Illegal Aliens (22 page)

At that point, Lt. Sakadea appeared in the doorway and saluted the room. “Sir!”

“Come in, Lieutenant,” Keller said, returning the gesture. “I see you were wounded.”

The Delta Force agent touched the bandage on his right cheek. “Just a scratch, sir.”

“Good enough. Have a seat.”

Closing the door, the lieutenant walked to his chair, pausing for a second to throw a crumpled piece of paper into a golden wastebasket where it disappeared in a flash of atomic disintegration. Assault Rifle #666, because it beasts the hell out of you. Geez, he was going to have a serious talk with the troops about this nonsense real soon.

“To continue,” Captain Keller said, returning to the original thread of conversation. “We have only three places to try and get a HN cube without resorting to piracy again.”

He consulted a list. “Our top choice is Darden: an agricultural world of horse drawn carriages and steam engines. Apparently high technology goes against a tenet of the local religion, sort of like our own Amish. They may have a cube to sell us stored away in the old barn that serves as the planetary starport.”

“Doesn't sound very encouraging,” Dr. Van Loon noted gloomily, taking notes in his pocket medical journal.

The captain agreed. “Next choice is a real long shot, the planet Oh Yeah?. A radioactive cinder of a world that has become a memorial to the stupidity of war. There are dozens of dead starships in orbit about the planet and Trell believes there is a remote possibility that we can find a still functioning cube among the wreckage. But it is highly doubtful.”

Nobody made a comment about the unpleasant notion of grave robbing, their mission eclipsing such mundane considerations.

“The last coordinate is a world Trell doesn't know a damn thing about,” he said.

Lt. Sakadea stopped scratching at the red stained cotton gauze square on his cheek. “Nothing?”

In his own defense, Trell pointed out that there were millions of inhabited planets in the galaxy. He admitted that these coordinates sounded vaguely familiar, but so did many others.

“An outside chance, at best,” Keller said in frank honesty.

Sipping thoughtfully, Prof. Rajavur drained his mug of coffee, it's excellent quality dispelling that old myth about ship food. Privately, he wished Yuki and the rest of his old team were here to share it with him. He was in space!

“To repeat Dr. Van Loon's earlier question,” the Icelander said aloud, “what are the worlds we can't use? Underwater colonies? Orphanages? Prisons?”

Captain Keller consulted his list. Even though the words on it were typed, the contents were still a little hard to read. The interfacing of Trell's translator, the ship's computer and laser printer was not yet perfect. “The first is the planet RporR. Trell, am I pronouncing that correctly; R—pour—R?”

The Technician gave a green nod. “That's right, sir. Although everybody else in the galaxy does tend to spit the name a bit more.”

The starship captain ignored the foolishness. “It's a forbidden world, nobody may enter or leave.” He twitched a faint smile. “RporR has a blockade around it just like Earth.”

“Excellent,” Sakadea said with a grin that put the taste of salt in his mouth. Quickly, he returned his lips to neutral. “Then they’re potential allies.”

In the strongest possible terms, Trell told the soldier he was absolutely wrong. RporRians weren't the allies of anybody, except maybe assassins and garbage collectors.

“The second is a secret criminal base that Trell knows about from his association with Leader Idow. It is the center of operations for a stolen starship ring. We can definitely get a Hypernavigational cube there, but we have broken enough laws already. Our mission is to ingratiate ourselves into galactic society, not purchase stolen equipment.”

However annoying that decision might be, the room had to agree with the thinking behind it. Too bad, though.

“What is number six, captain?” Rajavur asked curiously.

Keller scowled at the paper in his hand and then tossed it aside. “The planet Gee, supreme headquarters of the Great Golden Ones.”

“No, we don't want to go there,” Hassan observed from the floor, putting the finishing touches on the last chair.

“Thank you, sailor,” Captain Keller stated coldly. “Your work is finished here. You may leave.”

As the embarrassed technician shuffled out of the room, Keller surveyed the faces of his executive staff. “Any further discussion? Any comments? No? Accepted then.”

Rising to his feet, the Swiss officer walked over and activated the intercom on the wall. “Bridge? This is the captain. Have navigation turn the ship white, straighten our flight plan and feed in the coordinates for the planet Darden.”

“Acknowledged,” Lt. Jones squeaked from the box. “Any further orders?”

“Tell you when I get there. Captain out.” Keller rapped his knuckles on the polished tabletop. “Meeting adjourned, gentlemen. We reconvene on the bridge in six and a half hours.”

“And may the Prime Builder grease us with his own ear wax!” Trell cried, climbing on top of his chair and brandishing a green fist in the air.

The precise meaning of that phrase was unclear to the human officers, but the tone was positive, so they cheered along with him anyway for the sake of solidarity.

TWENTY

Centuries ago when the Galactic League was formed, it had been decided, for major political reasons and minor military ones, that the league should not be placed on any existing planet and thus elevate that race above others. So an uninhabited star system was arbitrarily chosen, and in a historic feat of engineering a sphere of metal was slowly built about the local sun to totally encase the solar body. On Earth, the structure would have been called a Dyson sphere, after Freeman Dyson, the American scientist who first postulated the mind staggering concept. The rest of the galaxy simply called it impressive.

Inside the sphere, houses, buildings, parks, forests, lakes and buildings-buildings-buildings were constructed at an astonishing rate. Then the population of a dozen worlds poured into their new homes. But with 900 quadrillion square kilometers at their disposal, overcrowding was a word that would never be used on the artificial construct. Even now, with the population at 12 trillion, people often rode to work alone in the car of their monorail train during rush hour.

Interestingly enough, the debate over what to name the titan sphere raged for less than a planetary rotation, when a particularly sentient sapient suggested it be called Big, for notwithstanding its many other qualities, that one could not be denied. The name was readily accepted.

Extending like a spider web into the heart of the flaming sun, were mighty solar energy cables; coal-black superconductor ribbons, kilometers thick, that collected the raw power necessary to run the contra-gravity generators, so vital to an upside down community and the distance-annihilating telecommunicators that made the smooth operation of a galactic society possible.

On the outer hull were continent-wide clusters of Nova Grade lasers, batteries of giant Dispersal Ray cannon that used multiple thermonuclear bombs just to blow the dust out of their barrels, million kilometer long quasar spitting antennas, force shield towers each built from a small planet, docking facilities for a hundred million superdreadnought starcrafts and one fast food outlet run by a slug-like being who was very rich indeed.

As hard as it is to believe, Big was not an original invention of the League. At the other end of the galaxy (second spiral arm, fourth sun to the left) another solar body had been found enclosed in an artificial globe of metal. When a team of eager young explorers landed and entered to greet the builders, they found a dark and deserted interior, with a smaller sphere inside. Obviously the inhabitants had constructed it as the sun had shrunk from usage. A natural phenomenon that would take several billion planetary rotations. Bravely entering the second sphere, the explorers found another sphere, and another, and another . . . After four hundred and twelve of the things the team of explorers (now quite old) finally gave up and went home.

The current theory is that the mad builders are still in there somewhere, but nobody is particularly anxious to meet them. There were quite enough amateur loonies in the universe, no need to bring in professionals.

On Big, amid the sprawling grandeur of the inverted mega metropolis, at the mathematically chosen North Pole—longitude 0, latitude 0—was a small stone amphitheater. The open-air structure was brightly illuminated by the dominated sun in the overhead sky. The architect had claimed that this was a purely dramatic touch and it had won her much acclaim. But honestly, the auditorium's lack of a roof had been done just so the plant wouldn't have to stop work every few hours and go outside to eat.

A thousand seats filled the amphitheater, each facing inward towards a raised stone dais in the center where there stood a simple podium of solid gold. This was the audience chamber of the Great Golden Ones, where the guardians of the galaxy released bulletins to news reporters or sought the council of learned beings.

Today it was reporters; a hundred gatherers of news from as many different worlds. A true cornucopia of beings who bore only a faint resemblance to Earthlings: tugs and rugs, rats and bats, apes and grapes, logs, frogs, dogs, lizards, birds, rocks and even the occasional humanoid or two. The reporters had been brought here on a Double Star, Alpha Prime, Ultra Emergency Summons, which meant interstellar war, the sun was about to explode, or a really major party.

Floating in the sunny air above the crowd were thousands of shiny metal balls. Most of them were remote broadcast cameras, some were reporters from machine cultures, some containment vessels for energy beings and a good half dozen or so that nobody was exactly sure what the heck they were.

At the sound of a gong, a muscular golden male in a flowing amber tunic walked out onto the dais and the murmuring crowd grew quiet. With a sigh, The 3000, the supreme commander of the Gees, braced himself and once again wondered whether or not it was really worth his while talking to these idiots. Reporters were the bane of his existence.

“Attention gentlefolk,” the tall humanoid said into the forcefield microphone floating invisible in the air before him. “I bring you news of a shocking and most unpleasant nature.”

The reporters grew tense, they knew what this meant. No party.

The 3000 cleared his throat. “A race of violent primitives has escaped from the blockade about their world, and is loose somewhere in the galaxy.”

For a moment there was shocked silence at this unprecedented announcement, and fevered images of the RporRian plague flashed through everything's minds. Then came the expected barrage of questions.

“Do they have pets?” a reporter asked in the front row, shouting over the ruckus.

Startled by the unexpected question, the Gee blinked. “Ah, yes, they do have pets.”

“What kind?” the newsgatherer persisted.

“Various kinds, I believe. Is this germane?”

“Insects? Do they keep insects for pets?”

“Yes-yes! They keep insects for pets!” the golden male snapped irritably.

“SLAVERS!” the hysterical spideroid screeched, its eight arms and legs undulating wildly. “My people must be set free!”

“Non-sentient insects,” The 3000 said loudly over the commotion. Just like you, he added privately.

“Oh.” The reporter averted all of his eyes and blushed. “Never mind.”

A potted plant next to the arachnid kicked it with a convenient frond. “Come on, grow up,” the evolved rutabaga chided. “It's not like they eat vegetables or anything.”

Trained to be wise, the Gee said nothing.

“Do they have any new recipes for dried proto yeast?” something asked from the rear of the room.

The 3000 forced himself to smile politely. “We are getting away from the main issue. These criminals—”

“What is their opinion of the Thurstd problem?” asked a translucent balloon creature who was strapped into his chair by elastic bands to prevent him from drifting away on the morning breeze.

“But they don't know anything about it!” the Gee stormed starting to lose control. “How the Hot Void could they!”

“New race pleads ignorance to the plight of the Thurstd gik,” spoke the reporter into the soft plastic recorder on its clear pudgy wrist. “Plus, are partial to foul language.”

The 3000 tightened his jaw and in a practiced motion he drew a wide-barrel pistol from inside his tunic. Ruthlessly he swept the assemblage of reporters about him with the weapon's invisible rays. Instantly, the news gathers froze motionless, and even more importantly, quiet, as the telepathic command to
SHUT UP
reverberated in their brains. The psionic pistol was a special modification of the
STOP THAT
cannon and was authorized by the Gee Security Council solely for use at these infamous meetings.

In the ensuing still, the wall behind the Gee swirled with color and changed from a holographic view of the galaxy into a magnified picture of the Galactic League herself. The regal reptile smiled benignly at the crowd and every reporter in the amphitheater saluted the video monitor in their own way, even the metal globes in the air did a little dip of respect.

“Your Excellency!” The 3000 gasped in surprise. “I’m honored!”

“Thank you, 3000. It has been a while since we last attended these gatherings.” With royal dignity, the impious female gazed over the assembled thong. “Now are these dangerous primitives flying blind through space, or do they have a Hypernavigational cube?”

“Yes! They stole it!” the golden male said in righteous fury.

“Indeed. From whom?”

Oops. He had not been expecting a cross-examination. Especially by the League. The 3000 mumbled something that was unintelligible.

Daintily, the amphibian lifted an eye ridge. “Could you repeat that please?”

“Us. They stole the cube from us,” the Gee admitted, with a woebegone look. “They raided the superdreadnought orbiting their world, stole a cube and the crew.”

A silence more hushed than before filled the room. Primitives took over a Gee superdreadnought? Zow! Holy cow! Wow!

“How?” the League asked, getting to the heart of the matter.

“That information is not privy to public consumption,” The 3000 said stiffly, placing both hands behind his back.

“Understandable,” the scaly female said on the monitor. “Still, they must be fairly advanced to build starships, even ones without cubes. Perhaps they are advanced enough to join the League.”

“But they didn't invent it,” the golden male hotly denied. “They stole the engine design!”

“From whom? Not you again?”

The 3000 had troubled getting this out. “L-leader Idow.”

A shocked gasp was heard from the reporters, and the League narrowed her bulging eyes in anger. “They are aligned with Leader Idow? Then I authorize the immediate destruction of their entire solar system, from the primary sun to the Oort cloud.”

“Well, they’re not exactly aligned,” he hedged.

“Then what?”

The Gee was trapped and he knew it. Before the near hypnotic gaze of the Galactic League it was worse than useless trying to lie, or even shade the truth. The story of X-47-D's incompetence could no longer be kept secret. “The humans killed him and copied the engine design before we could stop them.”

The reporters wrote furiously. Leader Idow was dead? This was real news!

“When is the parade?” a catish reporter called out.

“How much is their reward?” asked a news hound.

A mass of granite raised its stony head. “Where will the monument to them be built?” a Choron boomed. Rocks were his people's favorite subject to read about.

“How do you spell human?” the spideroid queried.

“Interesting,” the Galactic League mused, her throaty tones echoing over the amphitheater's PA system. “They destroy the greatest threat the civilized galaxy has ever seen, and you blockade their planet. Why?”

Smelling spilled life-fluid, the assemblage eagerly leaned forward. A good question that. The League could have been a reporter. The newsbeings waited, stylus in manipulator appendage.

“They are dangerous primitives, Your Excellency,” the Gee officer decried. “A threat to the peace of the galaxy!”

It sounded to the League like the Gee was desperately trying to cover up a monumental blunder. The Great Golden Ones had been making quite a few of those lately. “Dangerous, you say? Did they kill the crew of the ship they raided?”

“Well, no.”

“Then what happened?”

The 3000 sighed in resignation. Hot Void, you couldn't get anything past the Galactic League. “They left behind a big bag of thulium. Two hundred kilograms.”

Startled mumblings came from the crowd.

“Only a most unusual thief leaves behind enough to buy what they steal,” the League noted pragmatically. “It is our opinion that before any further punitive measures are taken we wish to speak to these humans. Find that ship, 3000, and bring us the crew, alive and unharmed.”

Properly formal, the Gee saluted. “I will do my best, your excellency. We want them too.”

“But we want them alive. Remember that.”

As the picture faded from the wall, The 3000 touched his forehead and in a blinding flash of light teleported away. Nigh instantly, the reporters burst from their seats, fighting to reach the doors. The dignified amphitheater quickly resembled a video theatre in which somebody had shouted the words radiation leak.

But remaining seated in the front row, seemingly unaffected by the clamorous departing of his fellow news gatherers, was an aquatic creature whose prominent dorsal fin was covered with telecommunication devices. Crimson colored, the fishy biped was dressed in a wide assortment of clothing, none of it coordinated, except possibly against each other.

His name was Bachalope Thintfeesel, (Bach to his friends, which were few, rarely sober and mostly wanted by the Gees. Just like the friends of any good reporter). He was a freelance news writer who made his living by being the first with the most at every major event. And this was just about as major as they come. Piracy! Kidnapping! Blockade running! The death of Leader Idow! Now an interstellar thing hunt under the direct order of the Galactic League.

Surreptitiously, under his feathered rhinestone cape, Bachalope used a four fingered hand to check on a sophisticated sound recorder disguised as one of his less flamboyant belt buckles. Good. He got the entire discussion on wire, including the mass exiting. Now if he could just locate the primitives before the Gees did, he would have the story of the century! But with an entire galaxy to search in, how could he possibly find them?

Then he smiled toothily. Yeah, that ought to do it.

* * *

Back at Earth, squadrons of Gee superdreadnaughts sent by The 3000 were supervising the positioning of an armada of drones to englobe the planet, and strategically placing a flotilla of mobile space forts whose batteries of antimatter missiles could easily stop any conceivable mass escape.

The UN fought back by grounding every aircraft, docking every boat, and stonewalling any Gee attempt at communication by filling the entire radio spectrum with gigawatts of rock songs, canned laughter and the song of the humpbacked whale; which the aliens translated as, “Oh baby, I’m so hot tonight! Hubba-hubba. Let's do it. Let's do it now. Oh baby, oh baby. Want a fish?” Which seriously annoyed them. Everybody hates Muzak.