Illegal Aliens (9 page)
People everywhere were fiddling with their TV sets, wondering what the hell was going on. Damn things always broke just when you need them. A few people, exceptionally clever or paranoid, suspected government intervention and tried to do something about it, but anyone who could wouldn't, and anyone who would couldn't.
Down in Australia however, the hastily appointed French translator to Parliament was having trouble convincing the government that this new radio gargling was a jamming field of some kind and not an obscure form of the Gaulic tongue. Of course, the Aussies did not believe him, having dealt with the French before.
In high drama, Idow scowled at Earth for one last time, flexed his bushy eyebrows, and left the screen in a swirl of color. Mohad waited a few seconds more, just to be sure, and then let blessed silence wash across the globe.
“Do you think it worked?” Rajavur asked hopefully.
Sir John Courtney shrugged. “Impossible to say at the moment. But I would guess, and it's only a guess, mind you, yes.”
* * *
Contemptuously, Leader Idow clicked off his microphone and settled back in his deliciously soft chair. So much for Dirt. Within minutes, there would be a worldwide panic and the planet's civilization would soon begin to collapse. He had done this many times before. The Speech always worked. That's why it was THE SPEECH. Lovingly, it told the story of an invasion fleet coming to ray blast Dirt into a cinder; with lava rain falling from the sky, volcanoes, tidal waves, death, destruction, famine! Whee!
The Speech was woven whole cloth from the essence of nightmares. Idow had willingly paid a fortune to have it written for him, but as he had killed the author immediately afterwards, he received a full refund, death being the only sensible way to deal with writers. Leader Idow didn't even have to read The Speech anymore. He knew it by hearts.
Ah, the poor Dirtlings must be going mad by now. There would be mass destruction, buildings on fire, warfare in the streets, rape, murder, suicide! Every brutal act lovingly recorded in quintaphonic 3D for their later viewing pleasure.
In sublime delicacy, the blue being shuddered in borderline ecstasy. Of course, the mere fact that there was no war fleet, and that Idow and his shipmates could no more destroy a planet then eat it, meant nothing, since the stupid Dirtlings thought they could! Idow wrapped himself in warm thoughts of violent bloodshed and was on the verge of orgasm when a titanic roar woke him from his reverie.
“Squee!” Gasterphaz thundered, noticing a meter on his security board twitch. “Someone has broken into your room!”
“My room? My collection!” Squee cried, instantly realizing the truth of the situation. “The primitives are after my weapon collection!”
Not coming awake, Idow choked. Twice. By the Prime Builder's nose hairs, it was just going to be one of those trips, wasn't it? “G-Gasterphaz, send your warobot to Squee's room. Order the machine to kill anyone it sees. No. Anything that moves! The primitives must not get their hands on those weapons!” Even though most of them were antiques, the weapons were still in perfect working condition and some of them powerful enough to constitute an actual threat.
“How long till the Omega Gas is hot?” Boztwank demanded, almost uprooting himself as he nervously fondled the dirt in his pot. The rich loam slid easily off the frictionless surface of his forcefield hands.
“Three hundred seconds,” Gasterphaz rumbled, both hands busy at the controls.
“Too long!” the mushroom screamed and spinning in place, he extended an arm to stab a button on the Protector's board. In raw horror, the Choron tried to pry the translucent limb away, but the forcefield limb resisted even his mighty hands.
“Stop, you fool!” Gasterphaz shouted in desperation. “The Omega Gas isn't hot enough yet!”
“Die!” Boztwank screeched, out of what little mind he had ever possessed. “Die!
Die!
Die!!
”
“Hey, slick, you dig English?” a hairless giant asked, holding a projectile weapon with a bore large enough to accommodate Trell's nose. Which at present, it did.
The alien crewmember had to swallow before he was able to reply to the question. Squee had only just warned Trell that the test subjects had broken free from the arena, when unexpectedly he confronted those very same individuals right outside the Communicator's private room. Grabbed by the back of his collar, the alien had been lifted bodily off the floor and yanked inside by a large, smelly humanoid whose only redeeming feature was that he was properly hairless.
To Trell, the four humans came in a confusing assortment of sizes, shapes and colors. The only unifying aspect of their appearances was the space black, animal-skin armor that they wore. Which Trell thought was rather pretty, until the small Dirtling with grotesquely protruding teeth turned about and he saw the decoration on the back. The Technician gulped. He was in the hands of primitives indeed!
To the Deckers, the alien was as short as Chisel, as hairless as Crowbar's head, and green, which surprised them not in the least. Obviously, he came from Mars.
Trell was dressed in an ivory wraparound uniform that left his arms bare, and a pair of calf-high soft plastic boots. A wide, beige belt covered with pouches and a sealed tan box, circled his waist. Hammer frisked the alien for weapons, but if there were any hidden among the Technician's tools, he couldn't find them.
“Yes, I do understand your language,” responded the beige communicator box clipped to Trell's belt. It had taken the device a few seconds to translate the human speech into something that Trell could understand and then convert it into the sub-sonic range his species could hear.
“My name is Trell, I am a Technician. Do not kill me and I will serve you faithfully to the best of my meager abilities.”
He grovels well, noted Hammer, hooking a thumb inside his studded belt. Must do it a lot. The street tough smiled appreciatively. He liked that in a person.
The ganglord gestured at Crowbar to release the alien. Which the biker did so gratefully, and wiped his fingers on his grimy T-shirt. Yuck! The rubbery little creep felt like a dirty chalkboard. Crowbar was unaware of the fact that the alien crewmember thought the same about him.
In elegant simplicity, Hammer waved his Colt at the rows of strange, glittering weapons sealed inside the cabinets of unbreakable plastic and said, “Unlock those or die.”
“Fair enough,” Trell replied, and opened the first of the display cases with his master key.
Eagerly, the Bloody Deckers grabbed the antique rifles and patiently listened as Trell told them how to fire the weapons. A brief test on a bulkhead proved that he told them the truth. Twist this, turn that, pull the trigger and a bolt of polychromatic fire spat from the rifle's muzzle, vaporizing a fist-sized hole in the metal wall. In loving appreciation, the gang caressed their new death-dealers. Just wait till the 95th Street Comanches saw this! For the brief period that the rival gang survived the experience, they’d sure be impressed.
The Deckers took as many of the weapons as they could, with two of the antique lasers strapped to each man's back and a third held in their hands. The gang was armed for war. However, Chisel was given Hammer's automatic pistol, the ganglord wisely recognizing the boy's limited ability to acquire new knowledge.
Checking over the display cases for anything interesting, Drill asked the alien Technician about grenades. It took Trell a while to absorb the novel concept of portable throwing explosives, and then he replied in the negative. No such anti-personnel devices were available.
On Hammer's command, Crowbar poked his head into the corridor outside the armory to see if the coast was clear, and when he wasn't attacked by anything, the street gang left the room. Drill paused in the act of shutting the door to spray the display cases with his laser, destroying everything in sight so that none of the antiques could be used against them.
“Where now?” Crowbar asked his boss, pro tem.
“The bridge,” Hammer decided, knowing that must be where their alien tormentors were hiding.
“The what?” Trell asked, adjusting the controls on his translator. There were no artificial constructs for crossing waterways aboard this ship.
Unaccustomed to explaining himself, Hammer gestured vaguely. “The bridge,” he repeated. “You know, the front desk, the head office, the driver's seat.” The street punk was clearly at a loss. How could he make the alien dude understand what he wanted?
Amazingly, the problem was solved by Chisel, who told the green being, “Take us to where your boss sits on his ass,” he demanded.
Ah! Now that the Technician understood. “Follow me, sirs,” said the little alien, and he smartly turned left. The Deckers moved stealthily along the corridor, weapons at the ready, when suddenly, from what the street gang had wrongly assumed were airshafts, there began to pump a thick purple sludge that hissed as the goop ate its way into the plastic floor, revealing the shiny metal deck underneath. Both of Trell's ears stuck straight out from his head in raw terror. By the Prime Builder's Testicles, it was the Omega Gas!
“Whrur!”
the alien howled like a goosed chainsaw. “Quickly! To the airlocks!”
The Bloody Deckers hadn't the slightest idea what that weird glop on the floor was, but from the way the little green bozo was acting, they ran too.
“Don't let it touch you!” Trell screamed, as the seemingly boneless Technician bounced, more than leaped, over the rivers of purple ick.
Though weighted down with their booty, the street gang did their level best to keep up with him and comply with the, no doubt, intelligent request.
Breaking to the right, Trell disappeared down a corridor and the humans hurried along behind him, zigzagging through a maze of passageways. Another right brought them to a dead end, where a man-sized silver oval decorated the end wall. Rapidly using all four hands, Trell touched the airlock in eight specific places, the door dilated, and the Bloody Deckers plowed into the room beyond, crushing the Technician beneath them. Fighting his way free from the pile of bodies, the rubbery alien reached up to slap a black spot on the oval's frame. As the airlock door irised shut, darkness enveloped them for an instant, and then the internal lights came on with a dull white glow.
“Safe,” Trell sighed, sliding to the floor. “Safe.”
The room was a plain rectangle, made entirely of what looked like burnished steel. Lockers lined both walls and identical ovals faced each other from the opposite ends. Aside from the Deckers and Trell, there was nothing else in the place.
“You sure we’re safe?” Drill asked panting, his laser rifle searching the cubicle for new dangers.
“For the moment, yes,” the box on the alien's belt said. “The Omega Gas can not reach us in here.” He tapped the metal door with a nailless finger. “Air tight. No organic parts. The gas can't get through.”
In fear-tainted anger, Hammer snorted in contempt. “Gas? What gas?” he demanded. “You mean that grape jelly out there?”
Even through translation, the poetic allusion was not lost. “It is a gel, now,” Trell explained hastily. “Because they released it too soon. The gas is cold. But when it heats up, pft! You’re dead.”
In disgust, Crowbar hawked and spit into the corner of the cubicle. “Oh, swell,” he said sarcastically. “Come on, let's blow this dump!”
“Yeah,” Chisel said, so frightened that the only reason he was still in his boots was because they were a size too small. “Let's go.”
“Shut up,” Hammer growled. “We ain't going nowhere.”
Chisel stuck his chin out. “Yeah,” he said loyally, doing a fast reversal. “We’re staying.”
Stepping away from the others, Crowbar turned to face Hammer, the butt of the stolen laser rifle braced against his hip. Protectively, the rest of the Deckers moved in close, ready to kill the ex-biker. But their chief shut them down with a glance and boldly stepped in front of the man's energy gun.
“Well?” Hammer asked, his voice dangerously low.
Stubborn as his namesake, Crowbar tried to out stare the man, and failed. As he shifted his eyes, Hammer took advantage of the lapse to shove his own rifle into Crowbar's gut. The big man grunted in pain. This was not working out as planned, direct confrontation had never been his style. In ragged stages, Crowbar lowered his rifle, and after a moment Hammer did the same.
“We got guns, like nobody has ever seen,” Crowbar argued, trying to be reasonable. “And now we got a chance to get outta here. So what are we waiting for? You heard him.” He jerked a dirty thumb at the Technician. “That purple crap out there will kill us faster than drinking a Drano daiquiri. So why stay? Let's get while the getting's good.”
“Nobody ices a Decker and lives to brag about it,” Hammer stated as a hard fact. “Those martian mothers aced two of us, and you wanna take a hike? You chickenshit bastard, you gonna walk away from Decker blood?”
The ganglord knew that Drill and Chisel were with him a hundred per cent, but he wanted Crowbar too. With Whipsaw dead, the ex-biker was the strongest man they had. In a bare knuckle fight the guy would be invaluable. That is, as long as Hammer didn't turn his back on the bastard.
Although Crowbar knew that Hammer was planning something, he couldn't quite figure out what, so decided to play it cool and smooth through this gig.
“Hey man, you’re right,” he said, amending his position with a forced grin. “Nobody can mess with The Bloody Deckers. We gotta take these geeks.”
“Glad you agree,” Hammer said with a sneer, Drill and Chisel flanking him, their weapons prominently in sight.
“You. What's your name again?”
Suddenly alert, the alien realized the conversation was directed at him once more. “Trell,” he replied, respectfully rising to his feet. “Trell-desamo-Trell-ika-Trell-forzua, Junior.”
The ganglord chewed that mouthful over. “I think we’ll just call ya Trell,” he decided wisely.
In resignation, the alien shrugged. Anything was better than Junior.
“Don't shit me, Trell baby, what would happen if that Omega Gas got in here? Could we like, hold our breaths or something?”
In response, Trell shuddered, a gesture that meant the same thing to his race as it did to humans. “You don't have to breathe Omega Gas,” he explained. “It touches your skin and you die.
Pft!”
Pft again. “Okay, can we go outside and circle round to the bridge? Climb in through a window maybe?”
“No sir. Robot weapons would atomize us the moment we left the ship. To use Omega Gas the ship must be at Defense Level A. Escape is impossible.”
“So much for taking a hike,” Drill said snidely out of the side of his mouth. Crowbar ignored him and tried to remain cool.
“Trapped like rats,” Chisel whispered, genuinely scared. If only he still had his lucky Bowie knife with him, the one mother had used to kill father.
Trying to bolster the kid's spirit, Hammer gave the boy a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Okay then, we attack,” he said taking charge of the discussion again. “You! This airlock got any space suits?”
After a moment, Trell's translator relayed the word as mobile environmental armor. “Of course, sir.”
“Show me.”
The Technician thought he knew what the hairy Dirtling was planning, and explained that it wouldn't work. “The spacesuits can't resist Omega Gas for very long. Eventually, the vapors will eat though the joint compounds.”
Hammer barred his teeth in his best Bogart impersonation. “Long enough to get us from here to the bridge?” he drawled.
Surreptitious as a gik, Trell dilated his nose. Ah! Darn clever these Dirtlings. The Technician shuffled to his feet and started rummaging through the equipment in the wall lockers, in the process finding his lost bottle of window cleaner. So that's where it had been hiding!
* * *
Pursing his lips, Leader Idow spat in Boztwank's soil. The mushroom recoiled in disgust, his floating pot smashing into the metal edge of his tech station. For the first time in years the fungi was speechless, utterly speechless. Idow however, was not.
“YOU FOOL!” he double-throated. “YOU CONTEMPTIBLE FOOL! Cold Omega gas? We want to kill them, not annoy them!”
“And they live,” Gasterphaz said without any frills. “They have taken refuge in airlock #4. Trell must have shown them how to access the hatch.”
“Trell,” Boztwank growled, ready to explode with anger. “This is all his fault!”
In a fast stride, Leader Idow crossed the control room and viciously backhanded the mushroom across his fleshy dome. Boztwank reeled under the blow, and the blue alien hit him again, and again. Seething in fury, the mushroom lunged forward, his forcefield hands reaching for Idow's throat. But the alien commander had already activated the defense shield generator on his belt and he laughed cruelly at Boztwank's futile efforts to claw through the immaterial barrier. Which was the prime reason why everybody aboard this ship wore the device.
Knowing this, the hate-engorged fungus raced back to his tech-station, turned his grapplers up to full power and ripped free the dented metal panel. With a stentorian shriek, Boztwank hurled the dura-steel square at his taunting blue commander. Without hindrance, the metal panel passed through the defensive energy field and stopped, centimeters away from Idow's throat, caught by the rocky hand of Gasterphaz. The mighty Choron crumpled the steel plate like paper and he deposited it on the floor with a ringing crash. Bodily, he stepped between his warring shipmates, a living stone wall. The combatants glared spitefully at each other around him and so nobody happened to notice a light come on at Gasterphaz's board, saying that the door to Airlock #4 had just opened and closed.
“First we kill the Dirtlings, then each other,” Gasterphaz intoned in a voice that brooked no discussion.
Reluctantly, everybody returned to their posts. Including Squee, who had been preparing to join the fight and help Idow. This did not go unnoticed by Boztwank, who was almost warm with fury. Forever unable to reach that blissful culmination of his species’ existence and release his spores, a lifetime of denial had long since taken its toll, and even by his own race's standards Boztwank was considered insane.
