THE SF/HUMOR NOVEL, ILLEGAL ALIENS
A December 2001 release from
StudioFoglio:www.StudioFoglio.com
By Nick Pollotta and Phil Foglio
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wisps of purple gas floated past Hammer,
clinging hungrily to the visor of his stolen spacesuit and obscuring his
view of the control room of the alien starship.Seriously
annoyed, the street ganglord tried to wipe the deadly moisture away, but
his metal glove only succeeded in smearing the faceplate.
"Is that it?" he demanded, the adrenaline
still pounding through his veins."Is
that the lot of them?"
The little alien Trell squeaked in the
affirmative.Yes, all of their enemies
were now dead.
Muffled hurrahs came from the Bloody
Decker street gang, but one voice in particular triggered a response in
the ganglord.
"Not quite," Hammer growled as he met
Drill's gaze.
With a nod, the two teenagers attacked.Spinning
about, the locksmith kicked the laser out of the hand of the startled Crowbar.The
weapon hit the wall and discharged, a bolt of polychromatic fire vaporizing
a chunk of the floor. Hammer ducked beneath the big man's roundhouse swing
and punched him hard in the stomach. Then Chisel blindsided the biker,
tackling him from the rear.Crowbar
stumbled from the impact, but did not fall, and backhanded the boy.Chisel
arced away from the biker and hit the wall, his helmet ringing from the
blow as the faceplate cracked, but did not break.That
was when Hammer and Drill moved in for the kill.Remembering
the lesson learned earlier in the airlock, the youths jabbed the biker's
spacesuit with the fingers of their gauntlets, triggering the opening sequence
and the front of the suit split apart, exposing the man inside to the deadly
Omega Gas mist.
With a bitter curse, Crowbar stabbed
out with his knife, determined to take somebody with him to hell.But
the act was never finished.As silent
as a prayer, his suddenly vacant suit crumpled to the floor like so much
dirty laundry.
Contemptuously, Drill snapped his fingers
at the empty spacesuit and Chisel spat at it, momentarily forgetting that
he still was wearing a helmet. Bleh!
"Now all of our enemies are dead,"
Hammer stated dryly, exchanging the thumbs-up sign of victory with his
friends.
Nervously, Trell swallowed a small intestinal
organ that had unexpectedly risen into his throat during the slaughter.It
was starkly obvious that Prying-Metal-Bar must have outlived his usefulness
to the gang, and so... PFT!Well,
by the Prime Builder, Trell-desamo-Trell-ika-Trell-forzua-Junior wasn't
going to outlive his!
"I will disperse the Omega Gas now,
sir, if I may," Trell asked, submissively lowering his head.
Impatient to get out of the spacesuit,
Hammer waved him on."Absolutely
dude, go earn your keep."
'My intention exactly', thought the
Technician as he crossed the room to punch the appropriate commands into
the control panel of the dead Security Officer.
Imperceptibly at first, the swirling
purple fog took on a new pattern, slowly re-entering the hidden wall vents.Like
a lake mist, the heavy gas stratified in the air, the layers dropping lower
and lower in the room until, hugging the floor, the last traces of Omega
Gas flowed back into the hall.Soon
the air appeared clear, and very carefully, Trell checked a monitor before
indicating that it was safe for the humans to leave their spacesuits.
"You first," Hammer said brusquely,
a gauntlet resting on his laser rifle.
A slightly paler shade of green than
was normal for his race, the Technician undid the seals on his helmet,
lifted the crystal dome just a bit and gingerly sniffed the air.When
he didn't instantly drop dead, the little alien relaxed and began removing
the rest of his suit.Judiciously
at first, the surviving Bloody Deckers did likewise, then took Trell's
suggestion of storing the space suits and extra rifles in a wall closet.
Free from the hundredweight of the environmental
armor, Drill stretched gratefully working the kinks out of his muscles.Then
a horrifying thought hit the teenage locksmith, and with sure fingers he
removed the squirter mechanism from the spacesuit and clipped it to his
leather jacket just in time to catch a burst of pink in the face. Ah!
With the toe of his metal boot, Hammer
nudged Crowbar's empty spacesuit and complete lack of remains. "You got
a garbage chute around here?" asked the tall human with a sneer.
"Of course, sir," Trell replied, weighing
his next words carefully."Should
I take care of that before or after I turn command of the ship over to
you?"There was a pause, and slowly
the street gang turned towards the Technician.Yes,
he thought that would catch their attention.
The ganglord tried to speak, but found
he couldn't.Turn the ship over to
them?Holy spit, it hadn't occurred
to him that this spaceship was now theirs.They
owned a starship?A freaking bloody
starship!
"My brother Deckers!" Hammer proclaimed,
taking a dramatic stance."We have
hit the big time at last!"
"Right on!" Drill cried enthusiastically,
shaking his laser in the air above his head."The
Bloody Deckers in space! Look out NASA! Who-wee! We gonna be bad. Badder
than the baddest! Badder than the freaking Angels!"
That was sacrilege to Chisel.Nobody
was badder than the Angels!Why,
the Hell's Angels motorcycle gang was like having to take a leak, or rush
hour traffic, an unstoppable force of nature.But
if Hammer said so, then it must be true.The
boy grinned from ear to ear.Wow,
badder than the Angels. Gosh!
"So what we gonna do first, chief?"
Drill asked eagerly, slinging the laser rifle over the shoulder of his
leather jacket.
Do?The
gang lord's plans hadn't evolved that far.Scratching
an old scar on his neck, the teenager surveyed the bullet shaped room with
its incredible array of controls.What
could a starship do?Fly to the
moon?Who cared? That wouldn't put
money in your pocket.This called
for some serious thinking.Hammer
sat down in Leader Idow's deserted command chair and rested his boots on
top of the control board.Moving
fast, Trell rushed over to neutralize the controls before the human accidentally
pressed the wrong button with his gargantuan feet and blew something up,
most likely them.
"Hey, Trell, baby," Drill asked, copying
the position at another console."Can
you fly this ship for real?"
Even to the humans, the expression on
the face of the alien crewmember said that he was insulted.Fly
the ship?He was a Master Technician!
Why, given time and materials he could build a starship!
"Chill out," Hammer commanded, lacing
his hands together atop his greasy mane of long hair."The
man was only asking."
While rooting through the clothes of
the dead alien crew and searching for something to steal, Chisel found
three metal belts made of woven silver strands, each having a weird ornate
buckle covered with bumps and lumps.Some
sort of controls, the boy deduced, his brain almost exhausting itself from
the strain.Buckle and unbuckle,
he decided and pressed a random bump to see if he was right.Instantly,
a sparkling bubble sprang into existence around him.The
frightened youth threw the belt away and the bubble went along with the
belt, leaving Chisel behind.
With a clang, the metal belt hit a panel
near Hammer's feet and startled the ganglord.Grudgingly,
he turned. "What in the hell are you doing now, pinhead?" Hammer asked
annoyed.
"It bit me!" Chisel whined with a finger
in his mouth, using his standard phrase for anything not working as expected.
"Yeah, sure," Hammer replied, rising
from his seat and retrieving the belt from the floor.The
twinkling light field readily admitted his left hand, but his right fist
holding the laser rifle met stonewall resistance.The
gang lord switched hands and the same thing happened again.
"Hey, Trell, what is this thing, anyway?"
he demanded.
"Personal defense field," Trell sighed
in disappointment. He had not planned on telling the Deckers about the
devices as a bit of insurance against their wrath."It
is what my ex-shipmates used to cowardly defend themselves from your brave
attack."
Drill lifted an eyebrow."Laying
it on a little thick, ain't he?" the locksmith asked sarcastically.
Amused, Hammer sneered."So
what? I happen to like having my boots licked."
As Trell explained the operation and
limitations of the devices, the Bloody Deckers strapped on the field generators
and playfully tried clubbing each other over the head with the lasers.The
exchange of blows got spirited and Trell scurried over to the ruin of the
security door, not willing to chance getting crushed to death by these
lumbering giants from Dirt.
"Ah, gentlebeings. There are many delicate
instruments in here, so perhaps it would be wise to desist?" he suggested,
taking another step into the outside corridor."Or
move your exercising to the arena?"
"Enough then," Hammer agreed, chuckling."Cool
it, guys."
Panting from the exertion, the gang
broke apart and Trell hesitantly entered the room again, staying close
to the wall.
"Goddamn!" Drill gasped, mopping his
brow with a red and white bandanna."These
are great!"
In careless abandonment, Chisel turned
the sparkling defense field on and off several times."Yeah,"
the boy agreed happily."Neat!"
Shifting the gunbelt holding his Colt
.45 automatic, Hammer cinched the flexible metal belt tighter about his
waist."Only good against energy
weapons, though. Right?" he asked and the alien Technician confirmed his
earlier statement.Useless then,
decided the gang lord.Cops don't
carry lasers.Wearing this thing
wouldn't protect you from a gun, or an axe.But
Hammer decided to keep his anyway.You
never know, you know?
Now armed and armored, Drill strolled
over to Trell and rested a friendly arm about the alien's scrawny, green
shoulders."Answer me a question,
dude, will ya?" he asked.
Highly dubious, the Technician glanced
upward at the towering human."Yes
sir. If I can, sir."
"Why the hell is everything so freaking
white in this damn ship?" the gang member asked in exasperation. "Walls,
floors, ceilings, doors ...shit, boy, white paint cheap where you come
from, or what?"
This was a very tough question to answer,
but Trell did his best.Keeping to
the most basic of terms, he told the gang about HyperSpace, covering the
basic relationship between colors and velocity in that weird non-dimension.He
kept mathematics out of the discussion entirely and described things as
childishly simple as he could, but it still took him quite a while to cover
everything.Throughout the speech,
the alien's belt translator remained silent.When
he was finished, the device spoke to the waiting streetgang using the most
advanced scientific terms they could possibly understand.
"Big juju," the box declared. "Much
magic! Ship no fly fast, if not white."
Blandly accepting the report, the Bloody
Deckers returned to their examination of the control room.
Shocked to the very core of his being,
Trell was stunned beyond words.Impossible!The
entire theory of chromatic space travel boiled down to two sentences?Gak!The
Technician quickly reversed his opinion of the Dirtlings.Obviously
they were nowhere near as primitive as he had originally believed.
Suddenly a blinking light on the Communicator
board caught the attention of Chisel and he nervously summoned Trell.To
the alien's surprise, it was an incoming transmission.
"Hammer, sir," the alien called respectfully,
indicating the flashing blue button."Do
you wish to answer this message?"
"A call?" the gang lord said surprised.
More than a little bit confused, he fingered the layered array of hundreds
of controls spread across the wide console.Now
how do you...ah...er... Aw to hell with it, answering the phone was Trell's
job."You do it, Mr. Master Technician."
With a straight face, the alien touched
the blinking button and activated the viewscreens.The
large white plates swirled to become crystal clear and to show a large
room.Sitting behind a row of computer
consoles were what the gang would classify as Big Money types.There
was a football player in a general's uniform, two college professors, a
hot Oriental chick in a flowered dress, and a skinny dark guy in a borrowed
suit the wrong size.The gray haired
professor started to speak and the viewscreen speakers crunched and hooted
like an elephant raping a Volkswagen.
"Well, the same to you fellow!" Drill
retorted hostilely, sticking out his tongue at the screen.
That stopped the translator cold.In
swift computations, it harmonized itself with the operating being and started
again, this time performing the arduous processes of translating English
into English.
Both of his scarred fists resting on
his hips, Hammer glared at the viewscreen belligerently."Okay,
so who the hell are you clowns?"
* * *
In their underground New York bunker,
the UN First Contact Team exchanged perplexed looks.
Ceremoniously, General Bronson removed
the cigar from his mouth and spoke everyone's unspoken question. "And since
when," he growled, "do street punks talk like the damn Prince of Wales?"
"I REITERATE," demanded the teenager
on the wall monitor."PLEASE IDENTIFY
YOURSELVES POSTHASTE."
Taking charge, Rajavur faced the monitor
squarely."I am Professor Rajavur,
in command of the United Nations First Contact Team." He motioned at the
other people in the bunker."This
is General Bronson, Dr. Wu, Sir Courtney and Dr. Malavade. We are the official
representatives for Earth in this situation. Are you all right? What has
happened to the aliens?"
"WE ARE UNDAMAGED AND THE PRESENT SITUATION
IS UNDER CONTROL.FIGHTING IN SELF
DEFENSE, MY ASSOCIATES AND I WERE FORCED TO DESTROY THE CRIMINALS WHO HAD
KIDNAPPED US.THE ALIEN MENACE HAS
ENDED.THIS STARSHIP IS NOW UNDER
OUR CONTROL."
With these words, the world listening
to the radio and television began to wildly rejoice, the previous communications
blackout forgotten with this overwhelming good news.Earth
had been saved by the Bloody Deckers! Hooray! Hurrah! Historic enemies
hugged and kissed each other, cops and crooks, blacks and whites, Arabs
and Jews, Democrats and Republicans.The
glorious sounds of popping champagne corks, car horns and church bells
filled the globe as Humanity celebrated their deliverance from what had
been almost certain doom.
Deep in their underground Command Bunker,
the FCT did not join the revelry, as their cerebral teeth were buried in
a puzzling mystery.Via their throat
mikes and earphones, the team held a fast secret conference.
"The translation device?" Dr. Malavade
postulated scratching his chin. "Could it still be in operation?"
Dr. Wu made a rude noise.
"I agree with Yuki," Sir John sub-vocalized."If
so, then why is it converting the street gang's idiomatic sub-tongue into
colloquial English?"
"Could be broken," Bronson guessed,
adjusting his necktie."Damaged in
the Decker's no doubt violent takeover of the ship."
"Logical," Rajavur whispered."But
no, I do not think so."
"Telepathic then," Dr. Malavade offered
softly as explanation."And the machine
has tuned itself to its new masters."
Now there was an unpleasant thought.Did
the street gang realize just how powerful was their position?Dr.
Wu reached for the phone on her console but the instrument rang before
she could touch it.Lifting the receiver,
the scientist listened intently for a moment, and then sullenly replied
in the negative.
Snorting in annoyance, General Nicholi
hung up on his colleague.Damn.There
had been hope on his part that the prototype ion cannon from Russia could
breach the forceshield surrounding the alien ship.The
general was fast running out of options.It
was possible that nothing in his arsenal but nuclear weapons could penetrate
that immaterial energy blister.And
those were the court of last resort.Giving
a crisp report, a military voice whispered in his ear about something flying
above NYC and he told them to go soak their heads.
"Well then, why don't you lower the
forceshield and come out?" Prof. Rajavur enticed pleasantly."You're
heroes!The entire world is waiting
to honor your brave gang."
Dominating the screen, Hammer's face
clearly stated he did not quite believe the statement, so the diplomat
smoothly added, "Then of course, there's the matter of the reward."
"REWARD?INDEED.HOW
MUCH IS THIS REWARD?"
The Icelander did a fast mental calculation,
and then said to heck with the budget."A
million dollars apiece for you and your men.As
compensation for your troubles and emotional disharmony."
* * *
"Wow!" Chisel gushed, trying to count
to a million on his fingers and failing."Gee!"
"Chickenfeed," Drill snorted.
Hammer agreed.
* * *
"INSUFFICIENT COMPENSATION. WE DESIRE
FIVE MILLION APIECE."
Rubbing his chin, Prof. Rajavur had
to mull the suggestion over.The
Secretary General would throw a fit if he said yes.Of
course, that was a point in its favor.
"Bargain with them," Sir John's voice
advised in his ear."If you make
it too easy, they'll become suspicious."
"Two million," Rajavur said firmly,
facing the monitor again."And that's
my final offer."
"FOUR."
"Three," the diplomat countered."Plus,
you receive full amnesty for any crimes you have committed up until this
moment."
There was a short pause. "SUFFICIENT.
WE SHALL EXIT THE SHIP IMMEDIATELY."
***********************************************************
************************STOP
THAT************************
***********************************************************
The mental command exploded across New
York and people shook like Vegas dice under its power.Glasses
shattered, guns went off, cars crashed, murders were halted, burglaries
cancelled, illicit love affairs stopped/started and 37 politicians resigned
from office.
Tear filled eyes uncrossed just in time
to see a shiny golden cube about the size of a two bedroom house land pointy
end first in the soil of Central Park, right alongside the white sphere.The
strange pair strongly resembled a brown sugar cube sitting next to a soccer
ball.Then every viewscreen/monitor/television
set on Earth began showing the beautiful, golden, frowning face of Avantor,
the avantor.
"WE ARE THE GREAT GOLDEN ONES," the
alien female coldly stated."THE
SUPREME GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY.EVERYONE
IN THE WHITE STARSHIP IS UNDER ARREST.LOWER
YOUR FORCESHIELD AND COME OUT WITH YOUR PSEUDOPODS RAISED."
* * *
"Waste products!" Trell screamed in
terror, clutching at his chest."It's
the Great Golden Ones!"He scampered
beneath his chair, attempting to hide."Aiyeee!
We're doomed for sure!"
Going into the ultrasonic range, Trell
wailed at the top of his lungs, his belt translator merely relaying the
word, "Sob."
With a lurch, Hammer was out of his
chair and across the control room in an instant."What
the hell are you talking about!" he demanded, dragging the little alien
out from under the chair and shaking him like a can of spray paint."Who
are they? The star cops?"
Weeping uncontrollably, Trell burbled
yes, and the street tough released him.Goddamn,
what a day this was turning into!
Hitching up his pants, Drill got tough."Okay
chief, what's the attack plan?"
The teenage ganglord clenched and unclenched
his fists."Gimme a minute. I'm working
on it."
Inspiration brightened Trell's sad green
face."I know what to do," he exclaimed
happily."Let's shoot ourselves with
the lasers! Death before the prison world of Galopticon 7!"
Hammer turned to Drill."You're
closer. You hit him."
Smack.
"But they just offered us, you know,
amnesty," Chisel said in confusion.
"You dope!" Hammer snarled angrily."These
are the star cops, not our guys.They
don't give a damn about anything we agreed on.They
only want to kill us and eat our brains."
Not sure his translator had gotten that
correct, Trell blinked in confusion."What?
They want to do what?"
"God's truth," the gang lord said, totally
serious. "I saw it in a movie."
Grabbing the alien by the front of his
uniform, Drill lifted the burbling Technician into the air."Okay,
greenie, what are our options.Can
they get through our forceshield?"
"Easily," Trell lamented, his boots
dangling inches from the floor."They
invented the shield type we use."
Damn."Is
their forceshield up?"
Twisting about, the alien consulted
a sensor on the Engineering board."No,
sir, it's down."
Relaxing visibly, Hammer gave an evil
grin."Great! We got anything to
shoot them with?"
The alien's jaw dropped as Drill roughly
deposited him in the rockhard Security chair."Y-you
can't be serious! Shoot the Great Golden Ones? Why that's..."
Chisel shoved the barrel of a laser
rifle snugly into his left ear.
"...a wonderful idea!" Trell gushed,
all four hands busy."Activating
Proton Cannon.Can we at least give
them a warning shot?"
"Fire!" Hammer bellowed at the top of
his lungs.
"Yes sir. Firing, sir!"
* * *
From the curved pinnacle of the white
starship there lanced out a blinding bright power beam that sliced the
golden ship in two like a cube of cheese.Sluggishly,
the top of the golden ship melted into the ray, disappearing in torrents
of superheated steam, vaporized steel and hard radiation that would cause
some very unusual plants to grow in Central Park for years to come.Lowering
its angle, the acidic beam moved on, disintegrating the rest of the craft
until the very ground it rested upon was slagged into a boiling pool of
red hot lava.
* * *
"Right on!" Drill exclaimed, grinning
his widest grin.This was more fun
than robbing a church.
"Neat!" Chisel seconded, lowering the
laser."Let's do it again! On anything!"
Sagging weakly, Trell felt ill and braced
himself against the silver edging of the control panel."But
you don't understand," he protested lamely."We
just shot the Great Golden Ones. The Great Golden Ones!"
"Big deal," Drill said, cavalierly dismissing
the protest with the sure knowledge of a nineteen year old."A
cop's a cop."
Crossing the control room, Hammer resumed
his earlier position in the Command chair."Any
more of those star cops out there?" he demanded to know.
"Thousands, millions," Trell mumbled
unhappily, slumping in despair."When
the Golden Armada arrives they will destroy this world.Nobody
sane shoots at the Great Golden Ones."
For an awful moment, Hammer wondered
if Trell was right.What did he know
about star police and shit like that?He
was from the Bronx.
Deep in thought, Drill scratched at
his curly black hair."Maybe those
UN guys will still give us the money and amnesty, and by the time more
star cops get here we'll be gone," he said hopefully.
With a flippant gesture, Hammer brushed
that aside."No way, Jose.If
these star dudes are that bad, then those government bastards will turn
us in faster than jackcheese just to save their own hides."
Then the ganglord remembered something
Trell had said."Hey, wait a minute,
nobody attacks these guys, right? It's unthinkable, like moving to New
Jersey.So they ain't gonna be expecting
nothing.They'll just keep sailing
in and we'll keep blowing 'em away!Easy
as rolling a wino."
The sheer audacity of the notion made
Trell's throat constrict.It was
insane!It was impossible! It might
just work at that.
"But that means we gotta keep the ship,"
Drill said, the leather jacket creaking as he crossed his arms."Those
fat cat government types were going to give us plenty for this metal snowball."
"Yeah," Chisel whined with a pout."I
was gonna buy a car."
Addressing the white ceiling, Hammer
rolled his eyes.Why him, oh Lord?
"Don't you idiots get it?" he snarled."You
saw what we just did to the star cops.To
keep us from blowing this city away, the government will pay us millions.Millions?Ha!Billions!Hell,
boys, the sky's the limit!"
Radiating confidence, he joined Trell
at the main control panel and studiously scrutinized the complex array
of dusky white round buttons, square ivory buttons, hexagonal silver buttons,
pearl switches, pale tripbars, translucent dials, transparent knobs, snowy
levers, meters, lights, indicators, slots, keys and gauges.
"Show me how to fire this thing," Hammer
ordered.
To Be Continued—And Begun!—in
print in Illegal Aliens
A former stand-up comic and martial
arts instructor, Nick Pollotta has over 37 Science Fiction, Humor, and
Military/Adventure novels published to date, including Illegal Aliens
(with Phil Foglio), Shadowboxer, Zero City (as James Axler),
and the international best selling Bureau 13 series.Works
are in progress for a Bureau 13 comic book and motion picture.Married
and living just north of Chicago, Nick is an avid golfer, a drunken filker,
and still performs comedy at SF conventions.www.NickPollotta.com
A multiple Hugo Award winner, Phil Foglio
owns his own publishing company, Studio Foglio, and is the writer/head
artist for XXXenophile, Buck Godot, and the brand new Girl Genius
series.He also has a monthly
humor strip in Dragon magazine.His
hobbies include gardening, old books and fine dining.Married
and living in Seattle, Phil & Kaja have a new baby son, Victory.www.StudioFoglio.com
Also, Nick and Phil have a new Fantasy/Humor
novel, That Darn Squid God, doing the rounds at the New York publishers
and expect to hear good news any day now.
Be sure to read Illegal Aliens, available
from Wildside Press in May 2001.On
the web at www.WildsidePress.com