Illegal Aliens (5 page)
The translator hummed to itself, and relayed his words to the Test Chamber. Startled by the voice from nowhere, the six humans jumped off the floor and started shaking belligerent fists at the ceiling.
“They wish to know what you want of them,” Squee said, his instruments whispering to their beloved master.
“Nothing more?” Gasterphaz asked, shifting position in his steel slab of a chair which groaned in protest.
“Well, I am simplifying it a bit,” Squee admitted with a shy smile.
“So I would assume,” Idow added coldly. “What else do they say?”
“Ssss . . . challenges to show ourselves, demands for immediate release, numerous death threats and multiple references to procreating with our own mothers.” The latter confused the lizard. Didn't everyone love their mother?
Leader Idow was dubious as to the accuracy of the translation and told the lizard so. “Let me speak to them directly,” he instructed.
Daintily as a tree surgeon, Squee taloned the switches and dials on his control board and Idow's viewscreen spoke: “. . . CONSUME WASTE PRODUCTS, YOU UNCLEAN OFFSPRING OF UNMARRIED PARENTAL UNITS! YOU MALE INFANTS OF FEMALE CANINES! MAY THE PRIME BUILDER CAST YOU INTO THE VOID! MAY—”
“Be quiet,” Idow said in a conversational tone as he thumbed the volume switch on his microphone to maximum. His amplified voice resounded in the Test Chamber and the humans rocked beneath the sonic assault.
“Behave yourselves,” he ordered, resetting the switch to its normal position. “There is no need to shout. I can hear you quite clearly.”
“Negative waste products,” a female test subject said, and the rest of the group concurred.
Puzzled, Idow looked at Squee.
“Expressions of disbelief,” the lizard translated.
Idow nodded. “Ah.”
“Primitive trash,” Boztwank muttered to nobody in particular. Why couldn't everybody understand that he was always correct, 100% of the time, no matter what the facts were?
In the test chamber Idow's voice boomed out with: “YOU SIX HAVE BEEN BROUGHT ABOARD THIS STARSHIP AS A SAMPLING OF TYPICAL DIRTLINGS.”
“Dirtlings?” a small male asked.
“Your mother was a dirtling!” the large male shouted.
“Cease your mindless discourse,” the hairy male ordered, and his cohorts swiftly obeyed.
“BEFORE THE PEOPLE OF YOUR WORLD, YOU WILL BE TESTED TO SEE IF YOUR RACE IS READY THE JOIN THE GALACTIC LEAGUE.”
A brief silence followed.
“Is that anything like the major league?” the small male asked puzzled.
Idow looked at Squee again.
“Their ruling planetary body,” the Communicator explained.
“YES. EXACTLY. OUR LEAGUES WILL BECOME UNITED IN FRIENDSHIP. UNLESS YOU SHOULD FAIL THESE TESTS. THEN DIRT WILL BE DESTROYED.”
“That inhales!” the female cried.
“That exhales,” a male added.
“I smell most unpleasantly on tests,” the small male wailed unhappily.
“Forcibly consume the garments of your feet, anal orifice,” the hairy male snapped, and the small male cringed. In somber reflection, the Leader of the six thoughtfully surveyed the gigantic white room, remembering how they had gotten here. “Because I would wager that they can do it too,” he whispered.
“YES. WE CAN.”
In an indecipherable human gesture, the tall hairy male spread his arms wide. “Agreement then,” he said to the ceiling. “So pray inform us, what will these tests consist of?”
“An intelligent question at last,” Gasterphaz rumbled, sounding pleased. “Why don't we show them?”
“Yes,” Boztwank encouraged eagerly. “Let's show them! Show them!”
Idow cut his microphone. Why not? They certainly were a boring group. Maybe some visual stimulation would make them more physically active. “As you wish,” he agreed. “Communicator, see if you can contact their Major League and inform them that we will begin the tests immediately.”
“At once, my Leader,” Squee said, working the controls of his tech station in preparation to send off the communiqué. It really was a shame, thought the lizard privately. This had been such a pretty planet.
The First Contact Team had been working like madmen at their consoles, the Command Bunker a maelstrom of activity, as 15 years of preparation paid off in 47 minutes.
Hastily as possible, the crowd around the spaceship had been forced outside the park by the National Guard, who were then replaced by crack NATO troops. Any building that faced the alien craft had their rooftops lined with every weapon and sensor that modern science admitted to, and a few they didn't. The 81st Street ballfield of Central Park was a battle zone, merely waiting for official authorization to become a disaster zone.
Plus, everywhere in Manhattan, people were disappearing.
Under the United Nations emergency act A Zero A (informally known as the old Snatch-n-Run), all important civilian personnel were being evacuated from the greater metropolitan area. Whether they wanted to be or not.
Prof. Gregory Ketter, a particle physicist of world renown, was whisked out of his Park Avenue penthouse, flown off to Washington DC, and then the Pentagon.
In Mt. Sinai Hospital, Dr. Michael Walsh was stopped in front of his operating room and was dragged off to a police car. He left behind his startled assistant, who was only the second best brain surgeon in the United States of America, and a prepped patient waiting in the operating theatre.
A highly embarrassed team of FBI agents removed Dr. Daniel R. Lissman from New York's most infamous house of ill repute, failing to bring along his Frankenstein mask, his whips, or his tutu, but retaining the doctor's battered briefcase that contained his latest treatise on Biological Warfare Counter-Weapons.
Specially appointed federal agents, many of whom just minutes before had been ordinary firemen and police officers, went scurrying every-which-way throughout the Big Apple, tracking down their prey any-which-way they could, be it bribery, blackmail, or busting heads. Time was important, not method. The agents had 40 minutes to find 100 people and get them 200 miles away from New York. It was a mad scramble from the start, but they did it, and by the dint of what Herculean efforts only their fellow agents ever knew.
In lower Manhattan, a fleet of Federal Depository bank trucks with an escort of heavily armed Army helicopters was discreetly pulling away from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, its last stop on a frightfully long list, racing off for Canada and safety, carrying a paltry few hundred paintings and statues, and leaving behind far too many. One poor, half-crazed curator had to be forcibly restrained from throwing any more Rembrandts into the back of the last truck.
The immense United Nations building stood deserted, but for a squad of U.S. Marines left behind to deter looters. On every floor, doors gaped wide, furniture was overturned and the warm, black ashes of hastily burned secret documents billowed along empty corridors like autumn leaves. The entire cadre of attending delegates were already at Kennedy Airport, being herded aboard specially commandeered jetliners and flown off to Geneva, Switzerland, the UN's alternate headquarters. The FCT were left quite alone in their sub-sub-sub-sub-basement Command Bunker. Even their honorary security guards were gone, leaving the external hallway unattended.
Seated shoeless at his defense console, General Nicholi finished the arduous procedure of keying in his identification code, and The Button lit up on his board, its glaring red light leering at him like the eye of some demented devil from Hell.
Parcheesi? Why couldn't he have learned Parcheesi, for God's sake?
Doggedly holding the blue phone to his ear, the pained expression on Prof. Rajavur's face told a story that Julius Caesar would have understood completely, even though it wasn't March 15th. Et Tu, Secretary General?
“Mr. Secretary, how did you get on the White House hotline?” the professor asked.
“I have friends, Rajavur,” Emile Valois said rudely. “Friends in important places who do not want to see you usurp my authority. The first contact with an alien species must logically be the responsibility of the United Nations.”
“I agree, sir.”
“Then give me back my goddamn computers and stop ordering NATO around like a bunch of ribbon clerks! I run the UN, not you. This diplomatic nonsense must stop! These creatures are a threat to Humanity and must be eradicated.”
“No, sir,” Rajavur said firmly. “I agree that the situation should be handled by the United Nations, and it is. The FCT is a duly chartered division of the UN Security Council, answerable only to ourselves once activated. Please try to understand, sir, that we have been waiting and training—”
“And playing poker!”
“And playing poker,” Rajavur conceded, “for nearly 15 years. We know better than you the seriousness of the matter. There is nobody else on Earth better qualified to handle it than us.”
“Personally, Emile,” the professor said, switching tactics, “I am shocked by this petty grab for glory on your part. Heaven knows your psychological profile indicated no such megalomaniac tendencies prior to this.”
The Secretary General gasped, then screamed,
“How the bloody Hell did you get your hands on my psych file?”
Prof. Rajavur refused to oblige him. “Mr. Secretary, you shall remain with the rest of the delegates, in Geneva, until this matter is resolved, or we are dead. End of discussion. Goodbye sir.”
Displaying incredible restraint, Rajavur gently cradled the wireless phone receiver, but under his breath, the professor muttered a biting Icelandic phrase that dealt with the dire consequences of fat people skating over thin ice.
With perfect timing, the digital clock on his console blinked a new time and started beeping at him.
“That's the 10 minute warning,” he announced. “Let's have your reports, please.”
General Bronson turned off his laser printer in acknowledgment and placed a fresh cigar in his mouth. His supply of them seemed endless. “Central Park has been cleared of all non-military personnel and NATO troops have it cordoned off,” he said, reading from the top sheet of light green computer paper. “The adjoining rooftops are manned and armed. Snatch-n-Run was completed without any newsworthy incidents and I still have no idea who the aliens have in their ship.” Wayne started to light his panatela, then decided against it. “What I do know is that some poor bastard by the name of Hector Ramariez is under the damn thing. Dozens of eyewitnesses saw it land right on top of him. He was, let me see, a bachelor, an accountant and a Baptist.”
“One dead,” Rajavur sighed sadly. “God grant that there are no more. Dr. Wu?”
Primly stiff, the Chinese scientist stood, as she always did when making a report. “So far, we have been unable to penetrate the force shield that domes the ship. Conventional armament has proven useless. Neutron steel drills can find no purchase in which to operate. Magnetic keys yield nothing, and radiant energy stops dead at the surface, not bounce off mind you, but stops, so the shield is probably H-Bomb proof. Did you hear that, Nicholi?”
The Russian General waved her on, engrossed in his work.
She shrugged. “At present we’re trying lasers, since the force shield does pass visible light and we have moved up an ion cannon.” Here Wu tactfully coughed. “I believe that may work.”
Tea sprayed out his nose as Nicholi gagged in the middle of a swallow. Czar's Blood, so that's where the damn thing was! Here he was trying to find somebody in the Kremlin who would even admit that the weapon existed and Yuki already had it positioned in Central Park running tests! Mopping his console with a handkerchief, Nicholi could feel his face turn red as the woman passed Prof. Rajavur a sheet of paper covered with mathematical equations. Probably the operational figures on the Most Top Secret device.
The Russian general smiled in spite of himself. Efficient wasn't the word for it, magic was. Nicholi suddenly had the feeling that if Yuki wanted his uniform for a test on the ship, he would miraculously find himself sitting buck naked in his chair, with absolutely no idea how he got that way. Good thing she was on their side.
“What's the public reaction, Jonathan?” Sigerson asked the team's sociologist.
“So far, so good,” Sir John announced, folding away his reading glasses and tucking them into a pocket. “The lunatic fringe is up and running, claiming a million different things, very few of them making any sense, but they’re just a 2% factor and we can safely disregard them. Interestingly enough, 12% to 15% of the population are denying the whole incident and have turned their TV sets off. The classic Turtle in the Shell syndrome. Fascinating really.” Nobody commented. “Well, I think it's fascinating,” he continued. “Anyway, the rest of the world is apprehensive and under some appreciable tension, but nothing they can't handle. In summation, Earth is not in very much worse shape than, say, America on a Superbowl Sunday.”
General Bronson whistled. “That bad, eh?” Yuki hushed him.
Swiveling his chair, Rajavur turned to the left. “Mohad?”
“Hmm?” Dr. Malavade said, his eyes staring off into space. In constant motion, the man was adjusting the audio controls on his communications console. The FCT knew that if the bunker was on fire, the best way to tell Mohad the fact would be to announce the news over the radio.
“Dr. Malavade!” Prof. Rajavur shouted.
“What? Oh yes.” The Indian philologist removed the earphones from his head, and tried to straighten his rumpled jacket, a procedure as useless as spitting on a volcano. “At present, communications are nil. The aliens will not respond to anything I say, except to acknowledge that they do receive my transmissions. Most infuriating. They ceased to broadcast some 15 minutes ago. The picture you see on the wall monitor is from a NATO surveillance camera.” Mohad twirled a dial on his console and the scene zoomed in and out from the white ship.
“One curious piece of information I have is about their original message.” Dr. Malavade consulted his notebook. “In North America the transmission was in English, in South America a polyglot of Spanish and Portuguese. Europe received a mixture of Russian and German. Asia got Chinese, most impolite of them. In Africa it was Swahili, and in Australia it was French.”
“French?” everyone chorused.
Mohad gave them the most imperceptible of shrugs. “At least it proves that they are not infallible.”
Just then, the NATO telephone on Malavade's console began to ring and as the linguist reached for the receiver, Prof. Rajavur instructed him, “If that's the Secretary General, tell him we’re out for lunch.”
Unexpectedly, the wall monitor dimmed and the picture on it changed from a ground view of the white ship into an aerial view of the white ship.
“They’re back,” Sir John observed dryly.
“Minutes early,” Dr. Wu contributed.
“Lunch,” Dr. Malavade said, hanging up the phone and starting his video recorder.
With a swirl, the picture melted and reformed into the stern visage of the alien, Idow.
“PEOPLE OF DIRT, ATTENTION. PEOPLE OF DIRT, ATTENTION. THE TESTS TO DETERMINE THE LIFE OF YOUR WORLD ARE NOW ABOUT TO BEGIN. WE WILL ALLOW YOU TO WATCH AND THUS BETTER UNDERSTAND THEIR NATURE. HERE IS THE CHAMBER OF TESTING, AND THE DIRTLING SUBJECTS THAT WE HAVE CHOSEN.” Again the monitor performed its technicolor gymnastics.
“About time,” General Bronson growled from behind his cigar. As few as they were, patience had never be one of his virtues.
Slow and leisurely, the wall monitor focused into the picture of a blinding white room, thousands of meters square, and in the midst of that snowy acreage were a half dozen tiny figures. As the camera, or its alien equivalent, dollied in, the six humans filled the TV screen with their presence; their faces, hairstyles and mode of dress clearly announcing to the world exactly on what rung of the social ladder they belonged.
“More aliens!” Dr. Malavade cried, aghast.
“Almost,” Sir John corrected. “They’re a street gang! A bloody New York City street gang!”
“Perhaps you are correct,” Dr. Malavade recanted. “Creatures from another star would most likely dress with better taste.”
Prof. Rajavur did a double take. Considering the source, this was without a doubt the strangest thing he had ever heard. But he diplomatically said nothing.
“The NYPD computer just called in a positive ID on the gang,” Bronson announced, scowling at a fax from his printer. “The kids call themselves, geez, The Bloody Deckers, and they’re supposed to be the worst street gang ever to plague this city.”
“I think they stole my car once,” Dr. Wu said, scrutinizing the monitor closely, and then she nodded. “Yes, it was them, all right.”
“Mohad!” Prof. Rajavur barked, making everybody jump. “Contact Idow immediately and tell him that he's made a terrible mistake!”
Tense minutes followed as Dr. Malavade tried once more to break through the alien radio silence. As the communications expert waged his private brand of electronic warfare, the FCT, and the rest of the world, carefully studied the six gang members.
They were all young, in their early twenties, yet each bore scars testifying to battles hard fought, and won. Five men and a woman; their hairstyles ranged from crewcut, to ponytail, to bald. They wore boots and denims like a uniform, and everyone sported a black leather jacket, dripping in chains, with the back of each adorned with a vividly painted toolbox splashed with crimson. Underneath that was the name of the gang, boldly emblazoned in shining steel studs: “The Bloody Deckers.”
Dr. Malavade snapped his fingers for attention. “I have been talking to an entity named Squee, and he assures me that a road maintenance crew is perfectly acceptable to them.”
“Road maintenance crew? Aw hell, that's a street gang!” Rajavur groaned aloud. “Mohad, make him understand!”
“Too late,” General Bronson stated.
The transmission from the ship had shifted to a wide angle view and inside the test chamber something was happening. Close by the street gang, a section of the floor had dilated and a column rose into view, bearing four metal lumps; blue, gray, brown and green, each resembling army helmets. Hesitantly, the Deckers took a step forward but Idow's voice stopped them.