“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 soul 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 then 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!
In an abrupt move, the Quatralyan yanked its arms from the street tough's form and Whipsaw crumpled to the floor. Daintily, the chickendog stepped over the spreading pools of red as more, and more tentacles snaked out of its impossible body; ten, twenty, thirty. It became a Medusa's head of wiggling limbs on doggy paws. The living nightmare turned its potato head towards the street gang and fiendishly gargled at them again.
“Waste that thing!” Hammer snarled, drawing an Army Colt .45 from under his jacket and the Bloody Deckers attacked.
Razor sharp throwing stars, shurikens, appeared and disappeared in Chisel's talented hands. The Quatralyan dodged the whirling blades and came at the boy. Twin switchblades snapped into existence and the young blademaster circled to the left. Torch, her hands full of iron hooks, moved to the right. Drill pulled a stiletto from his boot and charged straight at the monster. Crowbar produced a motorcycle chain, and twirled it to near invisibility as he deliberately stepped in front of Hammer.
What the fuck? “Get outta the way!” the ganglord yelled furiously.
But Crowbar pretended not to hear him. Hammer tried to angle past the man, and again Crowbar stepped right in his path preventing Hammer from using his pistol. This couldn't be any better. Right on TV he would show the world that Crowbar didn't need a gun to make him tough, and bikers would flock to him. He'd have his own gang then. Crowbar's Commandos! No more a nobody. He'd be the boss. Yeah, the time was ripe. Time for Crowbar!
Gnashing his teeth, Hammer eased his grip on the pistol. No way. Crowbar couldn't be stupid enough to be doing this on purpose. Got to be a mistake. The ganglord thumbed back the hammer on his weapon and tried once more for a clear shot.
With a martial arts cry, Drill threw himself at the Quatralyan, who hopped out of the way. Hitting the floor and rolling, Drill twisted about and came up swinging, right where the creature was supposed to be. But it wasn't. Sensing a trap, the quatralyan had darted between Chisel and Torch. Neither of them close enough to stab it, though both tried. For an instant, the beast was in the clear.
Assuming a firing stance, Hammer leveled his automatic and Crowbar again got in the way. The ganglord cursed violently. The smug thug allowed himself a quick victory grin and released his chain, the four feet of linked steel flashing across the room like a silver arrow that slammed the pudgy alien off its feet in a tangle of limbs. The Quatralyan tried to stand, and failed, then weakly bleated in pain. Without pause, the street gang came charging in from every direction.
Grinning openly, Crowbar unwound a second chain from his waist and went to help with the kill, his traditional biker's weapon expertly wrapped tight around a scarred fist.
The Quatralyan poked a lumpy head from the jumble of its body and mournfully bleated again. Yet oddly, no damage was showing. No blood. Hammer didn't like that and got a hunch.
“Watch out!” he yelled in warning. “The dust mop's doing a suck play!"
Not completely stupid, Crowbar heeded the ganglord and fired off his second chain in a hip shot that cannonballed towards the ropy alien. Jerking aside, the Quatralyan let the metal missile pass by, not wishing to be hit again by that strange weapon. The monster gargled nastily and ran to kill Crowbar, the closest of its enemies. Hammer tried to zero in on it anyway, and the creature moved to the far side of the gang member as if somehow understanding what the function of a gun was.
Crowbar then unlimbered his last weapon. From inside his pants pocket he withdrew an Italian gravity knife, and waited for the attack. More blade then handle, the weapon was like a butcher's axe, made for chopping. His hand held high, the grim man braced himself to cut the thing in two with a single stroke. Dr. Guillotine meets The Spaghetti Monster.
But flashing knives from Chisel bracketed the beast, forcing it back. Then in another mad roll, Drill sliced open both of the hind legs of the creature. The Quatralyan screamed in real pain now. No mere bleat, but a steam whistle keen that went through Crowbar's head like an icepick as he chopped downward. Several of the monsters tentacles hit the floor, the stumps oozing yellow.
Off balance,
the chickendog stabbed holes in the gang member's flapping jacket, the rigid limbs scoring bloody trenches along his ribs. Crowbar stabbed with a knife not designed for the purpose and missed. The Quatralyan reared, its snake nest body poised to strike. Death filled Crowbar's eyes.
Then Torch buried her iron hooks in the monster's plump rump.
The Quatralyan shrieked like a million smoke detectors and the laughing woman jumped back, but not fast enough. Pivoting about, the wounded creature rammed all of its remaining arms straight into the human.
As they jerked out, blood formed a fountain from her riddled body and the woman fell limply to the floor. Just then, the thunderous reports of the Army .45 filled the air as Hammer finally got his unobstructed view.
Yellow blood and feathers sprayed into the air under the impact of the soft lead bullets and the ganglord brutally fired again and again, the heavy slugs from the booming Colt punching the screaming alien across the room, leaving oily smears on the white floor. Its death scream peaked into the ultra-sonic, then abruptly stopped as Drill brutally slit the monster's throat with his stiletto.
Completely unable to help, the population of the world watched as the mangled pile of flesh that had once been Torch reached out a hand to her chief. Hammer rushed over. Kneeling by her side, he took the woman's hand in his and gently gave it a squeeze. She raised her head to speak, causing more blood to well from her hideous wounds. Hammer bent close, and she whispered something too soft for him to hear. Then her hand went stiff in his, her body trembled in a spasm, and Torch died, lying sprawled in a pool of blood and intestines.
In unaccustomed tenderness, the ganglord closed her only intact eye and bowed his head in sorrow. Chisel turned away from the scene, ashamed of his unmanly tears. Stiffly somber, Drill walked to the Quatralyan's body, retrieved his friend's hooks and laid them next to her battered corpse. And showing great wisdom, Crowbar stayed in the background.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then Hammer stood, his face a cold mask of fury. He had the blood of a good friend staining one hand, and a smoking .45 Army automatic in the other. The youth squeezed those scarred hands into hard fists and glared hatefully at the clean white ceiling so far, so goddamn far, out of reach.
Illegal Aliens Page 6
