Glitters was a modified Mikon #4 space module, exactly four hundred meters in diameter, precisely the same size of your average Mikon. Powered by their justifiably famous exothermic reactors, the spacecraft had a mean cruising speed of light to the twelfth power, making the ship just about the fastest thing in the galaxy. Only a single planet had faster ships, and those were not for sale at any price. The 24 levels of the vessel varied in height and width, depending entirely upon their owner's wishes and intended use. Only the control rooms were standardized.
On the curved walls aft of Leader Idow, were the tech stations of his crew: Protector, Engineer, Communicator and Technician. The later station was rarely used, and was situated here in the control room only because of the irrefutable fact that the damn thing had to be somewhere. An armored Security Door closed off the base of the room and provided the sole means of entry into this, the nerve center of the starship. At present that door was ajar which permitted a glimpse of the outside corridor, whose seemingly endless walls were lined with a multitude of wires, pipes and junction boxes.
The control room and its furnishings were composed entirely, and on purpose, in multiple shades of white. Only the operating beings themselves adding a splash of color: blue, gray, brown, green, and even those were toned down by the ivory uniforms the crew wore. Every tech station aboard the All That Glitters had an independent viewscreen, but at present Idow had them slaved to his, so that each showed the same unremarkable scene.
Amid the stark white immensity of the Test Chamber, which occupied the entire middle portion of the starship, there stood a handful of figures, the tremendous distance making them appear weak and frail, which in every probability they were. Idow could see them marching up and down, shaking angry limbs at the ceiling. No doubt they were shouting questions, threats and pleas. All the usual things. But the audio pickups in the chamber had yet to be activated, so their verbal barbs never reached the ears of Those-Who-Command.
Besides, Leader Idow liked to watch the test subjects first. It helped him to better evaluate their chances of success. And furthermore, being pointedly ignored seemed to drive most primitives into a splendid frenzy, and these Dirtlings showed every indication of running true to form. Why, at this moment, the largest Dirtling was attempting to tunnel through the cushioned floor. His fellow subjects appeared to be cheering him on, although with alien species it was often difficult to tell exactly what they were really doing. Ah! Now a hairy subject pulled the big male to his feet and struck him several times in the face with the flat of a hand. For some reason that calmed the large male down and he demurely rejoined his companions. The hairy Dirtling stayed apart from the group though, and they began addressing their comments to him.
So you're their Leader, observed Idow coldly. Then as one to another, I greet you, brother.
Just then a hand of living granite descended weightily upon the blue alien's shoulder and Idow glanced up into the immobile face of his starship's Protector.
“So much for your rule-by-strength contention,” Gasterphaz rumbled, his atonal voice sounding like rocks mating. “Obviously you were wrong."
“How can you say that?” Idow asked in surprise. “You saw the hairy male beat the big male into submission. Thus, they have rule by strength, as I surmised."
The stony giant blinked with a loud click-click. “That? Beat? Why, that was but a caress. More likely they are lovers."
Leader Idow smiled deep inside himself. Gasterphaz was a Choron, a huge, heavily muscled, rock plated species of fantastic strength. The Protector could easily rip the control room Security Door right off its hinges with his bare hands. His mountainous race constantly faced the problem of identifying anything short of a warobot armed with an X-ray laser as an actual attack. This aloof attitude really annoyed some of the more excitable races in the galaxy, and in fact, the Chorons were presently engaged in at least two wars of which they were blissfully unaware.
“Trust me,” Idow reassured. “These Dirtlings are sufficiently primitive for our needs. I am sure that they will do fine in the forthcoming tests."
“Primitive garbage!” a high-pitched voice screeched in disagreement.
The two beings turned to see Boztwank, the ship's Engineer gliding towards them, the invisible forcefield legs of his electronic pot noiseless on the ship's soft plastic floor.
“Garbage!” the petulant mushroom repeated, his fronds quivering. “And useless to us! Those?” A translucent hand gestured at the figures on the viewscreen. “Why, they won't even pass the first test, much less all three!” Located on his stalk, the fungi's diminutive face contorted with frustration. “Let's leave this wretched place and find us a real planet, with some real people to test!"
Better tasting dirt too, no doubt, added Idow privately. The analysis had shown it to be high in hydrocarbons, metallic salts and animal urine. While the later was a nice touch, it was not enough to satisfy Boztwank. But then, his fungus race lived in an almost perpetual state of seething annoyance at the universe in general. This emotional upheaval eventually culminating in a pyrotechnic display of fury that caused the enraged mushroom to literally explode, scattering spores for over a kilometer.
Most likely, Boztwank's vociferous species would have long ago been eradicated by the galaxy at large just because of a near universal desire for peace and quiet, but for the fact that their pre-sentient young were considered a delicacy by almost every being that possessed the sense of taste, and by several who merely had a fine sense of propriety. It was only his superior ability as an Engineer that kept him from getting stuffed into the starship's reactor core for fuel.
Then Idow frowned. The mushroom did have a point, though. On the whole, the Dirtlings appeared to be a pretty unimpressive lot. But as Leader, the blue being felt duty bound to defend his decision to come here.
“Nonsense,” he began in a friendly tone.
“They still call their planet Dirt!” Boztwank raged. “How stinking primitive can you get?” The fungi's sprayers chose that moment to moisten his dome and stalk with a watery pink fluid.
Idow took the opportunity to continue. “Every race calls its home planet Dirt in the beginning, Boztwank,” he explained patiently. “You know that."
“But they've had over 4,000 solar revolutions in which to change it! What in the Void are they waiting for? The Prime Builder to name it for them?"
“Terra,” a dry voice interrupted. “They call their planet Terra."
Vastly annoyed, the mushroom closed his lipless mouth.
Squee, the ship's Communicator waddled forward, his enormous atrophied tail dragging behind him along the floor. Squee was the last known surviving member of his lizardoid race. The rest of his home world population having gone on to evolve into a higher species while he was touring the galaxy with Leader Idow.
Nowadays, in a valiant attempt to resurrect his old species, Squee seduced and mated with every egg-laying, cold-blooded female he could find. Current medical theories claimed that such interspecies breeding was impossible. Yet Squee succeeded again and again in impregnating his alien lovers, and they subsequently gave birth to tiny duplicates of Squee—who promptly evolved into a higher species. This bothered the poor lizard to no end.
Suspicious as always, Boztwank squinted at the Communicator. “Everybody uses that name?” he demanded rudely.
With a start, Squee stopped the perpetual scratching at the scales on his tail. The limb didn't itch, the act was just something he did while thinking. The way humanoids rubbed their chins, or bloop-oids hit themselves with a fish.
“Well, no,” Squee admitted honestly. “Not everybody."
“And what is the root word for this name, Terra?"
“Earth,” he answered proudly.
The mushroom scowled, a hard thing for him to do.
Leader Idow was unmistakably pleased by this exchange. Plainly, Squee had done an excellent job of analyzing Dirt's primary tongue.
Furious at being thwarted in anything,
Boztwank rallied to the
attack once more. “And in their major language, Earth translates
into what?"
Squee bit his forked tongue. Oh Void, he had hoped they wouldn't ask that.
“Well?” Boztwank demanded.
“Dirt,” Squee sighed sadly. “It means dirt."
“Ah HA!” the mushroom cried in righteous victory. “I told you
so! I told you so! I told you so!"
With true lizard dignity, Squee turned tail on the Engineer and waddled back to his station, where his instruments lit up, overjoyed to see their scaly master again. A vegetarian, from a race of vegetarians, Squee wondered what Boztwank would taste like. Probably bitter as stinkweed, the nasty old ‘shroom.
Privately, Idow also viewed the jubilant fungi with disflavor. Boztwank had many bad habits, being a poor winner among them. And didn't the name of his home planet translate into something like, “The Place That Holds Our Roots in Safety"? Hmm ... hmm....
“Is it true, Idow?” Gasterphaz asked, resuming the original line of conversation. “Might they be too primitive a race for us to use?"
“No, my friend,” Idow stated firmly, crossing his legs and meticulously straightening the cuff on his dusky uniform. “They are not. Dirt has a planetary government, crude space flight and a world communications system. These alone prove that they are sufficiently advanced for our needs."
The rock shrugged. “Acceptable then. We have dealt with worse."
“And we have dealt with better,” Boztwank cried irritably. “Let's go home!"
"BUT WE ARE HERE RIGHT NOW!" Idow thundered, using his throat of command. “And it was quite an effort to get here now, so we will test these—"
“Humans,” Squee interjected.
“Dirtlings,” Idow continued, “And simply hope for the best."
Grumbling to himself, Boztwank directed his floating pot back to his tech station, where he ordered his squirter to splash him with more of the pink liquid, but it didn't cheer him up a drop.
Royally blue, Idow returned to his viewscreen, the picture on it the same as before. The test subjects had hardly moved a foot. What was wrong with them? No curiosity? He flexed his eyebrows in pique. “How much longer, Squee?"
“Three hundred seconds."
Void. “Is everything ready for the broadcast of the tests?"
“Of course, my Leader."
“Fine. Oh, did Trell ever get around to replacing that broken camera in the Test Chamber?” As he spoke, Idow's viewscreen shifted to a different angle of the humans. “Acceptable. Gasterphaz?"
The mighty Choron rotated his head without bothering to move his shoulders. “Yes, Idow?"
“Do try and keep your warobot under better control this time. We only have so many of those cameras with us, you know."
“Affirmative."
“Why only yesterday Trell was telling me,” Idow paused and glanced about the room, noticing the absence of the Technician for the first time. “Where is Trell anyway?"
Boztwank muttered something inaudible.
“What did you say, Engineer?” Idow asked, eyeing the fungi.
“Maintenance. He's doing some maintenance."
“Oh really?” Idow inquired swiveling about. “Just what is broken on my starship?"
“Broken?” Boztwank hedged. “Why, ah, nothing is broken. He's just doing some minor repair work, you know, here and there, a ship this big..."
“Where is Trell,” Idow asked using his throat of polite conversation. Again Boztwank answered vaguely, so the blue being switched to his throat of command. "WHERE IS TRELL?"
“Core. He's in the reactor core."
“WHAT?” Idow double-throated, rising from his chair.
Talking fast, Boztwank had his pot retreat from the furious humanoid. “No danger! Trell is in no danger Leader! The power levels are at 9/9 and steady. He's completely safe! As if he was in his mother's mandibles!"
Idow considered the statement, knowing that the cowardly mushroom wouldn't dare lie to him, and grudgingly sat back down. True enough. Nine over nine was well within the Technician's radiation tolerance level. It would merely be very uncomfortable for him. But why would Boztwank send Trell to the reactor just as they were about to start the all important tests?
“You're still angry about that mistake he made last trip,” he
accused.
Visibly, the mushroom steamed. “He confused my pink for the
window cleaner again! I won't stand for that!"
Lizard and rock roared with laughter, while Idow openly smiled.
Yes, it had been a near tragedy and only time had made the incident funny. “Okay Boz, you may do with Trell as you wish, but there are to be no mysterious power surges through the core which would fry our Technician into carbon ash. IS THAT CLEAR ENGINEER?"
The fungi heard the change in throats and got the hint. “Yes, my Leader, of course my Leader, whatever you say Idow.” Boztwank then stealthily turned down the power dial on his control board that he had been inching upward.
Satisfied that Trell was safe for the moment, Idow returned to the business at hand. “Time?” he asked.
“One hundred seconds,” Squee replied.
Close enough. “Squee, please activate your translator, I wish to converse with our ... guests.” A slim rod extended from beneath the viewscreen at his station and Idow cleared his throats. “Attention, your attention, please."
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 UN-MARRIED 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 l
eague?” 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.
FIVE
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.
Illegal Aliens Page 4
