Illegal Aliens (24 page)
“How's it coming, sir?” Sgt. Lieberman asked, ambling over to their assigned craft,
The Icarus Express
.
“Done, Sergeant,” Trell said, closing the hood of the aircar while wiping his lower hands clean on a rag. “I charged the antimatter accelerator, aligned the photovoltaic disc, balanced the gyroscopes and changed the wiper blades.”
The soldier paused, then forced a smile. “Great.”
Over in the far corner of the bay, a Maintenance technician stopped her mopping of the floor. “Photovoltaic?” she asked. “But surely the DRL assembly is electronic.”
“Nonsense,” the man next to her replied, pausing in his scrubbing of the wall prior to painting. “The magnetic lens must be controlled by fiber optics. It would eliminate any possibility of negative feedback.”
“Yeah,” said the janitor, studiously applying her mop. “That makes sense.”
Leaving the alien to his work, Sgt. Lieberman called for her troops, and the soldiers came running. As they gathered around, the noncom gave them a cursory inspection and nodded in approval. They were hard, lean and mean. She paused. Sounded like a Marine law firm. Hard, Lean and Mean, attorneys at war.
“Security has got to be tight on this trip,” Lieberman, said working the slide on her automatic to chamber a round for immediate use. “The RporRians will do anything to get their people off this planet, and the drones have orders to shoot to kill. The locals don't have communication satellites anymore, or use airplanes. Too risky. The drones keep shooting them down.”
“No kidding, Sarge?” asked a private, checking the load on his grenade launcher.
“It is true,” Trell said, neatly arranging his tools in a folding metal box. “Some of the more cowardly of the bugs don't even dare stand up straight. Minor criminals are often punished by making them stand on tall things in the outside.”
“Really? What do they do with felons?”
“Breed with them.”
The three word reply was delivered with such disgust and hate that it conjured nightmarish visions, and shivers ran along the spines of the Marines. Some things are best not known.
“Okay, time to board,” Lieberman said, glancing at her watch and deliberately breaking the mood. “Take only window seats, but don't get comfortable. I want everybody alert and ready for trouble. But the first person who acts without permission will get a unidirectional boot in the ass.”
As the Marines tromped onto the aircar, the janitors across the room chuckled. Tanya Lieberman snorted at them. Maybe the lenses were controlled by fiber optics. Sheesh! Didn't they know the magnetic flux of the aggie generator would distort any such primitive maser relay? The dopes. But then, that was why they were the cleaning crew.
* * *
As the harsh buzz of its drive softened to a muted snore, the
Ramariez
came to rest a rigid two meters above a large grassy plain, with gentle rolling hillocks and several lakes. The pastoral locale was the Mid City, Tax Free, Outdoor Recreational Center of (gargle-choke-burp) the capital of RporR.
The local population had scurried away at the starship's approach. Running in fear, the humans supposed logically. But within minutes they were back, hastily assembling plastic sales booths about the ship, taking photos and hawking goods; not to each other but the humans inside. Such esoteric items as: edible postcards, Gee dartboards, Koolgoolagan cigars (fake) and bags of genuine souvenir dirt.
Standing in front of the main viewscreen, Captain Keller studied the banners fluttering above the inflated booths. Most of them bore a broken triangle, the universal symbol of FOR SALE. Quite a few had the triangle and double circles which translated as BARGAIN. One even had three circles, which the starship officer supposed meant CHEAP. Nowhere did he see just a broken circle, the symbol for FREE SAMPLES.
“Are you sure about this?” Keller asked the wall.
“Positive, sir,” the voice of Trell replied. “The ship is too low to need to purchase a flying permit, and too high to require a parking fee.”
“What a crazy world this is,” Hamlisch remarked softly.
Ensign Soukup readily agreed. “Aren't they all, my friend.”
* * *
“Here he comes,” the driver observed in a measured tone.
Trying not to tap her boot, Sgt. Lieberman scowled. “About time.”
Holding onto his silk top hat, Prof. Rajavur ran across the metal deck of the loading bay towards the waiting aircar. The Icelander was dressed in his best tuxedo, platinum translator and sporting a red silk ambassador's sash. His shoes were polished, his iron-gray hair combed into obedience and he had even gargled with sugar water to be more pleasing to the insects. As Sigerson hurriedly climbed on board the transport, he was dismayed at the profusion of weapons among the Marines. But he wisely acknowledged their necessity should things turn ugly. The RporRians did have a bad reputation.
“Sorry I’m late,” the diplomat apologized as he took his seat next to the driver. “But I had to assemble the honorarium.”
“No problem, Mr. Ambassador,” Lieberman lied. She was used to dealing with dignitaries and VIPs. At least he was polite. “Driver, notify the bridge we are ready.”
“Aye, sir,” the Marine said as he unclipped a mike from the dashboard. “
Icarus
to
Ramariez
, permission to lift.”
“Permission granted,” said the captain's voice. “Godspeed and good luck.”
“Roger, wilco,” he replied and returned the mike to the dash.
“Respirators on,” Sgt. Lieberman ordered, pulling the elastic strap of the modified gas mask over her head. Muffled grunts sounded in acknowledgment. “Okay, Private. Let's go.”
“Aye, sir,” the pilot murmured, operating the vehicle controls by litany. “Running lights, check. Safety interlock, go. Atomic batteries to power, turbines to speed.”
With a blast of warm air, the
Icarus
lifted from the deck, floated over its sister vehicles and maneuvered out the opening doors of the Launch Bay, which promptly closed behind them.
Sprawled in front of the humans was a glittering metropolis with a thousand buildings of various different shapes and sizes. In the distance, Rajavur could now see that the roller coaster-like structure encircling the city was made of tremendously thick metal beams and huge slabs of stone. He was astonished the thing didn't sink into the ground under its own weight. The diplomat wondered what the erection could be.
Taking its time, the
Icarus
descended vertically into the greenery of the park, proclaiming to any onlookers that the passengers were in no great hurry. It gave the Marines plenty of opportunity to plan a ground-based offense, should it prove necessary.
Leisurely maneuvering, the aircar glided between stands of giant ferns and out over the legions of sales booths, the blast of their belly turbines causing a great commotion, blowing the tacky merchandise everywhere. Disappointed hoots and angry chirps sounded in their wake.
Once beyond the economic obstructions, the UN craft assumed a more sociable level and proceeded down the main thoroughfare at what the driver guesstimated to be walking speed.
Every building in sight was low to the ground, never more than four stories high, and mostly made of a creamy white material not readily identifiable. Flaring towers of silver lace dotted the wide sidewalks, fluted grooves in the ground served the obvious function of streets, and parking meters were commonplace.
The city appeared to be infested with curious onlookers who jammed the sidewalks and chittered noisily at each other. As the aircar slowed at an intersection to watch for cross traffic, a fat cockroach broke free from the crowd and dashed forward to run alongside the humans.
“An ounce of thulium for the secret of the passageway!” the bug offered, withdrawing a coin from its wicker belly bag.
Prof. Rajavur was unprepared for that particular question, so he played his instincts. “What secret?” he asked innocently, his words echoing slightly inside his respirator.
The bug paused in his speaking, but not in his running. Oh, they knew how to dicker, eh? “Okay, two ounces of thulium, but that's my last offer.”
“Sorry.”
“Four ounces,” the treadmilling insect countered. “Plus, I’ll throw in a picture of my sister.”
That made the Icelander blink. “I beg your pardon?”
As an incitement, the bug showed the humans in the aircar a full color 3D holograph of his nude sibling erotically dripping green ichor. Gagging noises ensued from the pink aliens. Puzzled, the RporRian tapped his discount translator with a foreleg. The device must be malfunctioning again, those almost sounded like insults.
Just then, the silver towers began to ring with a clear tone and the buildings disgorged thousands of insects onto the street. An incredible parade began to form about the
Icarus
.
Gaily flowered floats in the form of spaceships and planets came out of disguised garages and moved into position fore and aft of the aircar. Precision drill teams snapped and jerked their spears to a hard cadence count. Nimble teams of acrobats leaped and flew through the air with amazing agility. Eight-armed jugglers tossed about glowing glass balls, two-headed axes, flaming torches and live squirrels. Insects with white-painted bodies, mimes, performed all of the standard works, and then did a few indecipherable routines which the Marines could only guess at the meaning of, like: ‘Eat The TV’ and ‘Wind The Baby’.
A barrage of brilliant fireworks arced skyward from every rooftop, filling the air with pyrotechnic grandeur and making the drones very nervous. Confetti rained down as balloons went up. Then came the grand finale as a huge marching band in crimson leather uniforms and feathered hats seemed to well from the very ground around the vibrating aircar: the string, wind and percussion instruments sounding remarkably like any Earthly high school band: full of vim and energy, but slightly off-key.
The tumultuous crowd of bugs laughed, cheered, shouted and sang. It was wild, wacky, wonderful, and very, very noisy.
“Sir,” Sgt. Lieberman shouted in warning, holding hands over her ears and putting a wealth of meaning into the word.
Nearly deafened, the diplomat could only nod. They could only take a few more seconds of this, and then they would be forced to retaliate. Whatever the consequences.
Back on the
Ramariez
, a violent explosion rocked the cafeteria on Level 19, throwing people, chairs and food to the floor. Then from the smoking hole in metal deck poked the angry, golden head of Avantor.
Grabbing a convenient table leg, she started to climb out when the only crewmember on his feet brought a fully loaded dinner tray crashing on top of her head, spraying beef stew, biscuits and beer into the air. Only another Gee could have told the woman's eyes crossed under the impact before she limply dropped out of sight.
“Medical to the brig, stat!” Lt. Jones ordered into her wrist transceiver while getting to her feet. “Engineering team report to Cafeteria B, pronto. Security to both places, now!”
Dripping spaghetti and garlic sauce, Jones turned to the crewmember who was still holding the dented, vibrating tray. “Good work, corporal,” she commended.
“Private, sir,” the Marine sullenly responded.
The lieutenant smiled tolerantly. “Not anymore.”
PFC James Furstenburg sighed down to his boots. Maybe he should just have that damn stripe put on with Velcro this time.
* * *
Judging now to be the time, Prof. Rajavur rested an arm on the cushioned metal siding the aircar and tapped a nearby marching bug on the shoulder, getting its attention.
“By the way,” the human said in a friendly manner to the insect. “We have no intention of paying for this parade.”
In ragged stages, the music stopped and the parade ground to a halt.
“W-what did you say?” a startled cook roach said, holding a saxophone, a food stained apron still encircling his abdomen.
“We’re not paying for this,” the diplomat repeated, his words ringing loud and clear in the sudden stillness.
As quickly as it had formed, the parade disappeared: the performers breaking formation, the floats returning to their docks, the laser holographs of fireworks turned off and the balloons reeled in on tethers. Soon the streets were deserted, without even a stray alien dog to keep the humans company.
Sigerson had deliberately waited till the very last moment to tell the insects this, to give them a taste of their own medicine. In a briefing with Trell, the diplomat had been told that once visitors set foot on the Grand Plaza Of Haggling they were then legally liable for the cost of any entertainment incurred along the way. But if you couldn't meet the demanded price in thulium, or some equally valuable goods, it was off to the work prison with you for the rest of your natural life. Many off-worlders caught in this insidious trap tried to escape, and even though the RporRian police were a joke, the Gee drones in the sky were not.
Apparently while the main job of the pyramids was to keep the insects planet-bound, the drones also served as auxiliary officers for the Great Golden Ones, and the Queen/Mother could call upon them for assistance to deal with any criminal. A sobering thought, but to Rajavur, also a warming one. The Gees were not evil stormtroopers oppressing the masses, but merely police officers enforcing existing laws.
Sgt. Lieberman gestured. “Okay, let's move on.”
Accelerating, the
Icarus
continued along the vacant main road of the city, passing blocks of apartment colonies, shopping arenas and body waxing parlors.
The humans made faces when they spotted a movie theatre with a huge, garish poster depicting a drooling male humanoid carrying off a delicately built bug in a torn silk dress while some robots gave chase. The marquee read: INVASION OF THE FLAT-EYED MONSTERS! The logo on the poster was:
They wanted our women!
In smaller print underneath:
Not even money could stop them!
It made the crewmembers feel proud to know that Hollywood had never produced such godawful tripe. Well, not often, anyway.
Eventually, the aircar slowed as it reached a flat hexacre of stone situated directly in front of a staggered series of lumpish domes piled on top of each other. The Imperial Hive. This was their goal, the only authorized point for trading with off-worlders; the Grand Plaza Of Haggling.
“I’ll get out here,” Rajavur said, disembarking, the motion making the aircar bob like a boat on water. “Follow me, but not too close.”
“Yasher koach
, sir,” Sgt. Lieberman said, showing a thumbs up.
Rajavur's translator relayed the Hebrew phrase as: ‘have strength’.
With the diplomat walking before them, the
Icarus
cautiously floated through an archway of giant plastic mandibles and entered the dreaded Coliseum of Commerce.
The circumference of the plaza consisted of wooden bleachers whose seats went horizontal at the deposit of a coin. But the mechanism had to be constantly fed to forestall the inevitable vertical dump. Most of the huge attending crowd was standing. The earlier throng had not left for the day, but merely relocated here, eager to see the Queen/Mother teach these upstart mammals a lesson. It was fabulous entertainment, highly educational for the children, and, most important, free.
The only ornamentation in the place was a life-size statue of an RporRian male standing on a small dais. It was the actual mummified remains of (hiss-burble-cough), the famous poet, who, for a single copper unit, would robotically recite his immortal poem:
“Thulium, thulium, thulium,
I’d kill my own children,
for a bag of thulium.”
The sentiment of the piece lost nothing in translation.
While patiently waiting, Prof. Rajavur rubbed the tip of his shoe across the strange gritty substance that formed the plaza. “What is this stuff?” he asked out loud. “Some form of concrete?”
“Checking,” a voice replied from the communicator on his wrist. “Negative, sir, the material is primarily organic. A base epoxy mixed with bone dust and powdered silicate.”
The diplomat couldn't stop himself from asking. “No spit?”
There was a chuckling pause. “That's the truth, sir.”
Cutting his laugh short, a trumpeting horn sounded from the Imperial Hive and the crowd parted to admit a squad of smartly marching soldier bugs holding electric whips and quivers of crystal snakes. The soldiers advanced to the center of the plaza, then parted to each side. Through the middle crawled a hairy sedan, walking on eight jointed legs like a cross between a tarantula and a lounge chair.
It was then Prof. Rajavur remembered that the bugs were adept in biotechnology. That certainly explained the trickle of clear water running down middle of the fluted streets. The organic cars must be too simple to litter box train and the water was used to flush away any of their involuntary byproducts. The diplomat approved. It was neat, efficient and sanitary. In spite of their fanatical devotion to greed, the cockroaches were not barbarians.
Twinkling merrily in the sunlight, the body of the ambulatory sedan was resplendent with clusters of jewels and silver filigree. The Queen/Mother herself was mostly hidden in a pool of dark shadow caused by a bone and membrane umbrella supported by the sedan's scorpion-like tail, on top of which was a special flashing light of royal blue. All the humans could tell about her was that she was large, lumpy and had a lot of legs.
* * *
“What do you make of that sedan, Doctor?” Captain Keller asked, gazing at the main viewscreen. When he did not receive an answer, Dag glanced about the bridge. “Where is Van Loon?”
“Conducting an experiment, Captain,” somberly replied a muscular Russian nurse at the Medical console.
“An experiment?”
The beefy woman nodded. “
Da
, commander, something to do with the Gee medical supplies.”
Keller hurmphed. Must be damn important for the physician to miss this. “Are you recording everything for him, nurse?” he asked.
“Of course, sir.”
“Very well, carry on.”
* * *
In the aircar, a private leaned forward in his seat and tapped Lieberman on the shoulder. “Hey, Sarge, what will we do if the professor can't make a deal?”
“Leave,” Lieberman said succinctly.
“Retreat?”
The sergeant grimaced. “Look about you, Andrews. If we take a threatening step towards the Queen/Mother, every bug on this planet will rally to her defense.”
Very uneasily, the private observed the thousands of bugs watching their every move, and noted the wide assortment of mandibles, claws and stingers. Yeah, he guessed she was right. Nobody wanted to reenact Little Big Horn, especially when you had to play the part of Custer.
With a blare of trumpets, the living carriage stopped in the center of the plaza and an RporRian guard, naked but for the ever-present belly pouch, walked toward the humans holding a cast iron pot.
Remembering his lessons, Prof. Rajavur dropped in enough silver for everybody in the party. The drone chose a coin at random and submitted it to a primitive, but effective, test of authenticity: he bit it. At his nod, the Queen/Mother chattered for a while.
“I bid thee greetings,” said the translator hanging from a hairy strut of the living carriage. “Identify, please.”
The diplomat bowed with a flourish of his hat. “Ambassador Sigerson Rajavur from the planet Terra.” He deliberately did not introduce the Marines, on the belief that soldiers in an insect culture would be second class citizens, at best.
“We come in peace, and as a token of respect, offer a few humble gifts unworthy of Your Majesty.” The professor had originally planned to compliment the Queen by calling her Your Loveliness, but just couldn't bring himself to do it. By God, he would not make love to a bug. Well, not unless he absolutely had to for the sake of the mission.
A Marine handed him a heavily laden silver tray, which Rajavur then passed on to a drone. On the tray were: a cut glass jar of Egyptian honey, a box of Belgian chocolates, a silver Chinese dagger in ornamental sheath and a fine collection of necklaces depicting cultures from every nation on Earth. Wisely, none of the offerings were made of gold, or even yellowish in color, except the honey.
Daintily as a manticore, the Queen/Mother smiled, displaying only a few hundred of her dagger shaped teeth. “Gladly we accept these gifts,” the platinum-edged box said in silken tones. “And I decree that, for the rest of your stay, you may breathe freely of the air of my planet.”
Rajavur bowed again. “Thank you. Does this invitation also extend to my associates?”
Ah, the dance had begun. “Of course.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Happily, the humans removed their respirators, and then were sorry they had. Pollution was pretty bad here, and only the smokers in the group didn't mind the thick chemical taste to the air. It was worse than Bombay, India, in the summer.
“Lovely,” the professor smiled, trying not to gag. “Thank you for allowing us to share it.”
An elderly bug in the crowd stepped forward to ask the mammal if it would like to buy some air, but a guard pushed the impetuous entrepreneur back into place. Heckling was not allowed.
“What purpose has brought you noble beings to my humble world?” the corpulent insect asked, toying with the candied skull of an ex-lover.
“Curiosity,” Rajavur said. Then after a ten-second pause he added. “Plus, we need some supplies.”
The Queen/Mother demurely oozed a bit of ichor at those words, and her bargaining claws extended. “We are not a metal based culture. But I am sure that we can deliver anything you might need. For a small fee, that is.”
Sigerson had a feeling that this meant along the same lines as ‘the check is in the mail’ did back on Earth. “Our Hypernavigational cube has developed a crack and we seek another to compare coordinates with.”
Clearly apprehensive, the Queen/Mother glanced at her chamberlain, and he whispered in her ear-hole. “Yes, we do have such a cube available for purchase,” she replied, via the box. “The sale price is the total destruction of the blockade around my planet.”
The Icelander went cold. Wow. She caught on fast. The captain had asked to be consulted on any difficult decisions, but Rajavur didn't need to bother the man about this. “I am sorry, but no.”
“Your vessel lacks the necessary armaments?” she asked inquisitively, her lower limbs doing a pantomime of strangling a rabbit.
“Our ship does not carry any weapons at all,” Rajavur lied with a straight face. “We are as peaceful a race as you are generous and giving.”
The RporRians went stiff at that and started chattering among themselves. Sgt. Lieberman wondered if the diplomat was wise in insulting the bugs, and told her troops to get ready for trouble.
But then a trilling laugh came from the translator. “Amusing. I will give you an HN cube if you will take ten of my people in your ship and release them on any planet.” On cue, a swarm of insect children were brought out from behind the sedan, the adorable infants endearingly intent on sucking flavor sticks.
The ambassador gave the matter serious thought. What harm could ten baby bugs do?
Over the radio Trell asked Lieberman if the children had a green sheen to their thorax or chitin and the Marine replied yes. “They’re pregnant queens,” the technician frantically told her. “Release them, and within a single solar revolution, the galaxy would be spleen deep in the horrid monsters.”
“Room is severely limited on our ship,” Sgt. Lieberman stated in a loud voice for the professor's benefit. “Ten additional beings would strain our life support to the breaking point.”
Prof. Rajavur appreciated the assistance, and the Queen/Mother blithely accepted the obvious lie.
“Perhaps we could buy the cube from you,” the diplomat offered, as if he had invented the concept. “Say, for sugar?”
Radiating innocence like a furnace, (squeak-squeak-thromb-squeal-chatter-gnash-grunt) oozed a bit of green. This was so exciting. “Your ship isn't large enough to carry sufficient sugar,” she informed him.
“Well, then how about thulium?”
Ah, the dance quickened. “What do you offer?” she asked putting the skull of her brother into a refrigerator compartment at the base of the sedan's armored tail.
He decided to start with the fair market value. “An ounce.”