Illegal Aliens (6 page)

“THIS IS THE FIRST OF YOUR TESTS. WITHIN SIXTY SECONDS, THESE FOUR DRONES WILL BE ACTIVATED. THEY WILL INSTANTLY TRY TO KILL YOU.”

Supremely defiant, The Bloody Deckers sneered, the FCT frowned, and the rest of humanity leaned eagerly into their TV sets. Hot dog, action at last.

“DESTROY THESE DRONES OR DIE . . . HEY.”

The ‘hey’ was because the street gang was already in action. Their leather jackets flapping like bat wings and howling their name in a battle cry, the six youths leaped upon the inert drones, smashing them to pieces under their heavy motorcycle boots. The largest gang member grabbed two and ground them against each other. Fragments of wire and plastic sprinkled to the floor. A slim male produced a motorcycle chain and viciously whipped it down, sending bits of drone flying everywhere. The remaining drone was dropkicked into its component works by a hulking third gang member, while two more Deckers moved in and systematically stomped into junk anything they could find. The sixth member of the street gang, a tall hairy male, watched the carnage with a bored expression and kept checking his watch.

As the end of the minute approached, he whistled them to his side and on the 60 second mark, one tiny chunk of drone stirred. Bravely, it gave forth a fierce hoot and a shining steel blade emerged from the broken shell of its body. The smallest gang member scuttled over to the dying drone, snapped off the blade and happily tucked it into his sleeve. The lord of the Bloody Deckers nodded approvingly at this act and then turned a murderous grin towards his unseen audience of 500 million.

“So tell us,” he asked smugly. “What is next on the game plan?”

* * *

Almost falling out of his chair, Leader Idow yipped and hit the switch killing his microphone. Spinning about, the blue being found himself staring at his equally flabbergasted crew.

“GAME!” Idow roared using both of his mouths. “Did he say,
game
?”

Completely rattled, Squee rubbed his claws together. “Yes,” he hissed. “There is no chance of translation error. The hairy Dirtling definitely said the word game, my Leader.”

The ever garrulous Boztwank was sprayed with pink just then, so it was Gasterphaz who got to rumble in amazement, “But how . . . how did they know?”

SIX

“A test?” Dr. Wu demanded, her voice peaking on the last syllable. The scientist's almond eyes flashed in anger, and she radiated such violent moral outrage that the printed flowers on her white, cotton dress almost wilted. “What the hell kind of a test was that?”

Dr. Malavade undertook to answer the woman's clamorous question. Calmly, the linguist postulated that it might have been a test of us, not to us.

Yuki had to think about that. “So you believe the drones would not have attacked? That this was merely a test to see what humans would do when threatened?”

He shrugged. “You must admit, that is a possibility.”

Dr. Wu frowned. A possibility? Yes, but not one that the scientist would readily accept. For it would mean that these ludicrous tests were in earnest, and that Earth was in serious trouble. Of course, the only reverse corollary was even more unthinkable.

With a gentle whine, Sir John's laser printer started duplicating copies of the latest news bulletins on the world's reaction to this unforeseen development. Swiftly using a gold pen, the sociologist began writing notes in his personal style of shorthand as the computer paper unfolded from his console with ever increasing speed.

Sitting with his chin resting in the palm of his left hand, Prof. Rajavur blankly stared at the picture of the strutting street gang. Lost in rumination, his keen mind absorbed everything the screen displayed, but drew no useful conclusions. Insufficient data. What was it Sherlock Holmes had said about that? Oh yes. “Data, Watson, data! I can not make bricks without clay!” How true. Thought, then action, was the formula for success. Generally at least. General.

“Who are they?” he asked Bronson, coming out of his reverie and returning to business.

The general frowned. “The gang? Just a second.” The security officer of the FCT retrieved his clipboard from under a code book. Bronson had been busy accessing the data files on the gang from the New York police computers and found the work hard going. His console could take in information a hundred times faster than theirs could disgorge, and some complex maneuvering had been necessary to interface the two systems. “Here we are, Hammer, Whipsaw, Crowbar, Drill, Chisel and Torch.”

“Those are their names?” Rajavur asked, in a stunned voice.

Waving the clipboard, Bronson nodded. “The only ones they’ll answer to.”

Prof. Rajavur scowled. “Identify them, please.”

Delicately palming the controls, General Bronson fiddled his console until a green circle appeared on the monitor. He moved the marker about until he had targeted the face of the tall man in the center of the milling gang. “That hairy fellow there is Hammer,” he said loudly for everybody's benefit. “The leader of this rat pack. His rap sheet reads like the encyclopedia of crime, with no convictions. A real smart operator. The police consider him dangerous with a capital D.”

With the turn of a dial, he moved the marker a bit. “The big guy next to him is Whipsaw. Also considered dangerous. The guy's a nut case. A homicidal maniac, who is totally under Hammer's control. Whipsaw is loyal to the street gang only because Hammer is in charge.”

“Interesting. And how does the ganglord perpetuate this control?”

“He feeds him.”

“Drugs? Sweets?”

“Innocent bystanders.”

There was a pause. “Oh.”

Proceeding onward, the marker came to a devilishly handsome man and the general continued. “Smiley over there is Drill. He's the locksmith for the gang. Gets them into places so they can steal everything not nailed down. Supposed to be pretty good at it too. Apartment doors, car trunks, store gates. They say he goes through them like a . . .”

“Drill,” Dr. Wu supplied, impatiently tapping a pencil on the metal edge of her console. “Okay, Wayne, we get the idea. Who are the rest of these charming people?”

Bronson flipped over a page on his clipboard. “The ugly bald kid is Crowbar.”

“The girl?” Dr. Malavade asked in surprise. He had heard of such outlandish tonsorial effects, but had never personally encountered anybody who shaved their head solely for fashion. But then, he didn't really get around much. Aside from the FCT, he mainly associated with fellow scientists, librarians, and the occasional Swedish airline stewardess.

“No, the-ugly-bald-kid-with-a-moustache is Crowbar,” the unflappable general answered. As a soldier, he’d seen worse, but only because his nephew was in a punk rock band. “We really don't have too much on this guy. He's only been in New York for a few months. Moved here from Chicago. Rumor has it he killed a fellow gang member out there, but we don't know for sure. The day he left town, the Chicago Police Department's computer room was blown to bits by dynamite.”

“A coincidence?” Rajavur asked.

Bronson stared at the man. “No.”

Feeling weary, the Icelandic diplomat undid his necktie and stuffed it into the coat pocket of his blue suit. “Tell me about the girl.”

“Her name is Torch,” General Bronson said, shifting his cigar about as if it had suddenly acquired a bad taste. “She used to mug people by dousing them with gasoline and threatening to set them on fire unless they paid her, then she’d do it anyway and dance around their flaming bodies while laughing.”

Collectively, the FCT made gagging noises.

“Yeah, I agree,” he sighed in a pained voice. “That is, till one of her victims accidentally set her hair on fire, burning it off. She spent months in Bellevue hospital recovering from the burns.”

“Did that change her any?” Sir John asked inquisitively, his clinical interest aroused. Such accidents were often viewed by the mentally unbalanced as divine retribution and the poor misguided souls hastily mended their ways.

“Change her? You bet it did,” Bronson said positively. “The police report states that it made her even meaner then before, and now she uses iron baling hooks to kill people instead of no-lead premium.”

Utterly nauseated, the sociologist returned to his collating, his professional interest in the matter more than sated.

With a hop, the marker moved across the screen to a scraggly-haired youth possessing remarkable beaver-like teeth. “And that's Chisel,” Bronson said, finishing his list. “In my opinion the worst of the lot.”

“Why do you say that?” Rajavur asked curiously. “The boy doesn't look like a killer.”

“Part of his charm,” the general countered, fishing in the pocket of his uniform for a fresh cigar. “Chisel still wouldn't appear very dangerous even as he was cutting your bleeding, liberal heart out. He's a blade man.”

Born and raised in Iceland, this statement confused the diplomat. It upset them that the boy was a good skater?

“An expert with knives,” Dr. Malavade explained softly.

With a grimace, Bronson grunted assent. “The kid's bad news. He's mentally retarded. Actually enjoys cutting people into pieces.”

In reply, Prof. Rajavur gave a heartfelt sigh and took a sip from his coffee mug, only to find bitter dregs at the bottom. He hoped the act wasn't prophetic. “Marvelous,” he muttered, half to himself. “Simply marvelous.”

Situated behind the bulletproof Plexiglas shield, Nicholi had been listening to the conversation of his teammates and he was less than pleased. Their situation had become even more unstable, more explosive. The fate of the entire Earth now rested in the hands of dangerous, anti-social psychopaths. Then the Russian soldier wryly grimaced. So what else was new?

* * *

Meanwhile, in the glistening white control room of the alien starship, the blue humanoid remained unswerving in his conviction.

“No,” Leader Idow said to his anthropomorphic shipmates. “They are an innocent road maintenance crew who have been abducted by strange beings from outer space and forced to fight for their lives against weird, undirtly foes.”

“No!” Idow repeated the word for emphasis and pounded the empty air in front of him with his fists, an almost obscene gesture to his species. “They must be calling this a game simply from youthful zeal and the foolish belief that they can win. They probably also think that Right Makes Might.”

Mushroom, stone and lizard laughed heartily at that. Snorful! Right makes might. Horank! Hot Void, Idow was a funny guy at times.

“The fact that they are treating this as an amusement only serves to heighten the desired effect.” Leader Idow paused here for dramatic effect. “So I double my bet!”

A hush fell upon the control room, and Idow waited to see how his associates would react.

“Accepted!” Gasterphaz cried, his rocky fingers feeding the figures into the ship's computer bank. If Idow wanted to throw his money away, well, that was just fine by him! Besides, Idow could afford it. By the Prime Builder, he owned
All That Glitters
. With a bit of luck that might change, and the Choron could end up winning the starship and become Leader himself. Leader Gasterphaz. The very thought made the Choron feel boulder.

With a vegetable snarl, Boztwank spat into the soil of his own pot, a gesture of supreme confidence on his world. “Bah! You don't really think those primitives will actually prevail, do you? Ridiculous! Pass test #2? They won't even survive it!” The mushroom braced himself here, for money was almost as important to him as . . . sex? . . . pink? . . . harassing Trell? But then, what was money for, if not to enjoy taking it from others? “I double my bet!”

“Done!” Gasterphaz whooped, as gleefully as a Choron could. If anything, this was going to be a profitable trip! With avarice-filled diamond eyes, Gasterphaz rotated his head to glance at Squee, who was standing over by his tech station methodically scratching at his tail. “How about you, Communicator?” rumbled the Choron sweetly.

Politely, the lizard inquired about odds.

Mortally insulted, Gasterphaz turned away in stony silence. Odds? Really, the nerve of some beings.

“Test two!” Boztwank cried, noiselessly stamping his invisible forcefield feet. “Let's do test #2!”

“Agreed,” Idow said, for once harmonizing with his Engineer. “Let the games begin!”

Squee hissed in acknowledgment, touched the necessary controls, and Leader Idow's voice flowed into the Test Chamber.

* * *

“YOU HAVE DONE WELL, DIRTLINGS.”

“Get ready,” Hammer said to his gang, running nervous fingers through his long, greasy hair. Ever since the gang had been brought aboard this spaceship, he’d known that they were in for the fight of their lives. Happened often enough in the movies. On some television shows too.

“THIS WAS BUT THE FIRST OF YOUR TESTS. NOW, LOOK TO YOUR LEFT.”

Expecting the worst, the Deckers looked. Fifty meters away from them, a section of the curved wall was breaking apart, the pieces of white metal sliding into each other. Now exposed was an ominous black door edged with silver bolts. It disengaged with muffled thuds, the metal portal swinging aside. Beyond, was a dimly lit tunnel in which, in rapid succession, a spiked portcullis lifted into the ceiling, another dropped into the floor, a shimmering energy curtain faded away and segmented door opened wide, spreading its metal plates like a blossoming flower. Through this impressive array of doors, there shambled a creature, the likes of which no human had ever seen. When clear, the tunnel closed, permanently sealing the monster in with them. The street gang stared with bulging eyes at the utterly bizarre thing that came towards them with slow, sure steps.

“THIS IS YOUR SECOND TEST. NOW FIGHT, DIRTLINGS. FIGHT AND KILL FOR THE LIFE OF YOUR PLANET. FIGHT THE
QUATRALYAN!
”

Since Chisel had the lowest mentality of the group, he broke first. Clutching his sides, the boy fell to his knees laughing hysterically. Crowbar smirked. Whipsaw guffawed. Torch and Drill clutched each other, hooting uncontrollably and pointed shaking fingers at the ridiculously fat chickendog who approached them, its jelly belly body jiggling and bouncing with every step it took. A lumpy, featureless potato head regarded the gang curiously and then a tiny flap of a mouth dropped open and it gargled at them, sending the gang into fresh gales of laughter.

“Sheet,” Whipsaw drawled, the scarred mass of tissue that was his face assuming the unusual position of a friendly smile.

“W-what's it going to do?” Drill gasped, breathlessly struggling not to fall to the floor. “S-sit on us?”

“Damn thing's uglier then me!” Chisel clowned, holding his sides in pain, his wits never sharper.

“And your mama,” Crowbar said, grudgingly joining in on the fun.

“Ain't laughed so hard since that ambulance crashed into the orphanage,” Torch giggled, wiping tears from her eye tattoos.

“Sheet,” Whipsaw repeated, as always a man of few words.

Only Hammer did not join in on the merriment; a fact that both Gasterphaz and Nicholi found noteworthy. The street tough knew that looks could be deceiving. Nuns don't seem like much, but they’re wildcats when cornered. And those crosses could kill ya!

“Whipsaw!” the ganglord barked, his stern gaze never leaving the alien creature for a second.

Still chucking, the gang member wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his leather jacket. “Yeah, boss?” he asked.

“Kill it,” Hammer ordered brusquely.

Moving instantly, the legbreaker surged forward, his heavy motorcycle boots slapping loudly against the cushioned floor, pushing his 300-plus pounds of hard muscle on with astonishing speed. A freight train with a Mohawk, a Mack truck in leather, Whipsaw roared like a primordial beast and closed in on the corpulent alien, his weight lifter's arms ready to block any escape attempt on its part. The street gang cackled in glee. This was going to be great! Whipsaw was three times the size of that cheesy alien mutt. This was going to be over in seconds!

It was. As the big man reached for the Quatralyan's throat, two slim tentacles shot from its feathery chest, spearing Whipsaw through the stomach. The Bloody Decker's laughter died, when they saw the dripping limbs fingering the back of their friend's jacket. With a dreadful cry, Whipsaw tried to pull away and the Quatralyan stabbed a third tentacle into his body. The gang member writhed in agony, blood gushing from his hideous wounds. A fourth tentacle lanced out and his knees buckled, then another, and another!