Illegal Aliens

by Nick Pollotta

  Appearing as if he had just been hit with a brick, Bronson dropped the cigar from his mouth. “A Snoopy? You sure?"

  “Yes, damn it! There's a mobile radiation source approaching the alien craft at walking speed. Now do something!"

  “Jesus, I'll try,” he said, grabbing his phone, flipping open his code book and punching in an emergency number that he had seriously thought he would never have to use.

  The two aliens were plainly puzzled. “A what?” Avantor asked, with a quizzical look.

  “This is unpardonable!” Prof. Rajavur raged in moral outrage. “Who authorized this insanity?"

  “Who could have?” Sir John asked, his face flushed with ill controlled fury. “Only you and Nicholi have that kind of power now, Sigerson."

  “None of my Snoopys are missing,” the Russian general averred, from behind his plexiglass wall. “But I will double check."

  “Do so,” Rajavur ordered.

  Holding an earphone with his left hand, Dr. Malavade snapped the fingers of his right hand for attention. “Perhaps it was the Secretary General,” the philologist suggested sagely. “He has been most unhappy with our performance so far, and has already demonstrated his willingness to take matters into his own hands."

  “And ordered an assault on the starship!” Rajavur shuddered at the possible implications. “The fool! Mohad, get me Geneva on the phone. Fast!"

  In oft practiced ease, the communications expert flew to the task.

  The 17 took a hesitant step forward. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “A Snoopy?"

  “Yuki, give me the location,” Bronson interrupted. “I've got a man who can handle the situation, but he needs to know precisely where the device is."

  “Vector 4, section 3 on your map of the park,” Dr. Wu replied crisply. “Over by the statue.” Her voice faded away to nothing, and then returned strong. “What the Hell is that?"

  An astonishing sight filled the wall monitor. A full division of tanks flying hand made Greek flags were crashing through the greenery of Central Park, the metal juggernauts smashing trees into kindling under their heavy treads. With obvious intent, the indomitable war machines headed for the alien starship; their 120mm guns and armor-piercing rockets aiming straight and true.

  “Nicholi,” Sir John threatened in a low voice.

  “Not me again,” the Russian general protested in innocence. “Those tanks forced their way through my cordon, nearly killing several of my people. They're NATO troops, but operating independently. I have no control over them."

  With a grimace, he touched his earphone. “My men want to know if the orders still hold about non-interference, or if they should join the assault on the ship."

  “Please, have them do nothing,” Rajavur requested franticly.

  Just then, Dr. Malavade gave him the go ahead and Rajavur snatched at his phone. “Hello, Switzerland?"

  Discreetly, The 17 touched Avantor. They act concerned, and yet refuse to talk to us. Could this be a trick of some kind?

  No, she replied telepathically. Observe their faces. Whatever is going on is urgent, and simply too important for them to waste time with us.

  “Yuki, what's its power?” Sir John asked, enabling the calculator function of his computer.

  Engrossed in her work, the Chinese scientist answered without lifting her head. “At a guess, half a kiloton. It depends on how advanced a model they have."

  “Then it can't harm us down here,” he muttered, thinking aloud. His dancing fingers tapped in figures. “But everyone on the surface will die within, say a kilometer, that's 20 city blocks! Wow. Nicholi, those tanks must be a diversion just to keep the street gang from noticing the real attack. The bomb!"

  “Oh, thank you, John,” the Russian general mocked in a syrupy sweet tone. “I never would have figured that out myself. Now go teach your grandmother how to suck eggs. I'm busy."

  Bomb? Kiloton? At last, Avantor understood. “This Snoopy you keep referring to is some form of atomic weapon?"

  “Hmm?” Rajavur glanced away from his phone and saw the aliens as if for the first time. “Ah, yes. Yuki, do you mind?"

  Formally polite, the Chinese physicist stood. “It's a portable fission bomb of the type built during the Cold War. Weighing approximately 22 pounds, the device fits inside a normal attaché case.” Dr. Wu reached under her console and retrieved the briefcase she carried her daily newspaper in. “Quite similar in size and shape to this."

  The aliens were scandalized. An atomic weapon that you could carry like a lunchbox? What level of madness was necessary to create, much less build, such a horror?

  “The tanks have ordered the Bloody Deckers to surrender or be fired upon,” Dr. Malavade said shocked. “But this is lunacy. They must know their shells can not penetrate that force shield. Are men to die just so the Snoopy can get close to the alien ship?"

  “How close?” Sir John demanded practically. “Yuki, how close should it get for maximum effect?"

  “Touching the force shield would be optimum,” she replied, fine tuning her sensors to even greater sensitivity. “But the bomb has been in firing range ever since it entered the park."

  “Wayne, how goes it?” Nicholi asked in concern, over the loudspeaker.

  The American general laid aside his phone and lit a fresh cigar. “Who knows, my friend?” he puffed. “I've done what I can. But if I were a religious man, I'd start praying right about now."

  * * * *

  Whistling a Broadway showtune, a slim, neatly dressed man, calmly strolled beneath the leafy green tress of Central Park, with the equivalent of 500,000 pounds of TNT swinging in his right hand. The park grass, dried from the summer heat wave, crunched beneath his polished shoes and each step raised a cloud of dust that dirtied the legs of his otherwise spotless uniform.

  For this mission, Agent Taurus was dressed as a Major in US Army Intelligence. That got him past the NATO cordon easy enough. Now all he had to do was find the force shield surrounding the alien invader and release the handle of the attaché case he carried. Mother Nature, with a little help from Albert Einstein, would do the rest.

  Filling his horizon, the mammoth white ball towered over him; a sight to intimidate anyone, but this man smiled. What he held in his grip was greater then the alien invaders: the power of a miniature sun locked inside 864 cubic inches, and his to command. During his rushed briefing session, the Secretary General had advised him to get as close as possible to the ship to maximize the bomb's effect. He had also been warned that the renegade FCT might try to stop him, so in case of trouble Taurus was to detonate the Snoopy immediately, no matter where he was.

  Faintly from the other side of the gigantic ship, he could hear the diversionary tanks ordering the murdering criminals inside to surrender. Soon they would open fire and he would attack, trusting to science to complete the job as he would never know the outcome of the blast. That is, unless Heaven had a good view of Central Park.

  Just then, someone in a policeman's uniform dropped on him from the trees and locked a muscular arm around his throat. Contrary to what he would have liked to do, Taurus offered no resistance to the killing attack. Instead, he simply released his grip on the Snoopy.

  Or rather, he tried to, but the policeman had his own hand wrapped tight around the handle, preventing that very action. Taurus was infuriated. A nuclear counter-agent! Betrayed by one of his own kind!

  Locking two of his fingers together, the man jabbed them directly into the eye of his enemy. But the crippling blow was deflected by the back of a hand, which then circled into a fist that punched for his face. Taurus grabbed the hand in an iron grip, and for a moment the two men stood there, locked face to face, neither able to move.

  “Taurus,” the phony Army officer grunted, straining to crush the policeman's bones.

  “Virgo,” his adversary replied, struggling to do the same.

  The amenities over, Taurus kicked the man in the groin, but only hit the thigh as the counter-agent dodged to the
left. Virgo butted with his head. Pain blinded Taurus as his nose broke. Blood flowed into his mouth and he spat it out. With brutal force, he buried a thumbnail into Virgo's wrist, crushing a nerve center. The man gasped in agony and released him. Without wasting a second, Taurus chopped down with his free hand and the arm holding the bomb snapped, but the stubborn policeman held on. Then his own ribs cracked from Virgo's fist. Panting for breath, the two agents broke apart, joined only the their death grip on the leather briefcase. One was determined never to let go, the other unwilling to relinquish control and fail his mission.

  In the background, the NATO tanks began their attack; the rockets, missiles and shells exploding harmlessly on the alien ship's impenetrable force shield. But they created the kind of racket that nobody could fail to notice.

  * * * *

  Inquisitively, Trell tapped a power meter with his finger. No, it wasn't a minor fluctuation in the reactor. They were under attack by the forces of Dirt. How amusing. He activated the viewscreens to show the pitched battle to the gang, and to Trell's surprise their reaction was quite different from his.

  “Holy spit!” Drill cried, nearly falling out of his chair. “There's a goddamn army out there!"

  The blood drained from Chisel's face. “What we gonna do, Hammer? Surrender?"

  “Deckers don't surrender,” the ganglord angrily reminded him. “Besides, they'd kill us on sight.” Nervously, he cracked his knuckles. “Trell, how long can that forcefield shield thing hold?"

  “Against this sort of attack?"

  “Yes, you freaking idiot! How long?"

  The alien technician shrugged. “Oh, I don't know. Thirty or forty of your years."

  “Thirty,” Chisel said.

  “Or forty,” Drill continued.

  “Years,” drawled Hammer, finishing the sentence.

  Trell nodded in agreement. “Depends upon whether or not we turn on the air conditioner."

  “Then they can't hurt us?” Chisel cried out happily.

  Glancing scornfully at the viewscreen, the alien exhaled. “Not with those toys."

  Relieved, Drill returned his feet to atop the control board, and reclined in Gasterphaz's old chair, his hundred and eighty pounds of hard muscle not even creasing the cushion. “Well, okay then."

  Almost against his will, Hammer grinned at the viewscreen; the light flashes from the explosions nearly hypnotizing him. So this is what being invulnerable feels like. No wonder Superman was always smiling.

  “Okay Trell, get on the horn and tell those UN creeps that they get this try for free, but only this one.” He chuckled at the alien's lack of comprehension. “Don't worry about it, stud, they'll understand.” Hammer narrowed his eyes. “But just to make sure, let's show them what a starship can do."

  Leaning into the screen, the ganglord looked over the armored division like a housewife picking ripe tomatoes. “I think we'll start with ... him!"

  * * * *

  As the last Greek tank melted into a glowing steel puddle, its gun crew dashing about, frantically beating their pants to extinguish the fire, Dr. Malavade snapped his fingers at his teammates. “The Bloody Deckers say that if we try such an action again—"

  “That they'll do horrible nasty things to us,” Dr. Wu finished for him in gallows humor.

  Quite startled, the linguist blinked. “How did you know?” he asked.

  “I'm psychic."

  “Yuki can read lips, too,” Sir John explained, spoiling the effect. He was in no mood for jocularity of any sort, even though he understood its therapeutic value in tense circumstances such as these. The Scotsman supposed that his own nerves were cracking a bit. His job was to relay and analyze information. But against a direct physical treat there was nothing he could do. A sense of futility welled within his throat like bile, and he forced it down with a swallow of tepid Icelandic coffee. Blah.

  “Hello, Geneva?” Rajavur asked stiffly. “Let me speak to the Secretary General please ... yes, it is an emergency ... thank you ... Emile? Sigerson here, I formally place you under arrest for crimes against humanity. Eh? You're already in the custody of NATO security force? Good! Hope you enjoy the color prison gray, you rockheaded buffoon. See you in fifty years, Emile. Goodbye."

  * * * *

  Chop, block, jab, thrust, kick, punch; the life or death battle between the two nuclear agents went on and on, each man fiercely fighting for what he truly believed was right.

  This is getting us nowhere, thought Taurus, gritting his teeth against the pain. They were too well matched. So in a desperate gamble, he tried the unexpected and released his hold on the Snoopy. Caught off-guard, Virgo stumbled backwards. That was when Taurus launched his final assault.

  Summoning every ounce of his remaining strength, he lunged forward in a double hand chop, a martial arts move not meant to hurt, or maim, but kill your opponent. Designed as a last resort, the attack could fell a moose. There was no known defense, expect for not being there when it hit.

  It hit.

  ...the Snoopy, which the crippled Virgo swung in front of himself for protection. Built to withstand anything short of its own detonation, the briefcase went unharmed. Taurus fell screaming to the ground with virtually every bone in both of his hands smashed. Then the terrible pain overwhelmed his training and the man fainted, broken at last in body and spirit.

  The three linear miles of street that surrounded Central Park were jammed full of boisterous people just aching to get closer to the giant white spaceship, but the diligent NATO troops firmly kept the civilians at bay by the efficient use of sandbags, concertina wire and a thousand armed troops with orders to shoot any troublemakers. After a few unpleasant instances, the crowd quickly learned control.

  Patiently waiting behind their defensive perimeter, the UN soldiers watched as a sweating New York City police officer slowly shambled down a bike trail towards them. In his oddly twisted left hand, he held an ordinary briefcase. With his right hand, he was dragging the limp body of an Army Intelligence officer behind him, the unconscious man's shoe heels gouging twin tracks in the loose gravel on the ground.

  General Nicholi's orders strictly forbid anybody but authorized personnel from setting foot in the park, so the NATO troops stayed exactly where they were. But once the bloody couple stepped onto the sidewalk they were within UN jurisdiction. Exercising extreme care, the soldiers relieved the crippled policeman of his attaché case, and then bodily carried both of the battered men to a waiting military ambulance.

  The briefcase surreptitiously shifted into the hands of another nuclear agent, who deactivated the weapon and deftly tucked it inside a specially designed compartment of his pushcart, never pausing in his sale of ice cream sandwiches to the civilian onlookers.

  A random pair of UN soldiers in the cordon around the park holding back the crowd of civilian onlookers watched this operation to completion. Then the Canadian private idly scratched under his helmet and spoke to the British corporal next to him. “Hey, Sam, what do you think that was, eh?"

  “Beats me, Dave,” the woman soldier said, shifting her assault rifle to a more comfortable position. “Maybe that Army guy was actually a nuclear secret agent sent to destroy the alien ship, and the cop was a counter-agent sent in to stop him. The two of them battled it out with the lives of everyone in Manhattan hanging in the balance and just in the nick of time the cop decks the army blighter, saving us from dying in an atomic fireball."

  The man paused for a moment, drinking in what his friend had said. Yeah, ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer.

  FOURTEEN

  With 30 minutes left till lunch, the triumphant Deckers spent the remaining time getting further acquainted with the operation of the starship. Of course, the Proton Cannon (the only weapon the ship carried) was the first item on their agenda. The Deckers spent a joyous few minutes vaporizing trees and benches about the ship as they learned how to aim and fire its deadly beam. Central Park was fast resembling Dresden after the bombing.

&n
bsp; Then there was a tug on Trell's uniform, and Chisel asked him where the john was. After a confused moment or two, the alien got the general idea and sent the boy down the hall to the left. Trell also instructed him to be sure to press his palm firmly against a square metal plate next to the door so the facilities could adjust themselves to his lifeform. With a nod, the boy departed. A few minutes later somebody resembling Chisel walked back into the control room. But this was obviously an impostor because this Chisel was clean, from the tips of his polished black boots, to his neatly trimmed, coiffured hair. The food stains were gone from his T-shirt, its rips expertly sewn shut, the toolbox design on his black leather jacket looked newly painted and even the boy's buck teeth gleamed healthily.

  Dumbfounded, Hammer and Drill asked what the heck had happened to him? Chisel replied that he walked into the bathroom and it bit him. Upon closer inspection, it seemed that the boy and everything he wore was spotlessly, almost antiseptically, clean. Even his knives had been sharpened.

  To the gang's puzzled demands for information, Trell had no answer. It was a bathroom. What did theirs do?

  As excited as kids at Christmas, Hammer and Drill dashed off to try this technological marvel for themselves, returning in a short while, scrubbed, washed, polished, pressed, and thoroughly clean to the bone. A condition that none of the gang had ever been in before. It was kinda nice.

  As the laughing Deckers examined each others laudable condition, Trell took this opportunity to re-tune the tech stations in the control room to their new masters; Hammer as Leader, Drill as Protector, himself as Engineer, and Chisel as Communicator; as the communication board was partially sentient and did most of the work by itself.

  Deciding how to ferry the tribute on board turned into a lengthy discussion. Hammer insisted that since he and his gang had been teleported aboard the starship, so should the tribute.

  Trell argued against that on the grounds that the tribute would be much more massive then six Dirtlings, ah, humans, he quickly corrected himself. The equipment couldn't handle that large a load in one shot and the device took a hundred thousand seconds to recharge.