“Sorry to keep you waiting, snort,” the Secretary General apologized as he displayed a politician's smile to the video camera set above the monitor on his desk. “But I was indisposed."
“Unacceptable,” Avantor snapped, radiating hot-buttered fury from every pore of her body. “Tell me where that ship went or I shall destroy every satellite and space platform orbiting your measly excuse for a planet."
To Jose's way of thinking, this conversation was breaking down far too quickly. “Surely, you don't mean that,” he demurred. “Many of those platforms are manned, and besides—"
The view of the Gee was instantly replaced by a shot of the nighttime sky above North America and the blackness became filled with pinpoint explosions. Then in a blinding flash of light, 12 astronauts, 8 cosmonauts and 1 very surprised looking chimpanzee were suddenly teleported into the Secretary General's office.
“We are not murderers,” Avantor noted in somber tones, as the video monitor returned to a picture of her.
“But you had no right!” de San Martin blustered, as everybody else dashed for the door. “Some of those were private property! You're no more than a common criminal!"
The golden female frowned. “Incorrect. My assignment is to erect a blockade about your planet and to ensure that your race does not gain unauthorized access to space travel. How I do so is my concern. You have just lost the right to use any orbital platforms for the next 10 solar rotations. Do you wish to loose your sub-orbital privileges as well? I am fully capable of grinding your transportation system right down to surface level!"
The stern face of the Gee swelled to fill the video monitor. “Now for the very last time, where did they go!"
As a trained politician, the lies flowed smoothly to de San Martin's mouth. “Acting as they are, without the official consent of our organization, how could I possibly know their destination? It seems unreasonable on your part to assume—"
“The human is stalling, my liege,” The 16 interrupted with a scowl.
Avantor agreed and her finger descended to press the button which would annihilate every operating airplane Dirt possessed when there was a transdimensional bang and the Ramariez burst out of hyperspace inside the force shield of the Gee's centihedron superdreadnought. The alien craft being the only known location of a HN cube.
As the starships stridently rammed together, the avantor was ripped free from her command chair and slammed against the forward viewscreen, fully half of the systems in her vessel shorting out. In the dim orange glow of the emergency chemical lights, the woman limply slid down the wall to land on her head, a dazed expression slackening her golden features.
“My liege!” The 16 weakly cried from the corner of the room, amber blood dribbling from his nose. Ignoring the pain in his brain from the howling feedback from the damaged computer, the disoriented Gee forced himself to crawl across the deck and tug his commander into a sitting position. Her golden head wobbled like a balloon on a string as she attempted to focus her attention on him.
“Of course,” the avantor burbled incoherently. “They didn't go anywhere. Couldn't. No cube. Come to steal ours."
She began to pitch forward. “Stop them, 16! Don't let the Dirt-lings get the cube, eat the device if you have to!” Then the woman slumped unconscious to the deck.
But the damage had already been done. While her intentions had been good, Avantor's choice of words had been disastrous. Even in its present condition, their warship was still quite capable of defending itself, but only if told to do so. Locked in the unbreakable grip of his hypnotraining, the 16 was forced to crawl out of the room, unable to stop himself from heading for the navigational computer, not even to pause for a moment at the kitchen to grab a bottle of organic vegetable flavoring.
* * * *
Within the airlock of the Ramariez, apparently unaffected by the titanic collision, stood twenty burnished statues poised and waiting. The hulking metal brutes were not inert decorations, but highly mobile battlesuits. Sort of a hybrid between a spacesuit and a tank, armored by two inches of molecularly reinforced durasteel, powered by a series of stretchable servomotors and energized by a miniature atomic battery. The wallet sized power cell, containing over a thousand kilowatt hours, was not a contribution of Trell, but an invention of Norway. They had kept the atomic battery a state secret for the past decade, as they had had no military use for the device except for running mobile government saunas.
Protected by a NASA/SRI built life support system, the Marines could comfortably fight in vacuum, underwater, amid lethal radiation, almost anywhere. The strength amplifying servomotors in their exoskeletons enabled the soldiers to run for a hundred kilometers without tiring or to rip a Cadillac in half. A more than fitting end for the oversized gas guzzlers. Plus, an inner cushion of mini-forcefield bubbles let the troopers withstand pointblank cannon fire or survive a fall of eighty stories onto concrete; hence their total lack of reaction to the violent ramming. As long as the power was maintained, the Marines were virtually indestructible.
But not content with mere passive defense capabilities, NATO also armed the space troopers with an unnamed assault rifle that fired caseless 5mm armor piercing bullets, sported a pump action 20mm grenade launcher, two ‘Church Key’ class anti-robot missiles, and a polycyclic laser. In addition, the rifle exploded if anyone other than a crewmember tried to fire it. A cute trick that had led to some interesting strategy sessions over beer and pretzels.
Standing patiently in the airlock, crowded shoulder to metal shoulder, the Marines waited in their half-ton uniforms for the go code. Every trooper was a combat veteran, most of them holding the rank of master sergeant or better in their home country's military, but each more than glad to become a lowly dogface again for the sake of this special mission.
Their appointed leader, Lt. Kurt Sakadea, was a devilishly handsome American of Japanese descent who held the rank of colonel in the United States’ much touted, but rarely seen Delta Force, a supersecret group of ultra-tough fighters who were supposed to be able to eat Green Berets for breakfast. Oddly enough though, Sakadea was a quiet, scholarly man whose sole interests outside the military seemed to be the stock market and chasing babes.
As the white starship continued to revolve about the gold trying to align their air locks, a private near the rear of the group broke the self-imposed radio silence.
“Sir? Lieutenant?"
“Yeah? What is it, Higgins?"
“How about ‘Satan's Taxi Cab’ cause it's hell on wheels?"
It took Lt. Sakadea a moment to realize that the soldier was referring to the matter of their weapons having no pronounceable designation, much less a nickname the troops liked. ‘That Damn Gun’ didn't count, although considering how often generals had stuck their heads into the UN labs and asked: ‘How's that damn gun coming along?', it was running a strong second.
“Later, private,” Sakadea snapped.
He sighed. “Aye, aye, sir."
With a clang more felt than heard, the rotating spheres locked into position and Sakadea told the troops to get ready.
Breathlessly, the soldiers watched and waited as the metal halves of their air lock door parted to reveal the outer hull of the alien ship, its air lock doors tightly closed.
Upon Captain Keller's command, the Ramariez computers began to flash all of the 914 possible override signals that Trell had postulated might open the Gee's main air lock. But unknown to the humans, due to damage caused by the collision the Gee computer was receiving every signal, including the correct one (#412), as pure gibberish and as a result the air lock remained firmly locked.
Trell suspected radio interference, and, from the bridge, advised the Marines to manually tap in the Medical Evacuation code, which he believed was their best chance anyway. Using a more sophisticated version of the override key, Sakadea pulled a crystal rod from his belt pouch and waved it at the ship before them. With a soft sigh, a small panel on the golden hull swung aside to reveal a keypad. Quick
but careful, Sakadea used a thick metal finger to tap in the proper sequence of symbols. But once again the computer received the information as a flood of random signals and did nothing.
Lt. Sakadea was becoming worried. Time was running out. Why they hadn't been attacked already he couldn't understand. The Gees must be setting up an ambush. His growing unease was felt by the rest of the Marines.
Suddenly and without warning, a lone private acting upon twenty years of combat experience, played a hunch and turned his assault rifle on the keypad hoping to blow the lock. Ricochets filled the air lock, and instinctively the soldiers hit the dirt. The hullmetal keypad was undamaged by the fusillade of bullets. However, the random pattern of strikes was blithely transmitted to the harassed computer which accepted the onslaught of signals as a slightly misspelled Surprise Inspection Tour notice and with a clicking hiss politely opened the outer airlock door.
From the floor, the Marines exchanged glances. Well heck, can't argue with success.
At the noise, Lt. Sakadea stopped shaking the trigger-happy trooper. “Nice going, corporal."
“I'm a private, lieutenant."
“Not anymore."
“Thank you, sir!"
The inner door to the Gee ship had a simple hand lever and soon the squad was peering into the ship. Ahead of them stretched an innocent appearing pale yellow corridor. On the floor before them was a small mat emblazoned with a square made of broken lines; the universal symbol for ‘Welcome'. In unison, the soldiers chuckled. Subtle, real subtle.
With a tap of his chin, Lt. Sakadea activated his suit radio. “Mainhardt!"
“Sir?"
“Sweep that hallway."
“Affirmative, lieutenant."
Moving clumsily, the soldier set the tripod of her ungainly weapon, adjusted the focus to wide angle, thumbed off the safety and squeezed the primary trigger. From the three-prong muzzle of the Atomic Vortex Rifle there lanced out a swirling cone of blinding radiation that exploded down the empty passageway. As the nuclear hurricane filled the passageway with its turbulent energy, the welcome mat exploded into a cloud of flechettes that melted in mid-air, laser beams lashed out and died as their circuits exploded, panels in the roof opened and nasty looking robotic devices fell to the deck with a clang, twitching ineffectually as smoke erupted from their mechanisms and the entire middle section of corridor slammed together three times with a force that rattled the Marines inside their powersuits before the giant motors hidden in the walls burned out. As the searing power bolt reached the end of the passageway it punched a small glowing hole in the lock of the far door. With a creak, the metal portal began to slowly swing open.
"Gott en Himmel!" a private whispered over his suit radio.
Then from behind the door a smiling robot butler with a wide gash in its chest, fell face first into the hallway, dropping its tray and spilling a collection of gold cups, their liquid contents splashing on the floor. None of the Marines were surprised when the environmental meters in their helmets swung towards lethal.
There was a click over the scrambled radio and Lt. Sakadea addressed his troops. “This was too damn easy. Watch yourselves."
With dry mouths, the point soldiers took their assigned positions and the platoon began to weave its way through the ruin of the corridor, the double set of air lock doors behind them automatically cycling shut.
Following the stronger of the life readings on their sensors, the Marines easily located the control room. The only incident worthy of mention was a slight mishap with an escalator that tried to eat their unauthorized feet halfway between levels. But the heavy metal casings of their boots easily destroyed the robotic gnashing and they continued undefeeted.
Suspicious at the ajar door, the troopers did this by the book; two soldiers dove into the room to draw fire, while the rest of the squad pivoted out from the sides, their weapons at the ready. The action was smartly done, but once inside they found only a small pool of what resembled honey and the unconscious Avantor.
As Lt. Sakadea gazed upon the supine female, the soldier felt his heart skip a beat. She was every bit as beautiful as when he first saw her on television a mere month ago.
“Lieutenant?"
Sakadea snapped back to reality. “Yes, sergeant?"
Tanya Lieberman waddled forward, a squat golem of steel in her UN powersuit. The short, mousy blonde was a captain in the Israeli army and reputed to be the best rifle sharpshooter in the world. “No sign of the male, sir. The second life form reading we have is down that passageway."
He nodded. “Check. Privates Tausz, Sowards, front and center! Guard the avantor, call the ship, tell them she'll need medical attention."
The troopers acknowledged the command.
Lt. Sakadea shifted the grip on his rifle. “Everybody else, stay with me!"
Tracing the electronic blip of their sensors, the Marines were led through a maze of twisting hallways until they reached a locked door emblazoned with three overlapping rings in a triangle pattern: the universal symbol for Authorized Personnel Only. Lt. Sakadea grunted and glanced at his sergeant. Well, they were authorized, just by the wrong side.
The adroit application of plastique unlocked the portal to the main computer room and the Marines rushed in to see a pair of wiggling golden legs sticking obscenely out of the side of a towering computer bank.
“Get him!” Sgt. Lieberman snapped.
Shouldering their weapons, two of the metal clad Marines grabbed a hold of the Gee and hauled him into view, just in time to see the male swallow a small crystal cube covered with black squiggles.
With a burp, 16 felt the grasp of the hypno-training leave him. As his mind cleared, the Gee reached out with his computer implants to focus awesome weapons of power that would vaporize these invaders when Corporal Furstenburg rushed forward to grab the alien and began to apply the Heimlich Maneuver.
However, the well meaning soldier forgot that he was wearing strength amplifying powerarmor until he noticed The 16 turning brown in color. Reacting quickly, the Space Marine released the wheezing alien and the Gee collapsed to the deck in a dead faint.
“Nice going, private,” Lt. Sakadea chastised.
“Ah, that's corporal, sir,” the barracks lawyer corrected.
“Not anymore."
James Furstenburg sighed. Oh well, easy come, easy go.
NINETEEN
“Close, please,” Dr. Van Loon instructed, peeling off his stainless surgical gloves.
The tentacle waving garbage can next to him squeaked in the affirmative and began efficiently sealing the belly incision of the peacefully sleeping 16 on the multi-level table. In slow stately stages, the three dimensional holographs of the patient's intestinal tract faded from the air above the surgical platform and the human physician shucked his gown, depositing it in what he correctly assumed was a waste basket. The cloth disappeared in a brief flash of atomic disintegration. Dr. Van Loon turned to take a final glance at the recumbent Gee and gasped as he saw a robot nurse light what appeared to be a slim, green cigar and stick it into The 16's mouth. Every instinct cried out to the physician to run and remove it, but during the operation he had gained an almost religious faith in the bizarre little machines.
He watched as a small tube looped out of the robot's side and deftly sucked up the accumulating cigar ash as if it was something precious. More than puzzled, the doctor shook his head and exited the room. A religious rite? Or was it actually medicinal? When Van Loon had time, he would have to check into that.
As the double set of doors closed behind him, the middle-aged man stumbled out into the corridor and leaned against the golden wall to catch his breath. It had taken all of his skill as a surgeon, veterinarian, botanist and roadside car mechanic to pull that operation off, but miraculously, it appeared to be a success. The Gee was just fine, probably wouldn't even have a scar. Thank God for those self-programming robot nurses. Without them, this would never have been possible. They had done 90% of the actual wor
k. The Dutch physician had never even postulated the existence of reverse scalpels, sourceless lights, or blood plants; flowering bushes that manufactured any desired type of biological plasma by the gallon and delivered it via their own thorn tipped vines.
Through their built-in translators, the robot nurses had informed him the plants were a primitive ancestor of the legendary Koolgoolagans. Whoever the hell they were.
During his hurried reading of the Gee's medical texts on the different species of the galaxy, Van Loon had discovered that it was a good thing he was not going to work on a Choron, as the rocky giants didn't have doctors, per se; but more precisely structural engineers specializing in explosives, welding and plumbing.
Out of the corner of his eye, Van Loon spotted a distant group of cursing crewmembers struggling to drag an enormous plastic crate towards the airlock and he smiled.
Without the lest bit of shame, the physician had ordered the confiscation of every surgical instrument on board the Gee's ship, including the blood plants. The futuristic devices made his equipment on board the Ramariez as outmoded as stone knives and leeches. When Engineering had some spare time, they could analyze the intricate workings of the complex machinery and if the Ramariez ever made it back to Earth, the ship would bring home the seeds of the greatest medical breakthroughs since sterilization.
“Hello, doctor,” somebody said.
Van Loon glanced up to see Abigail Jones, the first mate of the Ramariez standing nearby. It was hard to believe that the statuesque redhead was Australia's top astronaut. Considering the pre-contact state of that country's space program, she'd had plenty of time to branch out and had become an expert on military strategy. The three monographs on theoretical space warfare she had written, one of which had been confiscated by her government for reasons of national security, were more than enough to bring her to the FCT's attention.
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