Illegal Aliens (12 page)

“Telepathic then,” Dr. Malavade offered softly as explanation. “And the machine has tuned itself to its new masters.”

Now there was an unpleasant thought. Did the street gang realize just how powerful was their position? Dr. Wu reached for the phone on her console but the instrument rang before she could touch it. Lifting the receiver, the scientist listened intently for a moment, then sullenly replied in the negative.

Snorting in annoyance, Nicholi hung up on his colleague. Damn. There had been hope on his part that Russia's ion cannon could breach the force shield surrounding the alien ship. The general was fast running out of options. It was possible that nothing in his arsenal but nuclear weapons could penetrate that immaterial energy blister. But those were the court of last resort. Giving a crisp report, a military voice whispered in his ear about something in the sky above Central Park and he told them to go soak their heads. Nothing could be more important than their present situation.

“Well then, why don't you lower the force shield and come out?” Prof. Rajavur enticed pleasantly. “You’re heroes! The entire world is waiting to honor your brave gang.”

Dominating the screen, Hammer's face stated he didn't quite believe the man, so the diplomat smoothly added, “Then of course, there's the matter of the reward.”

“REWARD? INDEED. HOW MUCH IS THIS REWARD?”

The Icelander did a fast mental calculation, then said to heck with the budget. “A million dollars apiece for you and your men. As compensation for your troubles and emotional disharmony.”

* * *

“Wow!” Chisel gushed, trying to count to a million on his fingers and failing. “Gee!”

“Chickenfeed,” Drill snorted.

Still standing before the viewscreen, Hammer frowned in agreement.

* * *

“INSUFFICIENT COMPENSATION. WE DESIRE FIVE MILLION APIECE.”

Prof. Rajavur had to mull the suggestion over. The Secretary General would throw a fit if he said yes. Of course, that was a point in its favor.

“Bargain with them,” Sir John's voice advised in his ear. “If you make it too easy, they’ll become suspicious.”

“Two million,” Rajavur said firmly, facing the monitor. “And that's my final offer.”

“FOUR.”

“Three,” the diplomat countered. “Plus, you receive full amnesty for any crimes you have committed up until this moment.”

There was a short pause. “SUFFICIENT. WE SHALL EXIT THE SHIP IMMEDIATELY.”


STOP THAT


The mental command exploded across New York and people shook like Vegas dice under its power. Glasses shattered, guns went off, cars crashed, murders were halted, burglaries cancelled, illicit love affairs stopped/started, and 37 politicians resigned from office.

Tear-filled eyes uncrossed just in time to see a shiny golden cube about the size of a two-bedroom house landing end-first in the soil of Central Park, right alongside the white sphere. The strange pair strongly resembled a brown sugar cube sitting next to a soccer ball. Then every viewscreen/monitor/television set on Earth began showing the beautiful, golden, frowning face of Avantor, the avantor.

“WE ARE THE GREAT GOLDEN ONES,” she stated. “GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY. EVERYONE IN THE WHITE STARSHIP IS UNDER ARREST. LOWER YOUR SHIELD AND COME OUT WITH ANY AND ALL PSEUDOPODS RAISED.”

* * *

“Waste products!” Trell screamed in terror, clutching at his chest. “It's the Great Golden Ones!” He scampered beneath his chair, attempting to hide. “Aiyeee! We’re doomed for sure!”

Going into the ultrasonic range, Trell wailed at the top of his lungs. His belt translator merely relayed the word, “Sob.”

With a lurch, Hammer was out of his chair and across the room in an instant. “What the hell are you talking about!” he demanded, shaking the little alien like a can of spray paint. “Who are they? The star cops?”

Weeping uncontrollably, Trell burbled yes, and the street tough released him. Goddamn, what a day this was turning into!

Hitching up his pants, Drill got tough. “Okay chief, what's the attack plan?”

Feeling trapped, the big teenager clenched and unclenched his fists. “Gimme a minute. I’m working on it.”

Inspiration brightened Trell's sad green face. “I know what to do,” he exclaimed happily. “Let's shoot ourselves with the lasers! Death before the prison world of Galopticon 7!”

Hammer turned to Drill. “You’re closer. You hit him.”

Smack.

“But they just offered us, you know, amnesty,” Chisel said in confusion.

“You dope!” Hammer snarled angrily. “These are the star cops, not our guys. They don't give a damn about anything we agreed on. They only want to kill us and eat our brains.”

Not sure his translator had gotten that correct, Trell blinked in confusion. “What? They want to do what?”

“God's truth,” Drill agreed, totally serious. “We saw it in a movie.”

Grabbing the front of the alien's uniform, Hammer lifted the burbling Technician into the air. “Okay, greenie, what are our options. Can they get through our force shield?”

“Easily,” lamented Trell, his boots dangling inches from the floor. “They invented the shield type we use.”

Damn. “Is their forcefield up?”

Twisting about, the alien consulted a sensor on Boztwank's board. “No, sir, it's down.”

Relaxing visibly, Hammer gave an evil grin. “Great! We got anything to shoot them with?”

The alien's jaw dropped as he was roughly deposited in Gasterphaz's rock-hard chair. “Y-you can't be serious! Shoot the Great Golden Ones? Why that's . . . ”

Stepping closer, Chisel placed the still warm barrel of a laser rifle snugly within the alien's left ear.

“ . . . a wonderful idea!” Trell gushed, all four hands busy. “Increasing reactor power. Activating Proton Cannon. Can we at least give them a warning shot?”

“Fire!” Hammer bellowed at the top of his lungs.

“Yes sir. Firing, sir!”

* * *

From the curved pinnacle of the white starship there lanced out a blinding bright power beam that sliced the golden ship in two like a cube of cheese. Sluggishly, the top of the golden ship melted into the ray, disappearing in torrents of superheated steam, vaporized steel and hard radiation that would cause some very unusual plants to grow in Central Park for years to come. Lowering its angle, the acidic beam moved on, disintegrating the rest of the craft until the very ground it had rested upon slagged into a boiling pool of red-hot lava.

* * *

“Right on!” Drill exclaimed, grinning his widest grin. This was more fun than robbing a church.

“Neat!” Chisel seconded, bouncing in his seat. “Let's do it again! On anything!”

Sagging weakly, Trell felt ill and braced himself against the silver edging of the control panel. “But you don't understand,” he protested lamely. “We just shot the Great Golden Ones. The Great Golden Ones!”

“Big deal,” Drill said, cavalierly dismissing the protest with the sure knowledge of a nineteen-year-old. “A cop's a cop.”

Crossing the room, Hammer resumed his earlier position in the Command seat. “Any more of those star cops out there?” he demanded.

“Thousands, millions,” Trell mumbled, the unhappy alien slumping in despair. “When they arrive they will destroy this world. Nobody sane shoots at the Great Golden Ones.”

For a single awful moment, Hammer wondered if Trell was right. What did he know about star police and shit like that? Hammer was from the Bronx.

Using both hands, Drill thoughtfully scratched at his curly mop of black hair. “Maybe those UN guys will still give us the money and amnesty, and by the time more star cops get here we’ll be gone,” he said hopefully.

With a flippant gesture, Hammer brushed that aside. “No way, Jose. If these star dudes are that bad, then those government bastards will turn us in faster than jackcheese just to save their own hides.” Then the ganglord remembered something Trell had said. “Wait a minute, nobody attacks these guys, right? It's unthinkable, like moving to New Jersey. So they ain't gonna be expecting nothing. They’ll just keep sailing in and we’ll keep blowing ’em away! Easy as rolling a wino.”

The sheer audacity of the notion made Trell's throat constrict. It was insane! It was impossible! It might just work at that.

“But that means we gotta keep the ship,” Drill said, the leather jacket creaking as he crossed his arms. “Those fat cat government types were going to give us plenty for this metal snowball.”

“Yeah,” Chisel whined with a pout. “I was gonna buy a car.”

Addressing the white ceiling, Hammer rolled his eyes. Why him, oh Lord?

“Don't you idiots get it?” he snarled aloud. “You saw what we just did to the star cops. To keep us from blowing this city away, the government will pay us millions. Millions? Ha! Billions! Hell, boys, the sky's the limit!”

Radiating confidence, the ganglord joined Trell at the controls and studiously scrutinized the complex array of dusky white round buttons, square ivory buttons, hexagonal silver buttons, pearl switches, pale tripbars, translucent dials, transparent knobs, snowy levers, meters, lights, indicators, slots, keys and gauges.

“Show me how to fire this damn thing,” Hammer ordered.

TWELVE

The First Contact Team was in an uproar: with Mohad hunched over a computer, Bronson talking on two phones at once, Dr. Wu emailing with her associates at Princeton and Beijing, Nicholi struggling with the nincompoops at EmComTac, Sir John saying reassuring nothings to the world press, and Prof. Rajavur making coffee for the team; the domestic chore aiding his contemplation of the matter. Dutifully as a polite host, he added cream and sugar to everybody's cup but his own, and carried the heavily loaded tray over to the consoles. Unnoticed by the hectic others, he dispersed the steaming drinks. They had been so close to settling this whole matter amicably, but now they were back to square one. Although raised Catholic, Sigerson Rajavur did not believe in miracles. Sinking into his own chair he sighed, sipped and waited for his team to report.

Soon, General Bronson cleared his throat and took a gulp of the hot coffee, only briefly wondering where the drink had come from. Sigerson? Must be. “SAC and NORAD confirm the report. That golden cube was invisible to radar,” he stated loudly. “There could be a whole fleet of the damn things orbiting the Earth and we’d never know it.”

Slurping loudly, Sir John swallowed and then put down his empty coffee cup. “In my opinion, the two amber-colored beings that we saw were exactly what they claimed to be: the interstellar police. Here, watch the monitor.”

With his left hand, the sociologist flicked a switch and the giant screen TV gave a repeat showing of Avantor addressing them. “Notice the way she handles herself, the demeanor of the male behind her, and their uniforms. Authority figures, without a doubt.”

“Observe the radically different design of their vessel from Idow's flying behemoth,” Dr. Wu said, changing the picture to the landing of the golden craft. “Sleek, compact, efficient. The corner points are perfect for defensive fire.”

“I concur,” General Nicholi stated from behind his plexiglass wall. “Definitely a military craft. However, the crew was inexcusably lax.”

The sociologist nodded. “Yes, and that aspect of it rather bothers me. They acted as if their very presence should have been enough to cause a surrender. They are either very stupid, which I doubt, or they have a formidable reputation.” He glanced at the smoking pool on the screen. “Unfortunately, a reputation is only an effective weapon if your enemy is aware of it.”

Finishing his own mug of coffee, Mohad politely waited for everybody else to finish before speaking. “The broadcast we heard was telepathic in nature. None of my devices were able to record a single word. The message was perceived as far away from us as 30 kilometers. Interestingly enough, it also affected the dolphins at the New York Aquarium.”

Dr. Wu added this to her list of things-to-check-into-if-we-don't-die, while Rajavur mulled over the information. A telepathic broadcast. He was impressed. Those weren't even theoretically possible to modern science.

Out of respect for the dead, the FCT said nothing as they watched the recording of the gold ship being destroyed again. Then Dr. Malavade cried out, stopped the tape, rewound, and played it again in slow motion. After a moment he froze the video tape and pointed at the screen with a stiff finger. Clearly visible on the wall monitor were two shimmering black dots ejecting from the top of the craft. He started the tape again, and the dots floated downward, landing in the trees. The glowing effect disappeared and two tiny humanoid figures dropped to the ground and scrambled into brush.

“If appears that we have a few more uninvited guests,” Dr. Wu remarked dryly.

General Bronson grunted assent. “I’ll send some Delta Force operatives out to search for them,” he said, holding the receiver to his ear and punching a number into the scrambled telephone. “The Black Berets will find them quick enough.”

“GENTLEMEN AND LADY, ARE YOU ATTENDANT?”

Heads spun at the sound of Hammer's voice.

“Yes, we’re still here,” Prof. Rajavur stated. Briefly, he wondered what the reaction of the street gang was going to be. The firing upon the golden craft could have been done by an automatic weapon systems, it need not have been a deliberate hostile action on the part of the Deckers. It was possible, but unfortunately, not likely. He had hopes, though.

“I MUST INFORM YOU THAT THERE HAS BEEN A CHANGE OF PLANS.”

Wu groaned to herself. “Oh, what now?” said the scientist muttered sotto voce. “The moon on a string?”

“WE HAVE DECIDED TO KEEP THIS STARSHIP FOR OURSELVES.”

“I was afraid of this,” Sir John sub-vocalized, a hint of his Scottish brogue creeping into his voice from the tension. “A megalomania power rush. Now we’re in trouble.”

“Now?” Bronson chided.

Ignoring the rhetoric, Prof. Rajavur talked fast. “Needless to say, we can appreciate these new developments, and are fully prepared to increase our offer to the originally requested amount of 5 million dollars.”

“ACCEPTED. BUT THERE ARE A FEW OTHER THINGS THAT WE DESIRE.”

“Such as?” he prompted, with a beguiling smile that had convinced many a poker player into foolishly betting the maximum. What could these simple children of the streets want? Clothes? A job? Better housing?

“WE’LL START WITH DRUGS,” the translation device spoke, brutally honest in its re-telling of the youth's request. “MARIJUANA IS WHAT WE LIKE. TEN OR TWELVE TONS SHOULD BE SUFFICIENT.”

“T-tons?” Rajavur croggled. Had the lad said tons?

“No problem,” General Bronson's voice whispered in his ear. “The NYPD burns that much a week. What kind do they want?”

Summoning his pluck, Prof. Rajavur struggled to regain some composure. “Ah, what kind would you, ah, prefer?”

“THAI STICK WOULD BE NICE, AND NO STEMS OR SEEDS EITHER. UNDERSTAND?”

“Of course,” he agreed amiably, who had no idea what they were talking about. “Only the finest. Anything else?”

“YES. THREE STRETCH LIMOS. COMPLETE WITH CD PLAYER, WHITE WALLS, AIR CONDITIONING. THE WORKS. PLUS, A FULL TANK OF GAS.”

The professor hid a smile. “I think we can manage that. Any particular color?”

“ANYTHING BUT WHITE.”

“Done!” he smiled openly now. “So when can we come and take possession of the ship?”

“NEVER.”

Sigerson's smile was still friendly, but he had to use will power to make it stay that way. “But I assumed that we were negotiating for the return of the alien craft.”

“INCORRECT. WHAT WE WERE NEGOTIATING OVER WAS WHETHER OR NOT MY ASSOCIATES AND I WILL BLAST THIS PLANET INTO RUBBLE.”

“Told you so,” Sir John whispered. “Temporary insanity.”

Beaming a benign smile, Prof. Rajavur spread his arms wide in an appeal to reason. “But surely you don't plan to live in the ship,” he questioned the hairy youth.

“WHY NOT? IT’S CERTAINLY LARGE ENOUGH. A BIT OF PAINT, SOME POSTERS, AND IT WILL BE MOST COMFORTABLE. ANYTHING THAT WE HAPPEN TO NEED I AM SURE YOU WILL BE HAPPY TO DELIVER PROMPTLY.”

Following that statement, a bolt of blue fire spat from the ship and a stand of trees in the park violently disintegrated.

“CORRECT?”

A shaken Rajavur could only nod. “We’ll start assembling your tribute immediately.”

“DO NOT FORGET THAT PARDON YOU MENTIONED EARLIER.”

Automatically, the diplomat corrected him, “You mean amnesty. A person can't be pardoned for a crime unless first he's been convicted.”

“NO TRICKS! WE WANT A PARDON!”

“Its yours! It's yours! No problem.”

“SIGNED BY THE GOVERNOR.”

“In triplicate!” the professor contributed, trying to appease the ganglord.

“THAT’S THE TICKET. OH BY THE WAY, THERE IS ONE MORE THING WE WANT.”

Maintaining his poker face, the man sighed. Oh, what now?

“HOW ABOUT SOME LUNCH?”

The leader of the FCT picked up a pencil from the tray near his high security hot lines. He hadn't done anything like this since his college days. “Shoot, I mean, go ahead.”

“A PIZZA WITH EVERYTHING, AND I DO MEAN EVERYTHING. FORGET THE MUSHROOMS AND I LEVEL ENGLAND. NO ANCHOVIES AND GOODBYE GERMANY.”

* * *

Trell touched Drill on the arm. “Excuse me, sir, but how far away are these places?” he asked curiously.

“Thousands of miles,” Drill answered, vaguely remembering a geography lesson he had once accidentally attended. “They’re other countries.”

The alien shook his head. “Then I’m afraid we can't do it, sir. The Proton Cannon only has a range of 100 ship lengths.”

“Shut up, fool,” Hammer snarled softly. “Do they know that?”

Ah, mighty clever, these humans.

* * *

“PLUS A CASE OF IMPORTED BEER. COLD, MIND YOU.”

There was a changing of personnel on the communications monitor.

“GREETINGS PEOPLE! I, THE MIGHTY DRILL, DO HEREBY DEMAND A DOUBLE ORDER OF RIBS FROM LOUIE’S BAR-B-CHEW OVER ON EAST 42ND STREET. TELL HIM THEY’RE FOR ME. OH YES, ADD A CASE OF CHIVAS REGAL.”

Dr. Wu's laser printer started whining at that moment, and with the flick of a finger she put it into hush mode. “At least the alcohol will help cut all that grease from his system,” she commented, as an aside.

“So he dies of a heart attack in 10 years. Who cares? Our problem is living until tomorrow,” Bronson growled. “Wrap it up quick. We’ve got company coming.”

In confusion, Rajavur blinked. Company?

“HELLO, MY NAME IS CHISEL. HEY MA, LOOK! I’M ON TV! I’LL HAVE A TRIPLE CHEESEBURGER, A COLA WITH NO ICE, AND A SMALL FRIES.”

* * *

“That's what you order?” Hammer stormed, brandishing a clenched fist at the boy. “Don't embarrass me, ya creep!”

* * *

“MAKE THAT
LARGE
FRIES. OH, AND A BUCKET OF CHICKEN, EXTRA CRISPY, PLEASE. THANK YOU.”

Now a new face came on the monitor.

“GREETINGS, DIRTLINGS.”

The FCT straightened at their consoles as Trell appeared. So at least one member of the alien crew had survived the transition of power. That explained how an uneducated street gang was operating a starship.

Green and hairless, noted Wu, typing some additional medical notes into her computer file. Some sort of plant life? No, not with those teeth. He was an omnivore. Curious.

Mohad tried to locate the alien's ears, Courtney studied his clothes, Bronson and Nicholi drew diagrams of the control room behind the alien.

“What can we get for you, astronaut?” Rajavur asked in his most gregarious manner.

It seemed obvious that the greeting pleased Trell. Star voyager, he liked the sound of that! “HAVE YOU ANYTHING WITH A DOUBLE BENZENE RING, SLIGHTLY RADIOACTIVE AND ENRICHED WITH ELEMENTAL BERYLLIUM?”

That stopped the professor for a second. “Ah, no. I don't think so. Sorry.”

“OH. THEN I’LL JUST HAVE SOME OF THEIR CHICKEN.”

Hammer returned. “THAT’S IT FOR NOW. HAVE OUR TRIBUTE READY IN ONE HOUR, OR ELSE.”

With a swirl, the monitor reverted back to an aerial shot of the white ship and the steaming lava pool next to it on the ground.

“Well, Wayne?” Prof. Rajavur asked, turning to facing the soldier.

The big man paused to light a fresh cigar. “As you told them,” he puffed contentedly. “No problem. Everybody on Earth heard the demands those yahoos made and are more then anxious to help us in harvesting the ransom.”

Briefly, Rajavur considered having the food poisoned, but rejected the notion as implausible. What spacecraft wouldn't have automatic analyzers in the airlock? Heck, NASA did.

“So what's this about company?” he asked.

In response, the American soldier hit a button on his console and the wall monitor switched to an inside view of the front lobby of the United Nations building above them. A squad of NATO soldiers and several plainclothes police officers were herding two humanoid beings in gold uniforms towards the elevator bank.

“The aliens from the cube?” Sir John guessed, as he cleaned the papers off his console, hastily stuffed the documents into a file draw, and locked it shut.

“Yep. Navy SEALS found them hiding in a public bathroom,” General Bronson growled humorlessly. “A military escort is delivering them. They’re max security. Should be here any minute.”

Skirt billowing about her knees, Dr. Wu pivoted about in her chair. “Then you had better mirror your wall, Nicholi,” she advised.

Wiggling toes in his socks, the general wholeheartedly agreed and flipped a tripbar on his console. The overhead lights dimmed and his bulletproof glass wall silvered over, becoming an effective one-way mirror. Then from a drawer, Nicholi pulled out his personal defense weapon, a stubby pistol stock with a telescopic sight and a coaxial cable attaching it to a jack on his console. In the Command Bunker, a .50 Remington machine gun positioned inside a false ceiling was slaved to that pistol, turning as it turned and pointing where it did. One press of the trigger and from diverse angles, 200 steel jacketed rounds a second would annihilate anything in his sights. General Nicholi Nicholi had specific orders not to trust anybody, which he considered moronic. Telling a Russian not to trust a stranger was the height of redundancy.

From his console, Wayne opened the doors that fronted the elevators, and carefully watched to ascertain that only the aliens came inside the antechamber, the rest of the armed escorts returning to their assigned duties. The familiar floor-shaking boom of the door as it closed was clearly heard by all, and soon faintly echoing footsteps came down the concrete hallway that led to the Bunker's inner door. On Bronson's command, the steel portal mechanically swung aside, admitting the humanoid beings.

Humans stared at Gees, who stared right back at them. A historic meeting this. The first peaceful contact between Earth and an alien species. Briefly, the FCT straightened their clothing and hair as the Great Golden Ones walked closer.

The female stood six feet tall, a good 12 inches higher then the male. Both were well proportioned, though Wu noticed a few odd muscle arrangements. Their eyes were large and solid black, seemingly without pupils. But even more striking than that was the color of their skin and hair, which perfectly matched their skintight uniforms: a muted tone of gold. Coming to a halt, the two beings stood stiffly at attention, shoulders ramrod straight, with their hands behind them. General Bronson had the unreasoning urge to tell them at ease.