Submissively, the woman did as he requested. Hammer rose from the couch, pulled her close and kissed her on the mouth. She resisted him at first, then molded her body against his and returned the investment with compound interest.
When they finally parted for necessary air, three more females gathered about the ganglord and began caressing his body. Food from the delivery trucks was brought in by a team of squat menial robots, which strongly resembled self-propelled waiter's carts with a pair of black metal arms, and the repast was spread out on a blue crystal table. Soon, rock music pounded from an amazingly fancy CD player and Trell stared at the device with ill concealed amusement. What was it, a machine for sound reproduction, or a missile launching system?
“Time to par-ty!” Drill yowled, a woman on each arm.
Chisel had his clinking jacket stripped off him by an oriental girl, who then nestled in his lap and wiggled delightfully. Speechless with desire, the street punk heard Melissa and Wilma whisper incredible things into his ears and then seal the messages with hot kisses.
“I used to be an exotic dancer,” Cynthia confessed to the panting ganglord as she warmly rubbed against him.
“Well then, show us, lady!” Hammer commanded. “Show us!"
Drill boosted the volume on the stereo. The statuesque brunette spun to the middle of the room, kicked off her shoes and proceeded to twist her supple body and kick her long legs high in the air to the beat of the music. The walls of the Pleasure Room absorbed the harmonic tones and threw them back at the revelers cleaner and clearer. Soon everybody but Trell was dancing on the green floor, shouting and laughing and stomping the tender moss into trembling ecstasy.
The alien restrained himself from summoning a med-bot, deducing that this strange ballet must be part of their mating ritual. How primitive. Why didn't the men just club the women unconscious like civilized people? More bored then ever, Trell consoled himself by eating a bucket of fried chicken, bucket included. Then he daintily licked his fingers clean. Delicious! The Technician found a second bucket, emptied out the chicken and gleefully began munching on the greasy waxed cardboard. By the Prime Builder, could these Dirtlings cook! Soon his translated laughter joined that of the cheerful, dancing throng.
* * * *
Colonel Weiss's first indication that something else was amiss came in the form of a chattering assault rifle from the rear of his squad. Now what?
“Back!” he ordered his troops and the point men came running. The NATO soldiers dashed around a corner and into a scene from Hell itself.
At the far end of the corridor, the monstrous warobot had found the intruders at last, and was rolling towards them in a manner that the NATO manual would definitely have described as hostile; its jointed metal arms, tipped with whirring blades, snipping shears, or very nasty looking blue glowing balls. Wasting no time with subtly, Colonel Weiss ordered the immediate use of rockets.
Promptly on command, both bazookas reached out with fiery fingers to strike the meter-wide, belly tread of the robot, violently reducing the armored links to mangled metal trash.
Only annoyed, the mechanical killer paused for a moment, and then activated its cumbersome belly jets. In a wash of warm air, the behemoth slowly lifted a foot off the ground and began gliding forward. Immediately the soldiers jerked their arms and a dozen grenades bounced down the expanse of the passageway to explode underneath the alien machine, but the triphammer blasts only made the machine bobble a bit in its flight. Without waiting for orders, the bazookas spoke again, destroying a huge section of the passageway directly in front of the armored horror, forcing the robot to clear away the wreckage before it could advance.
Privates Angelo and Peters pumped their grenade launchers and fired, the 40mm shells of high explosive impacting smack on the domed head of the warobot, causing it to blink. A hail of shrapnel flew back at them, and ricochets thumped into their NATO bulletproof vests. A man cried out and fell with blood on his uniform. Lt. Nealon triggered his flamethrower, the arcing spray just reaching the distant machine to hose it with liquid napalm that clung like burning honey to its metal hide.
Unstoppable, the warobot floated on, it's collection of ferruled arms dripping flame.
Firing his handgun, Col. Weiss frowned. They didn't have the time, or resources, for a pitched battle. “Beta Squad, delay that thing!” he yelled over the din of combat. “Alpha Squad, to me!"
The troops split apart. Beta Squad digging in their heels and assuming defensive positions. The colonel and Alpha squad raced on, knowing full well that the fate of the world rested on them finding the control room and subduing the street gang. The corridor before them turned sharply. According to the map there should have been another Y-shaped intersection coming up. But as the soldiers turned the corner, they found themselves at a dead end. Damn map was wrong again! Weiss touched the wall and under his fingertips he felt it shift to the left and lock. The map wasn't wrong this time. They had been sealed off.
“Benson! Kaminski! Blast a hole in that partition. Gelfand, Lutz-man, assist them. Everyone else back!” Weiss herded his troops away from the wall.
* * * *
The colonel had left Beta Squad an ace in the hole, a corporal who carried an experimental prototype from the UN Weapons Lab. An Atomic Vortex pistol, whatever that was, and Christ alone knew what the thing could do. It had been brought on this mission just in case of an emergency. Well, if this wasn't an emergency, then Daniel Webster had just changed the definition.
“AVP Fire!” Lt. Nealon ordered.
Bracing himself against the recoil, the corporal unleashed his death-dealing maybe. Blinding heat filled the length of the corridor and somebody screamed.
* * * *
Trell's happy grin wilted as his translator spoke in a rush of subsonics about what was happening on Deck 6, relaying the information to him via the Boztwank's tech-station.
“Alert! Alert! We have been boarded,” the beige box on his belt said in English.
Nobody seemed able to hear him over the deafening music, so Trell lifted the tape player up high and brought it smashing down on the crystal table. In the silence that followed, his translator calmly repeated its message.
Rudely, Hammer shoved the women off his lap and grabbed his jacket and laser. “Come on boys! We got some killing to do."
Drill stopped the man with a shout. “Hold it,” he said feeling inspired. “I got a great idea!"
Already at the door, the ganglord pivoted. “What?"
“How about using that Omega Gas stuff?” Drill suggested. “Hey greenie, we got any left?"
“Yes, there is!” Trell cried enthusiastically. He joined them by the door. “Lots! We can stop them cold!"
“Stop them hot, you mean!” Hammer snarled in correction, and he gave the alien a push into the hallway. “Get going, Technician! We're gonna flood this ship with boiling Omega Gas and kill their asses dead!"
Garbled as that was, Trell got the general idea. Yes, they must kill these unknown invaders and their beasts of burden.
“What about the girls?” Chisel asked slipping into his jacket. Laser rifle in hand, he was still encircled by his allotment of scantily clad beauties.
Just bait in the trap, Hammer realized. But he excused himself for not figuring it out sooner, as this particular trick had never been played on him before. A pretty slick trap too, he had to admit. Keep the gang busy with broads while the cops raided the place to literally catch the Deckers with their pants down. Should he kill these women and order some more? Nyah, what a waste. That Amanda, yum!
“You girls, stay close,” he ordered. “And keep your mouths shut. Or else. Got it?” Terrified, the women meekly nodded agreement, and tagged along behind the racing street gang as best they could.
Minutes later, everyone was crowded into the control room and Trell manually closed the security door, using a magnetic lock to hold it in place. Then as an afterthought, he wedged Boztwank's heavy pot against the door.
�
��Who's out there anyway?” Drill inquired, only casually interested in who they were about to slaughter. “The FBI? The Army?” Then he blanched. “Not those star cops again!"
“Who freaking cares,” Hammer snapped taking his seat and throwing what few switches he knew how to use. “Where are they?"
“Deck six. No, five, no, deck four!” Trell shouted listening to his belt translator and hurrying over to his post. Whoever the invaders were, they were getting uncomfortably close to the control room.
A tremor shook the floor and suddenly there were no more working sensors in that part of the ship. What the Void was going on down there?
“Deck 4,” he repeated. “Deck 3 sensors indicate projectile weapons, chemical explosives, some kind of an energy weapon and a large metal machine of some kind. Why, they're battling the warobot!"
Trell was astonished. “It must have been hunting for us ever since you escaped from the Test Chamber.” Gak! They had probably passed right by it on their journey to the bridge, hidden in the Omega gas.
“A war robot?” Roxanne asked curiously.
With a snarl, Hammer told her to shut up. Frightened, the ladies exchanged nervous glances. They could only imagine such a machine as a horrible metal monster with an armored tank-like body and a dozen weapon-tipped arms. All they got wrong was the number of arms. There were a hundred.
“Our enemies battle our enemies,” Drill muttered, sliding into his ponderous chair. “Like biblical, man."
In spite of the situation, Hammer grinned at his lieutenant. Always the intellectual.
As if for protection, a brunette pressed herself against Chisel and he shoved her away. No time for that now. This was business.
“How hot we gotta make the gas?” Drill asked, punching buttons and pulling a lever. Trell reached past him and pushed the lever back a notch.
“Eight times your body temperature,” said the translator on his belt doing a fast conversion. “That will take about 4,000 seconds. No! Only 1,000 seconds. The Omega Gas is still warm from before!"
Another tremor shook the starship and a patch of lights on the Protector's board went dark.
“Trouble?” Hammer questioned.
“Only for them,” Trell snapped. The angry Technician hated to kill anybody, but the instinct for self-preservation was strong in his species.
Brushing back his wild crop of hair, Hammer scowled at his console. “What button do I press?” he asked. The alien pointed and Hammer poised a thumb over the glowing indicator.
“You just tell me when,” Hammer growled, through grit teeth. Rule #1 for the universe: Nobody messes with the Bloody Deckers, and lives.
Trell wiggled acknowledgment and checked the panel gauges. There would be no mistakes this time. He was going to wait until exactly the right moment, and then release scalding hot Omega Gas into the corridors, peeling the very paint off the walls and killing everything organic it reached.
* * * *
Deep within the bowels of the starship, the deadly Omega Gas bubbled and steamed in a metal caldron, the growing pressure accelerating the heating process until the war vapor was straining at the release valve, struggling to be set free. But it had been commanded to wait.
Nine hundred seconds to go and counting.
FIFTEEN
Streamers, stars, and swirls gradually faded from their eyes and sight returned to the NATO soldiers. Fifty meters away sat the warobot, an inert black mountain with its multiple arms dangling like metal wind chimes. Deep scars were burned in its prow from the jumping tip of the energy cone of the Atomic Vortex Pistol.
Raggedly, the men cheered in triumph, then stopped, as every inch of their exposed skin was painfully sunburned. Medical packs were opened posthaste.
“What does that weapon fire again, corporal?” Lt. Nealon asked, applying first aid cream to his blistered hands.
“A controlled nuclear tornado, sir,” the soldier replied, dressing his own burns. “According to the manual."
Somebody laughed. “That? Controlled my ass."
“Hey, what about radiation poisoning?” a worried soul asked.
“According to the manual there's no harmful fallout,” the corporal stated patting the leather bound book the size of the Manhattan Yellow Pages dangled from his belt.
“Enough chitchat,” a sergeant growled, slapping a fresh ammo clip into his M203 assault rifle and working the bolt to chamber a round for immediate use. “We still got a job to do. Let's move out."
Groaning from their bruises, the soldiers got to their feet and prepared to rejoin their companions, when something creaked loudly behind them. They spun around to see the alien machine down the passageway tremble, then its arms stirred, and once more the waro-bot lifted off the floor and begin moving forward as though nothing had ever happened. Lt. Nealon cursed. Good lord, what did it take to stop that thing? A court order? The AVP had only stunned the warobot. Okay, how about more of the same?
“Visors!” the lieutenant shouted, and the troops rushed to obey, knowing what to expect. “Fire!” he ordered, tapping the AVP man on the shoulder.
Dutifully, the gunner raised the weapon again and pulled the first trigger. The scarlet beam of a tracking laser shot out from the tiny cylinder clipped to the underside of his cumbersome, multi-barreled weapon. With a gulp, the soldier then squeezed the second trigger, and a twisting lance of burning energy vomited from the bulbous muzzle of the AVP with a bucking recoil.
Searing yellow light blinded the human warriors as the spiraling cone of atomic flame stretched down the length of the corridor to strike the frantically backpedaling warobot.
Violently reacting to the impact, the alien machine shuddered as the stabbing tip of the nuclear tornado skipped across its prow, leaving ugly, glowing furrows in the black armor. Electrical discharges danced along the robot's massive frame, and drops of molten metal spraying the walls. As the AVP ceased it's outpouring, the warobot went dark and slumped to the floor, its assortment of blades and probes and drills punching holes in the soft deck.
In the blissful calm that followed, the toasted NATO troopers said a fervent prayer. Then groaned in disappointment, as the running lights of the robot brightened, its massive head swiveled towards them, its clanking arms assumed a defiant posture, the machine rose into the air and resumed gliding towards them.
Lt. Nealon grimaced. The damn thing shook the charge off faster this time, he noted unhappily.
“Fire!” the sweating man commanded.
Panting for breath, the corporal shook his head. “No go, sir. The battery pack needs time to recharge."
“How long?"
“Sixty seconds."
Sixty lives was more like it, he thought grimly. But every one of them bought Alpha Squad precious time. “Open fire!” he shouted.
Bullets streamed from assault rifles, probing the robot for a weak spot. Screaming rockets slammed into the distant walls, the ferocious blasts piling up mounds of material to delay its approach. The battle droid outmaneuvered the humans by reaching out with a pair of huge metal claws to grab a hold of the low ceiling and ponderously swinging itself over the massed wreckage. No mindless automaton, this robot learned from its mistakes.
That chilling sight prompted the troopers to fire their weapons with renewed determination. The starship's ventilators efficiently cleansed the smoke from the air, giving the NATO forces a clear shooting range. But for what? Thermite, grenades, napalm, so far the only thing to even hamper the machine was the Atomic Vortex Pistol. Fat lot of good it did.
A thunderous explosion sounded from around the corner and billowing smoke heralded the arrival of coughing men who thirstily drank in the clean air and stumbled away again, Col. Weiss among them.
Unbelievably, the dividing wall still stood and was only spider-webbed with cracks. Benson and Kaminski expertly slapped more of the clay-like C4 plastique on the barrier, jabbed in timing pencils and twisted off the ends.
They scarcely had taken cover when the charge
s blew. As the fumes dispersed, the soldiers cursed louder than the plastique. The fissures were wider, big enough to put your arm through, but before their eyes, the cracks began to close like a wound in living flesh.
“Again!” Weiss ordered the demolition team. “This time with everything you've got!"
Pounds instead of ounces of explosive were smacked onto the wall, and time pencils broken. The concussion shook them to the floor. Laying prone, Col. Weiss rolled over, his assault rifle ready to add its pittance of destruction to the job. But the wall was gone, blown to smithereens.
“Alpha Squad,” he shouted triumphantly. “Move out!"
Assuming an attack formation, the soldiers hopped over the remains of the wall and raced off. A zigzagging turn brought them to another dead end and the locking click of the self-healing wall was clearly heard by everybody present. Furiously the colonel thought, thirty years of battlefield training coming to his aid instantly.
“Search for an air vent,” he ordered, but alas, none were to be found. Only one thing left to do then, he decided, retreat and try to battle their way past that armored tank Beta Squad had been delaying. By God, they'd fight it hand-to-hand!
“Charge!” Weiss shouted, and without question the NATO troopers reversed direction and bravely advanced to the rear.
* * * *
Two levels above the fighting, Amanda closed the front of her gossamer thin babydoll nightie and approached Hammer. Teasingly, she touched the ganglord on the shoulder. “Hammer?"
“What?” the teenager snarled out of the corner of his mouth, not taking his eyes off Trell.
“Where are we?” Amanda asked, in a throaty voice.
“This is the control room, bitch, and we are in control."
Uncertain of how to respond, the woman glanced about the strange white room, and the incredibly profusion of controls at each of the four tech stations that the Decker's were sitting at. “What happened to Crowbar?” she asked.
Puzzled for a second, Hammer raised an eyebrow. Eh? Ah! Hmm. “He's out taking a leak."
Illegal Aliens Page 16
