating his navigational equipment.

Gasterphaz had lifted the lid of his tech station, and was working on the internal circuitry, bent over at the waist in an angle impossible for any species not possessing an endo and exoskeleton as did his. “A pity,” the Choron rumbled. “But that blast could have damaged even me.”

Frantically, the lizard danced about. “No-no! Not dead, gone. Escaped, gone!”

With amazing speed, Gasterphaz freed himself from the maze of wiring. “The primitives are loose?”

Aghast, Idow dropped an electro-wrench.
“Loose aboard my
ship?” he throated, using both of his mouths.

“Alive?” Boztwank screamed, his fronds quivering in fear.

Squee dumbly nodded yes and the mushroom feigned to swoon. This was terrible. He couldn't believe it! So the fungi pinked himself, and he still couldn't believe it.

Moving in astonishing speed, Gasterphaz slammed shut the lid of his tech station, switched on the anti-intruder systems and prepared for personal combat.

Coming out of his reverie, Squee located Trell, alerted the Technician to the situation and ordered him to go hide.

Muttering curses, Boztwank keyed the starship's reactor to 20/20, sealed the ship and set his squirter on emergency sequence.

But strangely, Leader Idow reclined in his chair and rubbed a pale blue hand across a pale blue cheek. Well, well, he cynically thought to himself. It appears that there was going to be a third test held today. Only this one, he and his crew had to pass.

EIGHT

Slow and cautiously, a human head eased its way around the corner of a white passageway, and daringly looked this way and that. Nothing was in sight but another white passageway with blank white walls. It was exactly like every other corridor in this goofy ship. The gang could have been going around in circles. Although they had been trying very hard not to do that.

“Clear,” Drill panted, and the street gang hurried past him. At the next corner, Chisel took the point position and ventured his head into the corridor beyond.

“Clear,” the youth announced, and the process repeated.

Ever since their escape, the Bloody Deckers had been dodging and ducking through miles and miles of these crazy white corridors; positive that somebody must be chasing after them. But so far nothing. It was a nice change from the alleys of New York, but where the Hell was everybody? Hammer knew that time was short and the gang had to do something clever, fast. Every science fiction movie he had ever seen told him that much.

“Chisel, go left,” he ordered at the next intersection. “Drill, take the right. And keep your eyes peeled for an air vent. Should be easy enough to spot on these damn white walls.”

“Gotcha,” Drill said with a wink, and departed.

Chisel seemed uncertain what to do, so Hammer turned the boy about. “That way, idiot.”

The young blade master toothily smiled at Hammer in thanks and tiptoed away as quietly as possible in his Army surplus boots.

“What if they don't find an air vent cause there ain't any?” Crowbar challenged in an insolent whisper, so close behind the ganglord that his bad breath actually swamped his body odor. “Then whatta we do, huh?”

Hammer glared at his personal troublemaker. “Then we keep searching till we find an air vent,” he snapped. “Now shut your freaking mouth or I’ll shut it for you.”

Just then, Drill softly whistled at them from around a white corner, interrupting the impromptu détente. “Hey, guys! Over here!”

The gang mobbed up, and sure enough, there, set flush to the white wall, was an air vent. About a meter square, the vent was covered with an ivory-colored, metal lattice which was fastened shut with some kooky bolts.

Frowning in concentration, Drill studied them with the eye of a professional, then smiled and pulled a lockpick and a rat-tail comb from his jacket pocket. Deftly he began removing the bolts. During the work, Hammer and Crowbar assumed defensive positions on either side of him. Soon the Deckers would be safe, concealed inside the walls like fugitive cockroaches. The ganglord knew that the aliens would never find them there, cause he’d seen this trick work in a dozen movies.

* * *

“What do you mean you can't find them?” Boztwank screeched, swooping over to the starship's Protector and beating his fronds against the rocky giant's back. “You incompetent bungler! There are dirty stinking primitives loose in our ship, and you can't find them?”

Facing his tech station, Gasterphaz failed to notice the leafy assault and went on viewing a panorama of pictures on his screen, showing empty white corridor after empty white corridor.

“Well?” Idow demanded vehemently, his bushy eyebrows alternately flexing in annoyance.

The mountainous Choron sadly shook his head. “The explosion wrecked a minor junction box and I’ve lost control of the cameras. I’m re-routing the system, but not even Trell could fix this quickly.”

“So?”

“So either they are moving very fast and dodging my security cameras as if they’ve been doing this their whole lives, which is most improbable, or else they’ve metamorphosed into white paint,” Gasterphaz stated simply. “I can not understand it. A road maintenance crew should not be able to do this.”

The rocky giant raised his hands in disgust. “If anyone thinks he can operate my equipment more efficiently, then please do so. Because I cannot find them.”

Maintaining a firm grip on his temper, Leader Idow took a deep breath, and slowly counted from one to eight.

“Well, they haven't physically left the ship,” Boztwank argued petulantly, his forcefield hands twisting dials. “None of the air locks have been opened. The storeroom hasn't been entered, or the engine room. Bah!” Boztwank hit the manual override and ordered his pot to pink him again. This was getting serious. Had the primitives evaporated into thin air?

“No attempt has been made to broadcast a message,” Squee added unhappily. “So I haven't been able to triangulate on them. Besides, nothing they have could penetrate our force shield.”

Glowering from his chair, Idow's eyes formed crescent moons. “Are you sure?” he muttered deep in his throats. “Consider the facts, they smuggled a distance weapon aboard, they escaped from the test chamber and now they elude us with the greatest of ease. Are these the acts of primitives?”

A coward at heart, or at the fibrous lump that served for a heart with his fungioid species, Boztwank understood the implied hint. “Not the Great Golden Ones?” he asked in quaking fear.

“Perhaps.”

“Foolishness!” Gasterphaz boomed, his immobile face never more so. “Two of their own kind lay dead in the test chamber! Would even the Great Golden Ones do such a thing?”

“Yes,” Squee interrupted, with a couple of extra sss tacked on to the word. “They would. The Great Golden Ones would do almost anything to capture us. Alive.”

“A trap?” the Choron mused thoughtfully. That possibility had not occurred to him. But then, until his race had joined the galactic society, they had never heard of the word.

Impatiently, Boztwank rocked his pot to and fro. “The gas! We must use the Omega Gas!” he cried. “Flood the ship. Nothing can resist Omega Gas. Not even the Great Golden Ones!”

“You hope,” Squee added, clutching his bare tail to his uniformed chest as if for protection. Omega gas. Dangerous stuff. Just talking about it made him feel itchy. But then, breathing made him feel itchy. And horny. To bad this planet was only populated by mammals.

“And what about Trell?” Leader Idow asked, casually leaning back in his chair. “Is he to die along with the primitives?”

Boztwank opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it with a snap. What a pleasant surprise! “A pity, but yes. He must become a sacrifice for the good of the ship.”

“He is also the only real Technician we have,” Gasterphaz noted pragmatically. “Maybe you want to do every dirty little job that keeps this ship operating properly, but I do not.” Clearly disturbed, the gargantuan Protector frowned, an act that resembled a landslide at a gravel pit. “Idow, we must save him!”

The blue being nodded. “We can try. Squee, contact Trell and have him take refuge in a gas-proof compartment until we tell him it is safe to leave.”

“Affirmative, Leader.”

“Gasterphaz, how long will it take to warm the Omega Gas?”

“Nine hundred seconds.”

“Then begin at once. Boztwank, start to seal off everything organic that the gas would destroy: clothes, food, and especially us.”

“Us? Oh, how clever of you, my Leader,” the mushroom mocked from his tech-station. “Why, I never would have thought of that.” The closing of the armored security door punctuated his words.

Eat waste products, toadstool, Idow thought angrily. “Gasterphaz, where is your warobot?”

“Outside the test chamber. Why?”

“Ready that too. Just in case.”

* * *

Barely a meter square, the ventilation shaft was a cramped fit, and the Deckers were constantly bumping into each other as they crawled along the seamless metal tube in single file.

“Drill, you fart on me again and you’re dead,” Crowbar growled from darkness at the end of the line.

Without a word, the locksmith passed gas again in retaliation.

“You son of a bitch!”

“Clam up,” Hammer ordered tersely. “Or I’ll beat both your heads in!”

“Hey, Chisel!” he called to the worn denim pants in front of him. “What do ya see?”

“A room,” the youngster echoed back. “Full of machines and stuff. Like a boiler factory. You want I should check it out?”

“Nyah, keep going.”

The gang had been in the airshaft for only a few minutes before they started encountering dozens of vents that led to various rooms. Funny that they hadn't found any in the corridors. Each vent offered them an avenue of escape, but escape to where? The Deckers needed an exit out of this ship, access to the control room, something useful like that. But so far, they’d only come across more damn rooms similar to that last one. This place had more fancy equipment in it than a high school! Unexpectedly, Drill butted into Hammer, which made him bump into Chisel. Seriously irked, the ganglord swatted the man behind.

“Watch where you’re going, stupid!” Hammer growled.

“Wasn't my fault, chief,” Drill denied with hurt innocence in his voice. “Crowbar slammed into me.”

“You lying sack of snot. I did not.”

“Did.”

“Not.”

“DID!”

“NOT!”

With a calloused thumb, Hammer clicked off the safety of his automatic pistol and the argument came to an abrupt halt. Ahead of him, Chisel was peeking through the next grill; the light coming through the metal lattice bright enough for him to see that the kid was grinning like a pimp on payday.

“What is it this time, pinhead?” the ganglord demanded rudely. “Their bathroom?”

Almost bursting with excitement, the boy turned and blinked at the darkness of the airshaft below him. “Geez, Hammer, you won't believe what's in here!” he gushed happily. “I think it's their,” he fumbled for the word. “You know, what the army has, a gun place. It's their armory!”

In a rush of adrenaline, Hammer quickly shouldered Chisel out of his way and peeked in for himself. Sure enough, the walls of the white room on the other side of the grill were filled with racks holding swords and spears and crazy, weird things with handles and slings. Most of the weapons he couldn't recognize, but the street punk could tell what some of them were. Rifles and pistols. Futuristic rifles and pistols. His mouth watered at the prospect.

“Jackpot!” Hammer breathed, unable to believe their good luck. “Hot damn, now we’re cooking!” Briskly as possible, he crawled aside to let Drill get to work on removing the grill.

* * *

“They’re at it again,” Squee sighed.

Suddenly alert, Idow almost fell out of his chair. “What? Who? Where?”

“The United Dirtling Welcome Committee,” the lizard Communicator explained, exasperated at the native's persistence. Why didn't they just watch the broadcast? Oh, he wasn't broadcasting anymore. Oops. “This must be the Nth time they have called. On one of the higher bands of the electromagnetic spectrum, too. Actually, that's pretty impressive for primitives.”

“Answer them!” a voice of command barked.

The aliens recoiled in surprise, because it wasn't Leader Idow who had spoken, but Boztwank. Furiously, the fungi glared at his shipmates.

“Answer them!” he shrilled, gliding closer. “Let's end this charade! The tests are ruined, primitives are loose on the ship, and we’re about to lose our beloved Trell.” A fake tear welled from a lidless eye. “So let's talk to this welcome group, give them The Speech, and ruin their day too! Let's ruin everybody's day!” finished Boztwank on a slightly hysterical note.

Using only a moment to consider the idea, the rock, lizard and humanoid decided to go with the mushroom's plan. Yes, it was time to make the whole planet miserable.

Eager with impatience, Leader Idow buttoned his uniform into a more presentable appearance and fluffed his eyebrows. “Squee, are you ready to broadcast?”

The Communicator grinned from gill to gill. “On the mark, my Leader. Ready?”

* * *

“PEOPLE OF DIRT . . . ATTENTION.”

Startled by the unexpected broadcast, the FCT raised their heads to see the alien called Idow sneering down at then from the wall monitor. General Bronson removed the cigar from his mouth, Sir John put his glasses on, and Mohad exploded from the bathroom. Holding his pants closed with one hand, he leaped over the iron railing, dashed past his teammates and threw himself onto his console.

“Recording,” he gasped breathlessly, jabbing a button.

“Get ready,” Rajavur warned the linguist. “This could be what we’ve been waiting for.”

Trying to catch his breath, Dr. Malavade just nodded. Everything was as ready as it would ever be. Now if only luck was on their side and the equipment would perform as desired.

Fiercely, the blue being on the wall monitor scowled at the First Contact Team, his shoulders straight, his eyes wide, his uniform incorrectly buttoned.

He's worried about something, Dr. Wu noted, absent-mindedly fingering the buttons on her own clothing. Us? Must be. Surely not the street gang.

“I AM SORRY TO REPORT TO YOU THAT THE TEST SUBJECTS ARE . . .”

“Now!” Rajavur ordered.

Instantly, Dr. Malavade hit a switch and a high-pitched squealing replaced Idow's words. But the alien continued talking, oblivious to the fact that his words weren't reaching anybody.

A long minute passed. Then another.

“Well?” General Bronson demanded.

Hesitant at first, Sir John slowly smiled. “It's working. The world is demanding to know what's going on, but no one suspects that we are jamming the alien's transmission.”

Rajavur appeared greatly relieved. “Then the rioting we feared?”

“Will probably not occur.”

Dr. Wu let out the breath she had been unconsciously holding. “Thank God,” the scientist said as if in prayer.

The radio jamming of what the FCT guessed to be the alien's pronouncement of Earth's destruction was Nicholi's idea. It was the old trick of what you don't know, can't hurt you. Worked all the time in Russia. If the aliens actually could destroy the Earth, then at least Humanity would go out with dignity and not as a howling, fear crazed mob. Nicholi had simply telephoned the notion to Rajavur and the professor had immediately set Mohad to work on the plan.

Gigantic dish antennae had been erected on top of every building facing the alien ship. Satellites were shifted in their orbits, moving rather close to a certain golden refrigerator. On Mohad's signal, everything but the refrigerator had vomited forth with a powerful electronic caterwauling, which blasted the alien's transmission off the air. Their message had never left Central Park.