Illegal Aliens (20 page)
* * *
Within the airlock of the
Ramariez
, apparently unaffected by the titanic collision, stood twenty burnished statues poised and waiting. The hulking metal brutes were not inert decorations, but highly mobile battlesuits. Sort of a hybrid between a spacesuit and a tank, armored by two inches of molecularly reinforced durasteel, powered by a series of stretchable servomotors and energized by a miniature atomic battery. The wallet-sized power cell, containing over a thousand kilowatt hours, was not a contribution of Trell, but an invention of Norway. They had kept the atomic battery a state secret for the past decade, as they had had no military use for the device except for running mobile government saunas.
Protected by a NASA/SRI built life support system, the Marines could comfortably fight in vacuum, underwater, amid lethal radiation, almost anywhere. The strength-amplifying servomotors in their exoskeletons enabled the soldiers to run for a hundred kilometers without tiring or to rip a Cadillac in half. A more than fitting end for the oversized gas guzzlers. Plus, an inner cushion of mini-forcefield bubbles let the troopers withstand pointblank cannon fire or survive a fall of eighty stories onto concrete; hence their total lack of reaction to the violent ramming. As long as the power was maintained, the Marines were virtually indestructible.
But not content with mere passive defense capabilities, NATO also armed the space troopers with an unnamed assault rifle that fired caseless 5mm armor-piercing bullets, sported a pump action 20mm grenade launcher, two ‘Church Key’ class anti-robot missiles, and a polycyclic laser. In addition, the rifle exploded if anyone other than a crewmember tried to fire it. A cute trick that had led to some interesting strategy sessions over beer and pretzels.
Standing patiently in the airlock, crowded shoulder to metal shoulder, the Marines waited in their half-ton uniforms for the go code. Every trooper was a combat veteran, most of them holding the rank of master sergeant or better in their home country's military, but each more than glad to become a lowly dogface again for the sake of this special mission.
Their appointed leader, Lt. Kurt Sakadea, was a devilishly handsome American of Japanese descent who held the rank of colonel in the United States’ much touted, but rarely seen Delta Force, a supersecret group of ultra-tough fighters who were supposed to be able to eat Green Berets for breakfast. Oddly enough though, Sakadea was a quiet, scholarly man whose sole interests outside the military seemed to be the stock market and chasing babes.
As the white starship continued to revolve about the gold, trying to align their air locks, a private near the rear of the group broke the self-imposed radio silence.
“Sir? Lieutenant?”
“Yeah? What is it, Higgins?”
“How about ‘Satan's Taxi Cab’ cause it's hell on wheels?”
It took Lt. Sakadea a moment to realize that the soldier was referring to the matter of their weapons having no pronounceable designation, much less a nickname the troops liked. ‘That Damn Gun’ didn't count, although considering how often generals had stuck their heads into the UN labs and asked: ‘How's that damn gun coming along?’, it was running a strong second.
“Later, private,” Sakadea snapped.
He sighed. “Aye, aye, sir.”
With a clang more felt than heard, the rotating spheres locked into position and Sakadea told the troops to get ready.
Breathlessly, the soldiers watched and waited as the metal halves of their air lock door parted to reveal the outer hull of the alien ship, its air lock doors tightly closed.
Upon Captain Keller's command, the
Ramariez
computers began to flash all of the 914 possible override signals that Trell had postulated might open the Gee's main air lock. But unknown to the humans, due to damage caused by the collision the Gee computer was receiving every signal, including the correct one (#412), as pure gibberish and as a result the air lock remained firmly locked.
Trell suspected radio interference, and, from the bridge, advised the Marines to manually tap in the Medical Evacuation code, which he believed was their best chance anyway. Using a more sophisticated version of the override key, Sakadea pulled a crystal rod from his belt pouch and waved it at the ship before them. With a soft sigh, a small panel on the golden hull swung aside to reveal a keypad. Quick but careful, Sakadea used a thick metal finger to tap in the proper sequence of symbols. But once again the computer received the information as a flood of random signals and did nothing.
Lt. Sakadea was becoming worried. Time was running out. Why they hadn't been attacked already he couldn't understand. The Gees must be setting up an ambush. His growing unease was felt by the rest of the Marines.
Suddenly and without warning, a lone private acting upon twenty years of combat experience played a hunch and turned his assault rifle on the keypad hoping to blow the lock. Ricochets filled the air lock, and instinctively the soldiers hit the dirt. The hullmetal keypad was undamaged by the fusillade of bullets. However, the random pattern of strikes was blithely transmitted to the harassed computer, which accepted the onslaught of signals as a slightly misspelled Surprise Inspection Tour notice and with a clicking hiss politely opened the outer airlock door.
From the floor, the Marines exchanged glances. Well heck, can't argue with success.
At the noise, Lt. Sakadea stopped shaking the trigger-happy trooper. “Nice going, corporal.”
“I’m a private, lieutenant.”
“Not anymore.”
“Thank you, sir!”
The inner door to the Gee ship had a simple hand lever, and soon the squad was peering into the ship. Ahead of them stretched an innocent-appearing pale yellow corridor. On the floor before them was a small mat emblazoned with a square made of broken lines; the universal symbol for ‘Welcome’. In unison, the soldiers chuckled. Subtle, real subtle.
With a tap of his chin, Lt. Sakadea activated his suit radio. “Mainhardt!”
“Sir?”
“Sweep that hallway.”
“Affirmative, lieutenant.”
Moving clumsily, the soldier set the tripod of her ungainly weapon, adjusted the focus to wide angle, thumbed off the safety and squeezed the primary trigger. From the three-prong muzzle of the Atomic Vortex Rifle there lanced out a swirling cone of blinding radiation that exploded down the empty passageway. As the nuclear hurricane filled the passageway with its turbulent energy, the welcome mat exploded into a cloud of flechettes that melted in mid-air, laser beams lashed out and died as their circuits exploded, panels in the roof opened and nasty looking robotic devices fell to the deck with a clang, twitching ineffectually as smoke erupted from their mechanisms, and the entire middle section of corridor slammed together three times with a force that rattled the Marines inside their powersuits before the giant motors hidden in the walls burned out. As the searing power bolt reached the end of the passageway it punched a small glowing hole in the lock of the far door. With a creak, the metal portal began to slowly swing open.
“Gott en Himmel!”
a private whispered over his suit radio.
Then from behind the door a smiling robot butler with a wide gash in its chest fell face first into the hallway, dropping its tray and spilling a collection of gold cups, their liquid contents splashing on the floor. None of the Marines were surprised when the environmental meters in their helmets swung towards lethal.
There was a click over the scrambled radio and Lt. Sakadea addressed his troops. “This was too damn easy. Watch yourselves.”
With dry mouths, the point soldiers took their assigned positions and the platoon began to weave its way through the ruin of the corridor, the double set of air lock doors behind them automatically cycling shut.
Following the stronger of the life readings on their sensors, the Marines easily located the control room. The only incident worthy of mention was a slight mishap with an escalator that tried to eat their unauthorized feet halfway between levels. But the heavy metal casings of their boots easily destroyed the robotic gnashing and they continued undefeeted.
Suspicious at the ajar door, the troopers did this by the book; two soldiers dove into the room to draw fire, while the rest of the squad pivoted out from the sides, their weapons at the ready. The action was smartly done, but once inside they found only a small pool of what resembled honey and the unconscious Avantor.
As Lt. Sakadea gazed upon the supine female, the soldier felt his heart skip a beat. She was every bit as beautiful as when he first saw her on television a mere month ago.
“Lieutenant?”
Sakadea snapped back to reality. “Yes, sergeant?”
Tanya Lieberman waddled forward, a squat golem of steel in her UN powersuit. The short, mousy blonde was a captain in the Israeli army and reputed to be the best rifle sharpshooter in the world. “No sign of the male, sir. The second life form reading we have is down that passageway.”
He nodded. “Check. Privates Tausz, Sowards, front and center! Guard the avantor, call the ship, tell them she’ll need medical attention.”
The troopers acknowledged the command.
Lt. Sakadea shifted the grip on his rifle. “Everybody else, stay with me!”
Tracing the electronic blip of their sensors, the Marines were led through a maze of twisting hallways until they reached a locked door emblazoned with three overlapping rings in a triangle pattern: the universal symbol for Authorized Personnel Only. Lt. Sakadea grunted and glanced at his sergeant. Well, they were authorized, just by the wrong side.
The adroit application of plastique unlocked the portal to the main computer room and the Marines rushed in to see a pair of wiggling golden legs sticking obscenely out of the side of a towering computer bank.
“Get him!” Sgt. Lieberman snapped.
Shouldering their weapons, two of the metal-clad Marines grabbed a hold of the Gee and hauled him into view, just in time to see the male swallow a small crystal cube covered with black squiggles.
With a burp, 16 felt the grasp of the hypno-training leave him. As his mind cleared, the Gee reached out with his computer implants to focus awesome weapons of power that would vaporize these invaders, when Corporal Furstenburg rushed forward to grab the alien and began to apply the Heimlich Maneuver.
However, the well-meaning soldier forgot that he was wearing strength amplifying powerarmor, until he noticed The 16 turning brown in color. Reacting quickly, the Space Marine released the wheezing alien and the Gee collapsed to the deck in a dead faint.
“Nice going, private,” Lt. Sakadea chastised.
“Ah, that's corporal, sir,” the barracks lawyer corrected.
“Not anymore.”
James Furstenburg sighed. Oh well, easy come, easy go.
“Close, please,” Dr. Van Loon instructed, peeling off his stainless surgical gloves.
The tentacle-waving garbage can next to him squeaked in the affirmative and began efficiently sealing the belly incision of the peacefully sleeping 16 on the multi-level table. In slow stately stages, the three-dimensional holographs of the patient's intestinal tract faded from the air above the surgical platform and the human physician shucked his gown, depositing it in what he correctly assumed was a waste basket. The cloth disappeared in a brief flash of atomic disintegration. Dr. Van Loon turned to take a final glance at the recumbent Gee and gasped as he saw a robot nurse light what appeared to be a slim, green cigar and stick it into The 16's mouth. Every instinct cried out to the physician to run and remove it, but during the operation he had gained an almost religious faith in the bizarre little machines.
He watched as a small tube looped out of the robot's side and deftly sucked up the accumulating cigar ash as if it was something precious. More than puzzled, the doctor shook his head and exited the room. A religious rite? Or was it actually medicinal? When Van Loon had time, he would have to check into that.
As the double set of doors closed behind him, the middle-aged man stumbled out into the corridor and leaned against the golden wall to catch his breath. It had taken all of his skill as a surgeon, veterinarian, botanist and roadside car mechanic to pull that operation off, but miraculously, it appeared to be a success. The Gee was just fine, probably wouldn't even have a scar. Thank God for those self-programming robot nurses. Without them, this would never have been possible. They had done 90% of the actual work. The Dutch physician had never even postulated the existence of reverse scalpels, sourceless lights, or blood plants; flowering bushes that manufactured any desired type of biological plasma by the gallon and delivered it via their own thorn tipped vines.
Through their built-in translators, the robot nurses had informed him the plants were a primitive ancestor of the legendary Koolgoolagans. Whoever the hell they were.
During his hurried reading of the Gee's medical texts on the different species of the galaxy, Van Loon had discovered that it was a good thing he was not going to work on a Choron, as the rocky giants didn't have doctors, per se; but more precisely structural engineers specializing in explosives, welding and plumbing.
Out of the corner of his eye, Van Loon spotted a distant group of cursing crewmembers struggling to drag an enormous plastic crate towards the airlock, and he smiled.
Without the lest bit of shame, the physician had ordered the confiscation of every surgical instrument on board the Gee's ship, including the blood plants. The futuristic devices made his equipment on board the
Ramariez
as outmoded as stone knives and leeches. When Engineering had some spare time, they could analyze the intricate workings of the complex machinery, and if the
Ramariez
ever made it back to Earth, the ship would bring home the seeds of the greatest medical breakthroughs since sterilization.
“Hello, doctor,” somebody said.
Van Loon glanced up to see Abigail Jones, the first mate of the
Ramariez
, standing nearby. It was hard to believe that the statuesque redhead was Australia's top astronaut. Considering the pre-contact state of that country's space program, she’d had plenty of time to branch out and had become an expert on military strategy. The three monographs on theoretical space warfare she had written, one of which had been confiscated by her government for reasons of national security, were more than enough to bring her to the FCT's attention.
When Jones had heard that the position of first officer on the starship was available, the astronaut had done everything in her power to get the berth. And while not on the original list of candidates for the position, the directors of NASA were so impressed by her qualifications, determination, and choice of blackmail photos, that they unanimously awarded her the post.
Stiffly formal as always, the first officer had the jacket of her duty uniform fully buttoned over the jumpsuit and highly polished lieutenant's bars shining on both collars. Flanking the officer were a pair of Marines in powerarmor, squat assault rifles cradled in their metal arms.
Unknown to the officers standing in front of them, the soldiers were holding a private conversation over their radios, wisely deciding that ‘The Dispos-All’ was a dumb name for the rifle, along with ‘Blast Master’ and ‘X-Caliber’.
“Well,” Jones asked impatiently. “Did you get it?”
“Ya, sure,” the man sighed and pulled a lump of white cloth from his uniform pocket. Gingerly, he unwrapped the layers of sterile gauze and passed the cloudy crystalline cube to the First Officer.
Turning it about in her hand, the tall woman inspected all six sides of the crystal: only a few of the black squiggles on the cube's milky surface were intact. “Is it supposed to look like this?” she asked in concern.
The doctor shrugged. “How should I know? First time I saw the thing it was nestled inside a man.”
“Not a man,” the lieutenant corrected curtly. “A member of The Great Golden Ones. An alien. Remember that.”
Now usually Van Loon found the woman's xenophobia faintly amusing, indeed, many of the command personnel were starting to tell alien jokes just to tease the woman. But now he found himself filled only with exhaustion and disgust at the necessary evil. The woman had been assigned to the ship as a dissenting voice to help balance the overwhelming goodwill among the crew towards non-humans.
Even the most highly trained of their personnel sometimes treated them like pet animals, or toys. A stupid practice that could jeopardize their entire mission, and the future freedom of Earth.
Lt. Jones pocketed the alien artifact. “Come on, let's not keep the captain waiting.”
As they began walking along the corridor, Van Loon glanced at the two hulking soldiers and could hardly suppress a smile.
“Expecting trouble?” he asked curiously.
“No. But I’m prepared for it,” she replied. “This cube is much too valuable to risk.”
Hesitantly, Dr. Van Loon was forced to agree. They had certainly gone to enough trouble to get the device.
The officers and Marines paused for a moment at an intersection, held up by a minor traffic jam of crewmembers wheeling carts of equipment over to the
Ramariez
.
“It looks like you’re taking everything not nailed down,” Dr. Van Loon noted.
“Only what is needed,” Jones sighed, a trace of bitterness in her voice. No sailor of the seas, or space, liked the idea of piracy. “We are leaving payment in exchange for our acquisitions.”
Payment? “Ah, the thulium,” the doctor remarked in understanding. “Is there enough to cover the medical supplies I confiscated?”
By way of a response, the lieutenant pointed to a Marine in powerarmor coming down the passageway carrying in a two ton steel safe in his hands.
Jones nodded. “We’re leaving two hundred galactic standard kilograms.”
That deserved a whistle, so the doctor obliged. That was almost sufficient funds to purchase the golden ship and planet it had been built on.
To the horror of the international banking association, and most jewelers, the element thulium proved to be the base of the galactic economy, not silver or gold, and for excellent reasons. Steel was stronger, platinum prettier, aluminum lighter, silver a better conductor, and arsenic tastier. In point of fact, there wasn't a single property that the metal held which another element didn't do better, faster, or cheaper. The stuff was virtually useless, but extremely rare, which made it the prefect currency. Thulium's value was rigidly linked to its atomic weight. One galactic ounce, slightly less than a Troy ounce, was a good month's wages and the
Ramariez
had in its hold over 10 metric tons of the stuff; 320,000 ounces, enough to bribe the Galactic Council if necessary. A possibility that had not been overlooked under the sage advice of Hong Kong bookies and members of the US Congress.
Upon reaching the air locks, Jones returned the guards’ salutes and the four sets of doors automatically opened in front of them and closed in their wake.
“How is the avantor?” Van Loon asked, as they entered their home ship. “I sent a corpsman to examine her during the operation.”
“Still unconscious,” the lieutenant answered. “But resting comfortably in our brig.”
Grabbing an arm, Dr. Van loon forcibly spun the woman about to face him. “The brig? Why the hell isn't she in sickbay? Or with The 16?”
Lt. Jones stared pointedly at the doctor's hand on her uniform, and the armed soldiers behind her stepped slightly closer. Self-consciously, the physician let go of his grip. She turned and continued on her way.
“Avantor and The 16 will soon be reunited,” the first officer replied as if nothing had happened.
It took the physician a moment to understand. “You’re putting them both in the brig? But they’re supposed to be treated like honored guests! That's why we’re bringing them along, as observers.”
“I’ve had video monitors set up in their cell,” Jones said calmly. “They won't miss a thing that happens on the bridge.”
Van Loon gawked at the woman askance. Xenophobic or not, there were limits. “I’m going to report this to the captain!” he told her in cold fury.
“Please do, doctor, and while you are at it, inform him that the being with the most experience regarding the Great Golden Ones, Master Technician Trell, feels that we are endangering our mission merely by allowing them within two light years of this ship. It is his considered opinion that we should drop them into the nearest sun.” She cocked her head. “I am merely attempting to strike a happy medium.”
With that statement, the starship officer and her guards walked away, leaving the good doctor standing with his mouth hanging open.
* * *
When all personnel had been accounted for, the starships disengaged and the
Ramariez
again jumped into hyperspace, taking a slow spiraling course to nowhere, as they waited for Trell to transcribe the cube's contents to the
Ramariez's
computer.
Captain Keller was reviewing a manpower report when the first officer entered the bridge.
“Well, lieutenant?” Keller asked, handing the clipboard to a rating who scurried away with the paperwork. “Were we able to retrieve the information we needed off of the HN cube?”
“Yes and no, sir,” she sadly reported. “Unfortunately, the digestive juices of The 16 had enough time to seriously damage the device. In point of fact, as far as Trell can determine, everything but the coordinates for six star systems has been wiped from the cube.”
Pensively, the captain gnawed a lip. “I suppose it's too much to ask that any of those is the co-ordinates for the Galactic League?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Are they at least six useful systems?”
“Unknown, sir, Trell is still correlating the data.”
Keller grunted. Damn. Well, his next move was obvious.
Deftly lifting the hinged top to the right arm of his chair, he removed a tiny microphone set next to a laser pistol. Also in the cubicle was a coffee butler, a paperback novel and two buttons. The left summoned his yeoman, the right would vaporize the ship as their engines boosted to 100/100 for a brief, shining microsecond. He was very careful not to get the two confused.
Shutting the lid, Dag Keller lifted the wireless mike to his mouth and pressed a switch on it marked with a bit of sticky tape that bore the penciled word ‘intercom’.
“ATTENTION, YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE.” His words rang in every room of the great ship and people paused in whatever they were doing — tying their shoes, eating a sandwich, picking a lock — to hear what the man had to say.
“CAPTAIN TO CREW. THERE WILL BE AN IMMEDIATE MEETING IN THE WARD ROOM OF EVERY DEPARTMENT HEAD. PLEASE BRING YOUR STATUS REPORTS.” He gave them a minute to absorb that. “UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE THE SHIP IS ON YELLOW ALERT. MARINES TO REMAIN ARMED, SHIELDS ON FULL. THAT IS ALL. KELLER, OUT.”
Returning the mike to its proper position, Captain Keller turned to his waiting First Officer. “I talked to Dr. Van Loon, Lieutenant.”
“Sir?”
“The Gees are to be accorded every comfort and courtesy. As soon as the avantor is awake, I want to be notified of the fact.”
Jones nodded. “I understand, captain.”
“See that you do.”
A pregnant pause followed, during which each of the officers listened carefully to what the other was not saying aloud.
Satisfied for the moment, Keller rose from his chair. “The bridge is yours, lieutenant. Try not to crash us into a moon or anything.”
She saluted. “Aye, aye, sir.”
As the doors to the turbo lift closed behind the officer, Abigail Jones took her place in the command chair with a heartfelt sigh of appreciation. Ah, at last.
* * *
The turbo lift deposited Keller on the appropriate level with a minimum of fuss and Dagstrom Keller stepped out with a smile on his face. By god, he just loved these things. Elevators could only go up and down, while turbo lifts could also travel horizontal and diagonally. Increase the speed, add bells and colored lights, and the contraptions would have made a fabulous carnival ride.
As the man strode into the Ward Room, he spotted a lone technician tightening screws on the underside of the oblong conference table. The rating began crawling out to salute, but Keller told him not to bother and the man kept on working.
The Ward Room was hexagonal in shape for no particular reason other than esthetics. The carpet was magenta and the wood paneled walls were dotted with framed cityscapes of Geneva, Orlando and New York: an inexcusable loss of ship's efficiency, or so it appeared at first glance.
With almost unlimited power at their command, it had been an easy matter to arrange for the function rooms to be equipped with laser holographs of wood paneling and colored carpeting that became activated only when the lights were turned on. This made for a much more relaxed atmosphere to work in and only the ultra-delicate speedometer on the Navigation console could detect the minute loss of velocity. Of course, in combat situations the walls and carpet reverted to white.