With a straight face, the alien touched the blinking button activating the main viewscreens. The great panels of frosted plastic swirled like a snowstorm to finally cleared and show a large room with wood paneling and a row of computer consoles. Sitting behind those were what the gang would classify as Big Money types. There was a football player in a military uniform, two college professors; a gray hair guy in a blue suit, and one with glasses and a moustache in an expensive three-piece job, a hot Oriental chick in a flowered dress, and a skinny dark guy in somebody else's suit. The professor started to speak and the viewscreen speakers crunched and hooted louder than an elephant raping a Volkswagen.
“Well, the same to you fellow!” Drill answered rudely, sticking out his tongue at the screen.
That stopped the translator cold. In swift computations, it harmonized itself with the operating being and started again. This time performing the arduous processes of translating English into English.
With both fists resting on his hips, Hammer glared at the viewscreen belligerently. “Okay, so who the hell are you clowns?"
* * * *
In their underground bunker, the FCT exchanged perplexed looks.
Ceremoniously, General Bronson removed the cigar from his mouth to speak everyone's unspoken question. “And since when,” he growled, “do street punks talk like the damn Prince of Wales?"
“I REITERATE,” the wall monitor demanded. “PLEASE IDENTIFY YOURSELVES POSTHASTE."
Taking charge, Sigerson faced the monitor squarely. “I am Professor Rajavur, in command of the United Nations First Contact Team.” He motioned to the people about him. “This is General Bronson, Dr. Wu, Sir Courtney and Dr. Malavade. We are the official representatives for Earth in this situation. Are you all right? What has happened to the aliens?"
“WE ARE UNDAMAGED AND THE PRESENT SITUATION IS UNDER CONTROL. FIGHTING IN SELF DEFENSE, MY ASSOCIATES AND I WERE FORCED TO DESTROY THE CRIMINALS WHO HAD KIDNAPPED US. THE ALIEN MENACE HAS ENDED. THIS STARSHIP IS NOW UNDER OUR CONTROL."
With these words, the world rejoiced, the previous communications blackout forgotten with this overwhelming good news. Earth had been saved by the Bloody Deckers! Hooray! Hurrah! Historic enemies hugged and kissed each other, cops and crooks, blacks and whites, Arabs and Jews, Democrats and Republicans. The glorious sounds of popping champagne corks, car horns and church bells filled the globe as Humanity celebrated their deliverance from what had been almost certain doom.
Deep in their underground Command Bunker, the FCT did not join the revelry, as their cerebral teeth were buried in a puzzling mystery. Via their throat mikes and earphones, the team held a fast conference.
“The translation device?” Dr. Malavade postulated scratching his chin. “Could it still be in operation?"
Dr. Wu made a rude noise.
“I agree with Yuki,” Sir John sub-vocalized. “If so, then why is it converting the street gang's idiomatic sub-tongue into colloquial English?"
“Could be broken,” Bronson guessed, adjusting his necktie. “Damaged in the Decker's no doubt violent takeover of the ship."
“Logical,” Rajavur whispered. “But no, I do not think so."
“Telepathic then,” Dr. Malavade offered softly as explanation. “And the machine has tuned itself to its new masters."
Now there was an unpleasant thought. Did the street gang realize just how powerful was their position? Dr. Wu reached for the phone on her console but the instrument rang before she could touch it. Lifting the receiver, the scientist listened intently for a moment, then sullenly replied in the negative.
Snorting in annoyance, Nicholi hung up on his colleague. Damn. There had been hope on his part that Russia's ion cannon could breach the force shield surrounding the alien ship. The general was fast running out of options. It was possible that nothing in his arsenal but nuclear weapons could penetrate that immaterial energy blister. But those were the court of last resort. Giving a crisp report, a military voice whispered in his ear about something in the sky above Central Park and he told them to go soak their heads. Nothing could be more important than their present situation.
“Well then, why don't you lower the force shield and come out?” Prof. Rajavur enticed pleasantly. “You're heroes! The entire world is waiting to honor your brave gang."
Dominating the screen, Hammer's face stated he didn't quite believe the man, so the diplomat smoothly added, “Then of course, there's the matter of the reward."
“REWARD? INDEED. HOW MUCH IS THIS REWARD?"
The Icelander did a fast mental calculation, then said to heck with the budget. “A million dollars apiece for you and your men. As compensation for your troubles and emotional disharmony."
* * * *
“Wow!” Chisel gushed, trying to count to a million on his fingers and failing. “Gee!"
“Chickenfeed,” Drill snorted.
Still standing before the viewscreen, Hammer frowned in agreement.
* * * *
“INSUFFICIENT COMPENSATION. WE DESIRE FIVE MILLION APIECE."
Prof. Rajavur had to mull the suggestion over. The Secretary General would throw a fit if he said yes. Of course, that was a point in its favor.
“Bargain with them,” Sir John's voice advised in his ear. “If you make it too easy, they'll become suspicious."
“Two million,” Rajavur said firmly, facing the monitor. “And that's my final offer."
“FOUR."
“Three,” the diplomat countered. “Plus, you receive full amnesty for any crimes you have committed up until this moment."
There was a short pause. “SUFFICIENT. WE SHALL EXIT THE SHIP IMMEDIATELY."
jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj STOP THAT jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj
The mental command exploded across New York and people shook like Vegas dice under its power. Glasses shattered, guns went off, cars crashed, murders were halted, burglaries cancelled, illicit love affairs stopped/started and 37 politicians resigned from office.
Tear filled eyes uncrossed just in time to see a shiny golden cube about the size of a two-bedroom house landing end-first in the soil of Central Park, right alongside the white sphere. The strange pair strongly resembled a brown sugar cube sitting next to a soccer ball. Then every viewscreen/monitor/television set on Earth began showing the beautiful, golden, frowning face of Avantor, the avantor.
“WE ARE THE GREAT GOLDEN ONES,” she stated. “GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY. EVERYONE IN THE WHITE STARSHIP IS UNDER ARREST. LOWER YOUR SHIELD AND COME OUT WITH ANY AND ALL PSEUDOPODS RAISED."
* * * *
“Waste products!” Trell screamed in terror, clutching at his chest. “It's the Great Golden Ones!” He scampered beneath his chair, attempting to hide. “Aiyeee! We're doomed for sure!"
Going into the ultrasonic range, Trell wailed at the top of his lungs. His belt translator merely relayed the word, “Sob."
With a lurch, Hammer was out of his chair and across the room in an instant. “What the hell are you talking about!” he demanded, shaking the little alien like a can of spray paint. “Who are they? The star cops?"
Weeping uncontrollably, Trell burbled yes, and the street tough released him. Goddamn, what a day this was turning into!
Hitching up his pants, Drill got tough. “Okay chief, what's the attack plan?"
Feeling trapped, the big teenager clenched and unclenched his fists. “Gimme a minute. I'm working on it."
Inspiration brightened Trell's sad green face. “I know what to do,” he exclaimed happily. “Let's shoot ourselves with the lasers! Death before the prison world of Galopticon 7!"
Hammer turned to Drill. “You're closer. You hit him."
Smack.
“But they just offered us, you know, amnesty,” Chisel said in confusion.
“You dope!” Hammer snarled angrily. “These are the star cops, not our guys. They don't give a damn about anything we agreed on. They only want to kill us and eat our brains."
Not sure his translator had gotten that corre
ct, Trell blinked in confusion. “What? They want to do what?"
“God's truth,” Drill agreed, totally serious. “We saw it in a movie."
Grabbing the front of the alien's uniform, Hammer lifted the burbling Technician into the air. “Okay, greenie, what are our options. Can they get through our force shield?"
“Easily,” lamented Trell, his boots dangling inches from the floor. “They invented the shield type we use."
Damn. “Is their forcefield up?"
Twisting about, the alien consulted a sensor on Boztwank's board. “No, sir, it's down."
Relaxing visibly, Hammer gave an evil grin. “Great! We got anything to shoot them with?"
The alien's jaw dropped as he was roughly deposited in Gaster-phaz's rock-hard chair. “Y-you can't be serious! Shoot the Great Golden Ones? Why that's..."
Stepping closer, Chisel placed the still warm barrel of a laser rifle snugly entered the alien's left ear.
“ ... a wonderful idea!” Trell gushed, all four hands busy. “Increasing reactor power. Activating Proton Cannon. Can we at least give them a warning shot?"
“Fire!” Hammer bellowed at the top of his lungs.
“Yes sir. Firing, sir!"
* * * *
From the curved pinnacle of the white starship there lanced out a blinding bright power beam that sliced the golden ship in two like a cube of cheese. Sluggishly, the top of the golden ship melted into the ray, disappearing in torrents of superheated steam, vaporized steel and hard radiation that would cause some very unusual plants to grow in Central Park for years to come. Lowering its angle, the acidic beam moved on, disintegrating the rest of the craft until the very ground it had rested upon slagged into a boiling pool of red-hot lava.
* * * *
“Right on!” Drill exclaimed, grinning his widest grin. This was more fun than robbing a church.
“Neat!” Chisel seconded, bouncing in his seat. “Let's do it again! On anything!"
Sagging weakly, Trell felt ill and braced himself against the silver edging of the control panel. “But you don't understand,” he protested lamely. “We just shot the Great Golden Ones. The Great Golden Ones!"
“Big deal,” Drill said, cavalierly dismissing the protest with the sure knowledge of a nineteen year old. “A cop's a cop."
Crossing the room, Hammer resumed his earlier position in the Command seat. “Any more of those star cops out there?” he demanded.
“Thousands, millions,” Trell mumbled, the unhappy alien slumping in despair. “When they arrive they will destroy this world. Nobody sane shoots at the Great Golden Ones."
For a single awful moment, Hammer wondered if Trell was right. What did he know about star police and shit like that? Hammer was from the Bronx.
Using both hands, Drill thoughtfully scratched at his curly mop of black hair. “Maybe those UN guys will still give us the money and amnesty, and by the time more star cops get here we'll be gone,” he said hopefully.
With a flippant gesture, Hammer brushed that aside. “No way, Jose. If these star dudes are that bad, then those government bastards will turn us in faster than jackcheese just to save their own hides.” Then the ganglord remembered something Trell had said. “Wait a minute, nobody attacks these guys, right? It's unthinkable, like moving to New Jersey. So they ain't gonna be expecting nothing. They'll just keep sailing in and we'll keep blowing ‘em away! Easy as rolling a wino."
The sheer audacity of the notion made Trell's throat constrict. It was insane! It was impossible! It might just work at that.
“But that means we gotta keep the ship,” Drill said, the leather jacket creaking as he crossed his arms. “Those fat cat government types were going to give us plenty for this metal snowball."
“Yeah,” Chisel whined with a pout. “I was gonna buy a car."
Addressing the white ceiling, Hammer rolled his eyes. Why him, oh Lord?
“Don't you idiots get it?” he snarled aloud. “You saw what we just did to the star cops. To keep us from blowing this city away, the government will pay us millions. Millions? Ha! Billions! Hell, boys, the sky's the limit!"
Radiating confidence, the ganglord joined Trell at the controls and studiously scrutinized the complex array of dusky white round buttons, square ivory buttons, hexagonal silver buttons, pearl switches, pale tripbars, translucent dials, transparent knobs, snowy levers, meters, lights, indicators, slots, keys and gauges.
“Show me how to fire this damn thing,” Hammer ordered.
TWELVE
The First Contact Team was in an uproar: with Mohad hunched over a computer, Bronson talking on two phones at once, Dr. Wu emailing with her associates at Princeton and Beijing, Nicholi struggling with the nincompoops at EmComTac, Sir John saying reassuring nothings to the world press, and Prof. Rajavur making coffee for the team; the domestic chore aiding his contemplation of the matter. Dutifully as a polite host, he added cream and sugar to everybody's cup but his own, and carried the heavily loaded tray over to the consoles. Unnoticed by the hectic others, he dispersed the steaming drinks. They had been so close to settling this whole matter amicably, but now they were back to square one. Although raised Catholic, Sigerson Rajavur did not believe in miracles. Sinking into his own chair he sighed, sipped and waited for his team to report.
Soon, General Bronson cleared his throat and took a gulp of the hot coffee, only briefly wondering where the drink had come from. Sigerson? Must be. “SAC and NORAD confirm the report. That golden cube was invisible to radar,” he stated loudly. “There could be a whole fleet of the damn things orbiting the Earth and we'd never know it."
Slurping loudly, Sir John swallowed and then put down his empty coffee cup. “In my opinion, the two amber-colored beings that we saw were exactly what they claimed to be: the interstellar police. Here, watch the monitor."
With his left hand, the sociologist flicked a switch and the giant screen TV gave a repeat showing of Avantor addressing them. “Notice the way she handles herself, the demeanor of the male behind her, and their uniforms. Authority figures, without a doubt."
“Observe the radically different design of their vessel from Idow's flying behemoth,” Dr. Wu said, changing the picture to the landing of the golden craft. “Sleek, compact, efficient. The corner points are perfect for defensive fire."
“I concur,” General Nicholi stated from behind his plexiglass wall. “Definitely a military craft. However, the crew was inexcusably lax."
The sociologist nodded. “Yes, and that aspect of it rather bothers me. They acted as if their very presence should have been enough to cause a surrender. They are either very stupid, which I doubt, or they have a formidable reputation.” He glanced at the smoking pool on the screen. “Unfortunately, a reputation is only an effective weapon if your enemy is aware of it."
Finishing his own mug of coffee, Mohad politely waited for everybody else to finish before speaking. “The broadcast we heard was telepathic in nature. None of my devices were able to record a single word. The message was perceived as far away from us as 30 kilometers. Interestingly enough, it also affected the dolphins at the New York Aquarium."
Dr. Wu added this to her list of things-to-check-into-if-we-don't-die, while Rajavur mulled over the information. A telepathic broadcast. He was impressed. Those weren't even theoretically possible to modern science.
Out of respect for the dead, the FCT said nothing as they watched the recording of the gold ship being destroyed again. Then Dr. Malavade cried out, stopped the tape, rewound, and played it again in slow motion. After a moment he froze the video tape and pointed at the screen with a stiff finger. Clearly visible on the wall monitor were two shimmering black dots ejecting from the top of the craft. He started the tape again, and the dots floated downward, landing in the trees. The glowing effect disappeared and two tiny humanoid figures dropped to the ground and scrambled into brush.
“If appears that we have a few more uninvited guests,” Dr. Wu remarked dryly.
General Brons
on grunted assent. “I'll send some Delta Force operatives out to search for them,” he said, holding the receiver to his ear and punching a number into the scrambled telephone. “The Black Berets will find them quick enough."
“GENTLEMEN AND LADY, ARE YOU ATTENDANT?"
Heads spun at the sound of Hammer's voice.
“Yes, we're still here,” Prof. Rajavur stated. Briefly, he wondered what the reaction of the street gang was going to be. The firing upon the golden craft could have been done by an automatic weapon systems, it need not have been a deliberate hostile action on the part of the Deckers. It was possible, but unfortunately, not likely. He had hopes, though.
“I MUST INFORM YOU THAT THERE HAS BEEN A CHANGE OF PLANS."
Wu groaned to herself. “Oh, what now?” said the scientist muttered sotto voce. “The moon on a string?"
“WE HAVE DECIDED TO KEEP THIS STARSHIP FOR OURSELVES."
“I was afraid of this,” Sir John sub-vocalized, a hint of his Scottish brogue creeping into his voice from the tension. “A megalomania power rush. Now we're in trouble."
“Now?” Bronson chided.
Ignoring the rhetoric, Prof. Rajavur talked fast. “Needless to say, we can appreciate these new developments, and are fully prepared to increase our offer to the originally requested amount of 5 million dollars."
“ACCEPTED. BUT THERE ARE A FEW OTHER THINGS THAT WE DESIRE."
“Such as?” he prompted, with a beguiling smile that had convinced many a poker player into foolishly betting the maximum. What could these simple children of the streets want? Clothes? A job? Better housing?
“WE'LL START WITH DRUGS,” the translation device spoke, brutally honest in its re-telling of the youth's request. “MARIJUANA IS WHAT WE LIKE. TEN OR TWELVE TONS SHOULD BE SUFFICIENT."
“T-tons?” Rajavur croggled. Had the lad said tons?
“No problem,” General Bronson's voice whispered in his ear. “The NYPD burns that much a week. What kind do they want?"
Summoning his pluck, Prof. Rajavur struggled to regain some composure. “Ah, what kind would you, ah, prefer?"
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