“Clear,” Drill panted, and the street gang hurried past him. At the next corner, Chisel took the point position and ventured his head into the corridor beyond.
“Clear,” the youth announced, and the process repeated.
Ever since their escape, the Bloody Deckers had been dodging and ducking through miles and miles of these crazy white corridors; positive that somebody must be chasing after them. But so far nothing. It was a nice change from the alleys of New York, but where the Hell was everybody? Hammer knew that time was short and the gang had to do something clever, fast. Every science fiction movie he had ever seen told him that much.
“Chisel, go left,” he ordered at the next intersection. “Drill, take the right. And keep your eyes peeled for an air vent. Should be easy enough to spot on these damn white walls."
“Gotcha,” Drill said with a wink, and departed.
Chisel seemed uncertain what to do, so Hammer turned the boy about. “That way, idiot."
The young blade master toothily smiled at Hammer in thanks and tiptoed away as quietly as possible in his Army surplus boots.
“What if they don't find an air vent cause there ain't any?” Crowbar challenged in an insolent whisper, so close behind the ganglord that his bad breath actually swamped his body odor. “Then whatta we do, huh?"
Hammer glared at his personal troublemaker. “Then we keep searching till we find an air vent,” he snapped. “Now shut your freaking mouth or I'll shut it for you."
Just then, Drill softly whistled at them from around a white corner, interrupting the impromptu détente. “Hey, guys! Over here!"
The gang mobbed up, and sure enough, there, set flush to the white wall, was an air vent. About a meter square, the vent was covered with an ivory colored, metal lattice which was fastened shut with some kooky bolts.
Frowning in concentration, Drill studied them with the eye of a professional, then smiled and pulled a lockpick and a rat-tail comb from his jacket pocket. Deftly he began removing the bolts. During the work, Hammer and Crowbar assumed defensive positions on either side of him. Soon the Deckers would be safe, concealed inside the walls like fugitive cockroaches. The ganglord knew that the aliens would never find them there, cause he'd seen this trick work in a dozen movies.
* * * *
“What do you mean you can't find them?” Boztwank screeched, swooping over to the starship's Protector and beating his fronds against the rocky giant's back. “You incompetent bungler! There are dirty stinking primitives loose in our ship, and you can't find them?"
Facing his tech station, Gasterphaz failed to notice the leafy assault and went on viewing a panorama of pictures on his screen, showing empty white corridor after empty white corridor.
“Well?” Idow demanded vehemently, his bushy eyebrows alternately flexing in annoyance.
The mountainous Choron sadly shook his head. “The explosion wrecked a minor junction box and I've lost control of the cameras. I'm re-routing the system, but not even Trell could fix this quickly."
“So?"
“So either they are moving very fast and dodging my security cameras as if they've been doing this their whole lives, which is most improbable, or else they've metamorphosed into white paint,” Gasterphaz stated simply. “I can not understand it. A road maintenance crew should not be able to do this."
The rocky giant raised his hands in disgust. “If anyone thinks he can operate my equipment more efficiently, then please do so. Because I cannot find them."
Maintaining a firm grip on his temper, Leader Idow took a deep breath, and slowly counted from one to eight.
“Well, they haven't physically left the ship,” Boztwank argued petulantly, his forcefield hands twisting dials. “None of the air locks have been opened. The storeroom hasn't been entered, or the engine room. Bah!” Boztwank hit the manual override and ordered his pot to pink him again. This was getting serious. Had the primitives evaporated into thin air?
“No attempt has been made to broadcast a message,” Squee added unhappily. “So I haven't been able to triangulate on them. Besides, nothing they have could penetrate our force shield."
Glowering from his chair, Idow's eyes formed crescent moons. “Are you sure?” he muttered deep in his throats. “Consider the facts, they smuggled a distance weapon aboard, they escaped from the test chamber and now they elude us with the greatest of ease. Are these the acts of primitives?"
A coward at heart, or at the fibrous lump that served for a heart with his fungioid species, Boztwank understood the implied hint. “Not the Great Golden Ones?” he asked in quaking fear.
“Perhaps."
“Foolishness!” Gasterphaz boomed, his immobile face never more so. “Two of their own kind lay dead in the test chamber! Would even the Great Golden Ones do such a thing?"
“Yes,” Squee interrupted, with a couple of extra sss tacked on to the word. “They would. The Great Golden Ones would do almost anything to capture us. Alive."
“A trap?” the Choron mused thoughtfully. That possibility had not occurred to him. But then, until his race had joined the galactic society, they had never heard of the word.
Impatiently, Boztwank rocked his pot to and fro. “The gas! We must use the Omega Gas!” he cried. “Flood the ship. Nothing can resist Omega Gas. Not even the Great Golden Ones!"
“You hope,” Squee added, clutching his bare tail to his uniformed chest as if for protection. Omega gas. Dangerous stuff. Just talking about it made him feel itchy. But then, breathing made him feel itchy. And horny. To bad this planet was only populated by mammals.
“And what about Trell?” Leader Idow asked, casually leaning back in his chair. “Is he to die along with the primitives?"
Boztwank opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it with a snap. What a pleasant surprise! “A pity, but yes. He must become a sacrifice for the good of the ship."
“He is also the only real Technician we have,” Gasterphaz noted pragmatically. “Maybe you want to do every dirty little job that keeps this ship operating properly, but I do not.” Clearly disturbed, the gargantuan Protector frowned, an act that resembled a landslide at a gravel pit. “Idow, we must save him!"
The blue being nodded. “We can try. Squee, contact Trell and have him take refuge in a gas proof compartment until we tell him it is safe to leave."
“Affirmative, Leader."
“Gasterphaz, how long will it take to warm the Omega Gas?"
“Nine hundred seconds."
“Then begin at once. Boztwank, start to seal off everything organic that the gas would destroy: clothes, food, and especially us."
“Us? Oh, how clever of you, my Leader,” the mushroom mocked from his tech-station. “Why, I never would have thought of that.” The closing of the armored security door punctuated his words.
Eat waste products, toadstool, Idow thought angrily. “Gaster-phaz, where is your warobot?"
“Outside the test chamber. Why?"
“Ready that too. Just in case."
* * * *
Barely a meter square, the ventilation shaft was a cramped fit, and the Deckers were constantly bumping into each other as they crawled along the seamless metal tube in single file.
“Drill, you fart on me again and you're dead,” Crowbar growled from darkness at the end of the line.
Without a word, the locksmith passed gas again in retaliation.
“You son of a bitch!"
“Clam up,” Hammer ordered tersely. “Or I'll beat both your heads in!"
“Hey, Chisel!” he called to the worn denim pants in front of him. “What do ya see?"
“A room,” the youngster echoed back. “Full of machines and stuff. Like a boiler factory. You want I should check it out?"
“Nyah, keep going."
The gang had been in the airshaft for only a few minutes before they started encountering dozens of vents that led to various rooms. Funny that they hadn't found any in the corridors. Each vent offered them an avenue of escape, but escap
e to where? The Deckers needed an exit out of this ship, access to the control room, something useful like that. But so far, they'd only come across more damn rooms similar to that last one. This place had more fancy equipment in it than a high school! Unexpectedly, Drill butted into Hammer, which made him bump into Chisel. Seriously irked, the ganglord swatted the man behind.
“Watch where you're going, stupid!” Hammer growled.
“Wasn't my fault chief,” Drill denied with hurt innocence in his voice. “Crowbar slammed into me."
“You lying sack of snot. I did not."
“Did."
“Not."
“DID!"
“NOT!"
With a calloused thumb, Hammer clicked off the safety of his automatic pistol and the argument came to an abrupt halt. Ahead of him, Chisel was peeking through the next grill; the light coming through the metal lattice bright enough for him to see that the kid was grinning like a pimp on payday.
“What is it this time, pinhead?” the ganglord demanded rudely. “Their bathroom?"
Almost bursting with excitement, the boy turned and blinked at the darkness of the airshaft below him. “Geez, Hammer, you won't believe what's in here!” he gushed happily. “I think it's their,” he fumbled for the word. “You know, what the army has, a gun place. It's their armory!"
In a rush of adrenaline, Hammer quickly shouldered Chisel out of his way and peeked in for himself. Sure enough, the walls of the white room on the other side of the grill were filled with racks holding swords and spears and crazy, weird things with handles and slings. Most of the weapons he couldn't recognize, but the street punk could tell what some of them were. Rifles and pistols. Futuristic rifles and pistols. His mouth watered at the prospect.
“Jackpot!” Hammer breathed, unable to believe their good luck. “Hot damn, now we're cooking!” Briskly as possible, he crawled aside to let Drill get to work on removing the grill.
* * * *
“They're at it again,” Squee sighed.
Suddenly alert, Idow almost fell out of his chair. “What? Who? Where?"
“The United Dirtling Welcome Committee,” the lizard Communicator explained, exasperated at the native's persistence. Why didn't they just watch the broadcast? Oh, he wasn't broadcasting anymore. Oops. “This must be the Nth time they have called. On one of the higher bands of the electromagnetic spectrum, too. Actually, that's pretty impressive for primitives."
“Answer them!” a voice of command barked.
The aliens recoiled in surprise, because it wasn't Leader Idow who had spoken, but Boztwank. Furiously, the fungi glared at his shipmates.
“Answer them!” he shrilled, gliding closer. “Let's end this charade! The tests are ruined, primitives are loose on the ship, and we're about to lose our beloved Trell.” A fake tear welled from a lidless eye. “So let's talk to this welcome group, give them The Speech, and ruin their day too! Let's ruin everybody's day!” finished Boztwank on a slightly hysterical note.
Using only a moment to consider the idea, the rock, lizard and humanoid decided to go with the mushroom's plan. Yes, it was time to make the whole planet miserable.
Eager with impatience, Leader Idow buttoned his uniform into a more presentable appearance and fluffed his eyebrows. “Squee, are you ready to broadcast?"
The Communicator grinned from gill to gill. “On the mark, my Leader. Ready?"
* * * *
“PEOPLE OF DIRT ... ATTENTION."
Startled by the unexpected broadcast, the FCT raised their heads to see the alien called Idow sneering down at then from the wall monitor. General Bronson removed the cigar from his mouth, Sir John put his glasses on, and Mohad exploded from the bathroom. Holding his pants closed with one hand, he leaped over the iron railing, dashed past his teammates and threw himself onto his console.
“Recording,” he gasped breathlessly, jabbing a button.
“Get ready,” Rajavur warned the linguist. “This could be what we've been waiting for."
Trying to catch his breath, Dr. Malavade just nodded. Everything was as ready as it would ever be. Now if only luck was on their side and the equipment would perform as desired.
Fiercely, the blue being on the wall monitor scowled at the First Contact Team, his shoulders straight, his eyes wide, his uniform incorrectly buttoned.
He's worried about something, Dr. Wu noted, absent-mindedly fingering the buttons on her own clothing. Us? Must be. Surely not the street gang.
“I AM SORRY TO REPORT TO YOU THAT THE TEST SUBJECTS ARE..."
“Now!” Rajavur ordered.
Instantly, Dr. Malavade hit a switch and a high-pitched squealing replaced Idow's words. But the alien continued talking, oblivious to the fact that his words weren't reaching anybody.
A long minute passed. Then another.
“Well?” General Bronson demanded.
Hesitant at first, Sir John slowly smiled. “It's working. The world is demanding to know what's going on, but no one suspects that we are jamming the alien's transmission."
Rajavur appeared greatly relieved. “Then the rioting we feared?"
“Will probably not occur."
Dr. Wu let out the breath she had been unconsciously holding. “Thank God,” the scientist said as if in prayer.
The radio jamming of what the FCT guessed to be the alien's pronouncement of Earth's destruction was Nicholi's idea. It was the old trick of what you don't know, can't hurt you. Worked all the time in Russia. If the aliens actually could destroy the Earth, then at least Humanity would go out with dignity and not as a howling, fear crazed mob. Nicholi had simply telephoned the notion to Rajavur and the professor had immediately set Mohad to work on the plan.
Gigantic dish antennae had been erected on top of every building facing the alien ship. Satellites were shifted in their orbits, moving rather close to a certain golden refrigerator. On Mohad's signal, everything but the refrigerator had vomited forth with a powerful electronic caterwauling, which blasted the alien's transmission off the air. Their message had never left Central Park.
People everywhere were fiddling with their TV sets, wondering what the hell was going on. Damn things always broke just when you need them. A few people, exceptionally clever or paranoid, suspected government intervention and tried to do something about it, but anyone who could wouldn't, and anyone who would couldn't.
Down in Australia however, the hastily appointed French translator to Parliament was having trouble convincing the government that this new radio gargling was a jamming field of some kind and not an obscure form of the Gaulic tongue. Of course, the Aussies did not believe him having dealt with the French before.
In high drama, Idow scowled at Earth for one last time, flexed his bushy eyebrows, and left the screen in a swirl of color. Mohad waited a few seconds more, just to be sure, and then let blessed silence washed across the globe.
“Do you think it worked?” Rajavur asked hopefully.
Sir John Courtney shrugged. “Impossible to say at the moment. But I would guess, and it's only a guess mind you, yes."
* * * *
Contemptously, Leader Idow clicked off his microphone and settled back in his deliciously soft chair. So much for Dirt. Within minutes, there would be a worldwide panic and the planet's civilization would soon begin to collapse. He had done this many times before. The Speech always worked. That's why it was THE SPEECH. Lovingly, it told the story of an invasion fleet coming to ray blast Dirt into a cinder; with lava rain falling from the sky, volcanoes, tidal waves, death, destruction, famine! Whee!
The Speech was woven whole cloth from the essence of nightmares. Idow had willingly paid a fortune to have it written for him, but as he had killed the author immediately afterwards, he received a full refund, death being the only sensible way to deal with writers. Leader Idow didn't even have to read The Speech anymore. He knew it by hearts.
Ah, the poor Dirtlings must be going mad by now. There would be mass destruction, buildings on fire, warfare in the s
treets, rape, murder, suicide! Every brutal act lovingly recorded in quintaphonic 3D for their later viewing pleasure.
In sublime delicacy, the blue being shuddered in borderline ecstasy. Of course, the mere fact that there was no war fleet, and that Idow and his shipmates could no more destroy a planet then eat it, meant nothing, since the stupid Dirtlings thought they could! Idow wrapped himself in warm thoughts of violent bloodshed and was on the verge of orgasm when a titanic roar woke him from his reverie.
“Squee!” Gasterphaz thundered, noticing a meter on his security board twitch. “Someone has broken into your room!"
“My room? My collection!” Squee cried, instantly realizing the truth of the situation. “The primitives are after my weapon collection!"
Not coming awake, Idow choked. Twice. By the Prime Builder's nose hairs, it was just going to be one of those trips, wasn't it? “G-Gasterphaz, send your warobot to Squee's room. Order the machine to kill anyone it sees. No. Anything that moves! The primitives must not get their hands on those weapons!” Even though most of them were antiques, the weapons were still in perfect working condition and some of them powerful enough to constitute an actual threat.
“How long till the Omega Gas is hot?” Boztwank demanded almost uprooting himself as he nervously fondled the dirt in his pot. The rich loam slid easily off the frictionless surface of his forcefield hands.
“Three hundred seconds,” Gasterphaz rumbled, both hands busy at the controls.
“Too long!” the mushroom screamed and spinning in place, he extended an arm to stab a button on the Protector's board. In raw horror, the Choron tried to pry the translucent limb away, but the forcefield limb resisted even his mighty hands.
“Stop, you fool!” Gasterphaz shouted in desperation. “The Omega Gas isn't hot enough yet!"
“Die!” Boztwank screeched, out of what little mind he had ever possessed. “Die! Die! Die!!"
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