Illegal Aliens (27 page)

“When do we move, boss?” Drill asked.

Hammer drained the glass and licked his lips. “Enjoy your drink, dude. Act sociable, then if we don't get what we want, we kill some customers and set fire to the place.”

“Natch.”

Strolling among the drinkers and gamblers of the tavern, plying her centuries-old trade, was a semi-transparent, vaguely humanoid shaped creature. Her name was Einda, and she was a Datian prostitute. A truly universal whore, the empathic amoeba had the ability to mold herself into a sexpartner for almost any race. At least one representative of her highly flexible species was considered an absolute necessity at every decent bar throughout the known galaxy. And she had just found her next customer.

After the incident with the Drink Master, the adaptive female decided to try for the toughest member of the group, who would almost certainly be the leader: the short toothy male she had heard called Chisel. No doubt, a title of great authority.

As Einda casually wandered towards the bar, she passed by a hairy blue male sitting alone at a four-person table, playing with a piece of string and a small fruit, which explained why he was sitting alone in a crowded bar. Nobody smart bothered an assassin.

By the time she reached the boy's side, the anthropomorphic tart had metamorphosed into a reasonable facsimile of the well- endowed Laura; who had stolen the lad's heart even as the special federal agent had broken his nose during the fight on Leader Idow's ship.

“Greetings, attractive being,” Einda murmured seductively, her simple words promising everything and the knowledge to deliver it. “Do you desire my company?”

Mesmerized by the stark naked, translucent female, whom he seemed to know from somewhere, Chisel could only nod. Without hesitation, the gang member pushed the reptilian creature next to him off its chair and offered the seat to his new friend. Showing extreme wisdom, the scaly alien took no offense at this ejection and strolled away, searching for something less dangerous than the pink humanoid to bully.

“I am called Einda,” she told him taking the stool, her luscious lips curled at the tips in a faint smile, half in training, half from the courteous action.

“Chisel,” the human managed to say, his voice husky with unaccustomed desire. “Ah, would, ah, you like a drink?”

She slipped an arm about his waist and snuggled in warm and close. “Please.”

The boy stiffened, but when he realized she wasn't going for his wallet, he felt his face burn red in embarrassment, then lust, and he began to stiffen.

“Care for a sip of mine?” he asked, politely offering the lady his milkshake.

Einda was thrilled. Everybody knew that to her race such an act, the sacred mingling of juices, was a proposal of marriage. This humanoid with the big teeth might not be much to look at, but the manling was the first to ever ask and offer her a ticket to respectability. She’d be damned if he would get away.

A true hermaphrodite, her race could breed with any other species by accepting a sample of germ plasma, using their super adaptive flesh to feed the living cells and then act as an incubator for the infant. She would not be able to contribute anything to the offspring, aside from motherly love, but that would be enough. Einda sighed. Yes, it would be enough.

“Gladly,” the female throated, and pressed her lips to the steel mug accepting the offering in the spirit it was given.

Chisel was pleased by the beautiful woman's reaction and wondered if he dared to pat her shapely knee under the counter. Nyah, probably just get his face slapped.

Then Drill nudged him in the ribs and Einda was temporarily forgotten. Time for business.

“Hey, barkeep, maybe you can help us,” Hammer said laying down his empty shot glass alongside the other four and resisting the temptation to lick the container clean.

Drill pinked himself. “Yeah, we’re looking for somebody.”

“Ain't nobody here,” the bartender answered in a tired voice that had heard this question a thousand times before. It almost always led to trouble.

Exercising patience, Hammer showed a few teeth in his smile. “You don't understand. We want the boss, the guy, ah, the thing that owns this place.”

“I own it,” the sponge lied, hitting the alarm button on the floor with his main proto-foot.

Drill snorted in contempt. Hammer agreed with the assessment and took a more direct approach of persuasion by drawing his Uzi, reaching across the bar and stuffing the warm barrel of the weapon into the sponge's fibrous belly.

“How many fingers you got on a hand, chum?” the ganglord asked in a deceptively sweet voice.

Frightened to the very core of his being, the creature chewed its breath stick to a nub before answering, “Eight.”

“Seven,” Hammer continued, working the bolt on his Uzi machine pistol and squeezing the safety. “Six, five, four, three . . . ”

“WHO IS IT THAT WISHES TO TALK WITH ME?”

The atonal voice seemed to come from everywhere, so the ex-con eased his grip, resetting the safety on his weapon. “The new owner of the
All That Glitters
,” Hammer bragged. “You can see it in orbit about this rock.”

That statement stopped conversation dead in the tavern, and several of the more sapient sentients left unobtrusively through the windows, without bothering to open the portals first.

“INTERESTING,” the voice rumbled. “WHAT HAPPENED TO MY GOOD FRIEND, LEADER IDOW?”

In the manner of a 1950s gangster film, Hammer picked his teeth with a not very clean thumbnail and replied, “We ate him.”

The voice laughed in disbelief. “OF COURSE YOU DID. PERHAPS WE SHOULD DO BUSINESS TOGETHER.”

At this, a section of the wall near the bathrooms broke apart revealing a stainless steel cubicle. The invitation was obvious, but the Deckers only exchanged annoyed glances. Geez, what was this, amateur night? Aiming in unison, laser beams and bullets sprayed the cubicle, igniting the shaped charges of explosives lining the walls and quickly reducing the chamber into a twisted metal wreck.

“Sorry, but no can do,” Hammer drawled, dropping the exhausted magazine and slamming a fresh clip into his weapon. “Your elevator seems to be like broken.”

The laughter sounded again and alongside the ruined elevator, a panel slid open in the wall exposing a gray stone passageway.

“I PERSONALLY GUARANTEE THIS CORRIDOR WILL NOT CAUSE YOU ANY INCONVENIENCE.”

“Good enough,” Hammer said, knowing that guys like this would rather go legit than break their word. In public, that is. He had learned that the hard way.

With the bravery of youth, the Deckers walked into the corridor and disappeared off the screens of the
Ramariez
, causing a major commotion on the bridge. As the wall closed, the bartender made a noise in front of Einda and jerked a fibrous thumb towards a corner.

“A customer wants to see you,” he said gruffly.

“I quit,” she said haughtily, and the zaftig amoeba continued to sip her milkshake, contentedly waiting for her fiancé to return and wondering what to name the children.

* * *

Stepping out of the hallway, the Bloody Deckers entered a room that was more bomb shelter than office.

The floor was polished concrete, the ceiling burnished steel and every inch of the walls was covered with video monitors showing an external view of the asteroid, a panoramic shot of the city inside, the landing area, the Twin Chorons, creatures playing cards, fornicating, getting drunk, dancing, repairing a hovercar, a fist fight, and the construction of a new building. Only a handful were dark. In fact, the center screen was just fading to black as they walked into the room. Standing smack dab in the middle of the floor was the menacing figure of a black metal warobot, its lower chassis and upper arms edged with platinum.

Wary of the alien mountain with its multitude of weapons, the gang advanced into the room, looking for this Silverside guy Trell had told them about. But there was nobody present, except for the machine.

“You,” Drill accused, pointing a finger at the robot.

With the sound of distant thunder, the wardroid rotated its bulbous armored head, its camera eyes somehow losing their mindless machine quality.

“Yes,” Leader Silverside replied in a synthesized voice. “I just wanted to see how long the deduction would take you.” The status lights on its trim flickered from blue to orange. “Five seconds. Much better than average.”

Not amused, Hammer snorted in disgust. More frigging games, he thought sourly. Doesn't anybody just talk straight anymore?

“Hey, no offense,” Drill said as tactfully as he could. “But I thought you robot guys were, like, just stupid machines.”

Chisel was confused. There wasn't somebody inside the tank?

In response, Silverside gave a short barking laugh like a can opener gone bad. “Others of my kind are mere devices, yes. But not me. I have free will.” It flipped a gleaming silvered claw in the air. “You might call me an accident of fate.”

As the gang digested that bit of news, the metal behemoth docked itself into a control panel desk that rose hydraulically from the concrete floor. “What is the business you wish to conduct?”

Straightening his collar, Hammer stepped forward. “We need a couple of parts for our ship,” he stated bluntly, getting right to the point.

The droid gave a metallic snort. “Then go to Mikon. This is no silver and gold operation. I only deal in high priced items.”

“Like proton cannons?” Hammer asked, adjusting the shoulder strap of his Uzi. Damn things got heavy after awhile.

“Difficult, but possible,” the droid admitted, replacing the safety interlock on its weapon system as it reinterpreted the action as one of comfort. “Everybody has the right to defend themselves.”

“And some more Omega Gas,” Chisel chimed in, and the ganglord shot him an appreciative wink.

Silverside changed his orange lights to deep red. “You are aware that possession of the gas is punishable by Galopticon 7?”

Without a chair to sit in, Drill crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow. “That a problem?”

“Not a bit,” the machine denied. “Just telling you why the price will be exorbitant. I run a strictly cash establishment.”

“Hey, motherfucker, we ain't broke,” Chisel declared belligerently.

The slang expression quite confused the machine until its logic circuits combined a code analyzer with its translator. Ah, how primitive.

“Better not be,” the battledroid warned. “Waste my time and I’ll sell you to the Sazinians as experimental animals.”

The Deckers didn't know exactly what that meant, but it sure sounded like a serious threat. Better play it smooth.

“Fair enough,” Hammer smiled, running a hand over his hated crewcut. When they got back to New York, he had some serious killing to catch up on. Starting with the prison barber.

“Oh yeah,” he added, suddenly remembering why they were here. “We also want a Hypernavigational cube.” The street tough stumbled over the polysyllabic word.

Silverside diminished the focus of its video cameras. “You don't want much, do you?”

“Who cares? We got the thul,” Drill stated, tossing a pouch on to the controls covering the desk. It landed with a thump, luckily hitting a bare spot.

Using military scanners, the AI robot weighed the bag while reviewing its contents. Exactly two pounds of pure thulium. Quite obviously, these beings did not know the true value of the precious metal.

“This is acceptable,” the mechanical said as it plugged into the desk and ordered the requested supplies from storage. Then the droid flipped a panel on the desktop, reached inside and withdrew a fresh from the factory, seals still intact, brand new Hypernavigational cube.

“Here you are,” the warobot said, using a jointed arm with a two-prong clip to fork over the device. “The rest of your purchases will be delivered to the landing area for easy loading onto your shuttle.”

“Natch, I mean, thanks,” Hammer said as he nonchalantly tossed the future of humanity from hand to hand.

The cube was perfectly transparent, about the size of an apple and made of something much heavier than glass or crystal. Three of its faces were covered with tiny black squiggles and a fourth was embossed with the raised design of a triangle in a circle in a square. Out of the corner of his eyes, the street tough noted a smaller version of the logo etched in the metal on the prow of the robot. He casually wondered what it meant. But due to a minor omission in their briefing, the gang member was blissfully unaware of the fact that the staggered series of geometric figures was the exclusive symbol placed on property of the Great Golden Ones. Counterfeiting the seal, or owning such an item, carried the death penalty.

With a grunt, the ganglord tucked the HN cube into a pocket. So much fuss over a stinking paperweight, and the stupid thing didn't even snow inside when you turned it upside down.

Their business concluded, Leader Silverside decided to press for some more information. “I suppose the original was damaged in the firefight?” it inquired in a friendly manner.

Staying loose, Hammer chuckled. “Hey, accidents will happen.”

“Think you’re pretty tough, eh, mammal?” the warobot asked, clinically fascinated by the natural aggression of organic life.

Rocking back on his boot heels, Drill stuck his thumbs in his belt and laughed. “Shit, dude, we’re the Bloody Deckers! We use Chorons as landfill.”

An interesting visual. The droid was starting to like these creatures. Perhaps he could use them as agents for a tricky deal that was coming up. They would probably die, but then, what were paid underlings for?

“Yeah, nobody messes with the Deckers,” Hammer bragged, trying to impress the machine and annoy the listeners on board the
Ramariez
. “Why, we even got a couple of those Great Golden guys captive in the brig.”

Rrrr? Captive? Silverside mulled that word over, with all that it implied and inferred. Why should anybody brag they had taken a Gee prisoner? Killed, yes. But captive?

Then a cold surge of power flowed through the warobot's circuits, and its safety interlock violently disengaged. Unless the absurd claim was real. But that meant their earlier statement was probably also true. They had killed Leader Idow. The sweet, gentle being who had stolen the droid from the accursed Gees, and with his own blue hands given the machine consciousness, free will and a name.