“Unfortunately, we can not allow you access to any of this information,” she stated firmly.
Everybody stopped laughing.
Maintaining a diplomatically neutral face, Rajavur laid aside his huge coffee mug. “Why is that?” he asked.
“Yeah,” General Bronson puffed suspiciously, from behind a freshly lit panatela with General Nicholi closely flanking him on the left. “What gives?"
“After all, we can probably improve upon your designs,” Dr. Wu said in tactless truth.
“Most likely, doctor,” Avantor agreed. “But it is strictly against the rules."
“The Galactic League Handbook,” The 17 piped in. “Chapter Nine, Codes of Conduct, sub-section 3, Regulations Referring To The Dispersal Of Technical Information To Non-Member Planets: Item One—Don't Do It."
“This is ridiculous!” Bronson snapped, plainly nettled by the outrageous statement.
Avantor was unruffled by his outburst. “But a fact, none the less."
Unable to stop the Gees without resorting to physical violence, the FCT watched helpless as the two aliens collected the items taken from the starship and placed them in a storage box supplied by the humans. Avantor locked the box tight and 17 dry swallowed the key.
“But surely, the mere fact that we already know of these devices existence, eclipses such an action on your part,” Sir John observed.
Score one for our side, thought Mohad smugly. Then he froze as a strange hand began groping his knee under the table. Eh? What was going on here?
Avantor wiggled her ears in dissent. “The rule book disagrees. Besides, I personally believe your race is simply too violent to be allowed scientific knowledge of this level."
“We're too violent?” General Bronson stormed, removing the stogie from his mouth and jabbing it at the two alien beings. “What the hell were Idow and his crew? Galactic girl scouts?"
Rasping hoarsely, The 17 coughed into his hand and fanned the air. No Koolgoolagan cigar, that cheroot. “On the contrary, they were criminals. However, you are not."
Not openly anyway, thought Rajavur as he continued to tap a message in Morse code on Dr. Malavade's knee. The communications expert squeezed the diplomat's hand in acknowledgment, politely excused himself from the table and left the bunker by the main door.
Sir John marshaled his powers of debate and rallied to the attack. “Well then,” he said, taking a hold of the lapels of his gray tweed suit and assuming his best lawyer stance. “You must be ignorant of the effect that your presence has had on Earth. Peace has broken out like the common cold. China, Russia and America have signed an unprecedented peace treaty. England and Ireland have come to terms. Israel and the PLO have, pardon the term, buried the hatchet. North and South Korea, New York and Brooklyn!"
The sociologist spread his arms. “It's pandemic! A new feeling of Earthly brotherhood has enveloped our globe. Such an unconditional reaction on our part must,” he stressed that last word. “Must cause you to reconsider."
Avantor was clearly not swayed by his argument. “No,” she repeated.
Stoic as a steel statue, General Nicholi Gagarin Nicholi regarded the guardian of the galaxy in the disapproving manner that Russian generals seem to have patented. “If we were indeed the savage primitives you think,” he said rationally. “Then would we not simply take the machines and deny you use of the starship that you so desperately need to return home?"
Lovely, noted Courtney, mentally applauding the general. Not a threat per se, merely the acknowledgment that a threat could have been made, but wasn't. Crafty ol’ bear. Maybe?
With inhuman control, the avantor turned her expressionless black eyes on Nicholi. “General, we are in constant communication with our home world. Any unwarranted acts on your part would result in eventual retaliation by our Great Golden Fleet. The starship All That Glitters, its equipment and sole surviving crewmember belong exclusively to us. Do you really wish to test your military prowess against ours?"
Angrily, General Bronson removed the cigar from his mouth, noticed that everybody was staring at him, paused, and then returned the stogie to its normal position, his thoughts unspoken.
“Well, if that is your unalterable position,” Prof. Rajavur sighed, his voice trailing off in resignation. “Are you sure there is nothing we could say to change your minds?"
The golden female shook her head in the accepted Dirtling gesture. “Sorry, Professor, no."
With a sad expression, the diplomat shrugged and rose from his seat. “So be it. At least you will allow us to see you off in the manner deemed proper for visiting dignitaries? We could assemble the leaders of our world here in less then two days."
Bull, thought Nicholi keeping a straight face. We could have the entire UN General Assembly here in less then two hours. What was the Icelander plotting?
Avantor remained unyielding. “Expediency dictates our immediate departure. We mean you no discourtesy, but we must return to our headquarters with all due speed. Prior orders. I'm sure you understand."
The two generals nodded in agreement. Yes, orders were orders. That was a universal rule. Like never pulling on a busted straight, or volunteering for anything. That was how they got this assignment in the first place.
“But of course,” Rajavur agreed in sympathy. Ever gallant, he offered his hand to the aliens and they shook. “You don't mind though if we personally see you off, do you?"
At this, the avantor smiled. “A pleasure, Professor. My 17 and I would consider it an honor."
* * * *
This conversation, relayed to the Great Golden Ones Headquarters via the flying refrigerator, was judged to be fitting and proper. Avantor, the avantor and her 17, were to be congratulated on a job well done.
Much later, under harsher scrutiny, it was decided that this is where the two made their big mistake. But at the time, who could have known?
* * * *
Night had come to Central Park. Past the tall trees, the electric towers of New York City brightened the horizon, while powerful floodlights illuminated the area about the colossal white ship brighter than day. In relative peace, the FCT bid its guests adieu while thousands of unseen eyes kept close track of their every move. The noisy civilian crowds were hundreds of meters away behind the military cordon, the NATO troops just recently reinforced by a special crowd control unit from the NYPD. During a rock concert, this small a group was the lull the police relaxed in. Heck, nobody was even drunk!
The street gang's tribute had been long since removed from the starship, and the confiscated alien artifacts replaced inside the cargo bay. Near the base of the loading ramp, Avantor and The 17 checked over the inventory of items, making sure that nothing from the ship was missing. But The 17 quickly noted a major discrepancy, and bluntly asked the attending humans where was Trell-desamo-Trell-ika-Trell-forzua-Junior?
Resplendent in his red diplomat sash, light gray morning coat and black silk top hat, Prof. Rajavur pretended surprised. “Gosh, I thought the ambulance would have delivered him already."
Avantor chewed over the human word. “Ambulance,” she repeated. “A medical emergency vehicle? Why would the Technician have need of such a transport? Was he damaged in the fighting?"
“Killed while trying to escape, actually,” General Bronson said, sounding embarrassed. “Our troops were understandably a bit trigger happy."
With an unreadable expression, the alien female turned her eerie black eyes on the Earth soldier. “And why wasn't I informed of his demise earlier?” she inquired, her voice the temperature of liquid methane.
Bronson shrugged, making his chest full of medals tinkle like distant wind chimes. “You didn't ask,” he replied truthfully.
“Where is Trell's body located?” interjected The 17 boldly stepping forward, his electrostatic clipboard and stylus floating rigidly in the air nearby.
General Nicholi, who was as equally decked out as his friends in full dress uniform, sash, ribbons and metals, none of them for good
conduct, answered the golden male's question. “Across the street in a mobile UN lab undergoing total dissection. Why? Is there a problem with that?"
For a moment, Avantor and her 17 touched hands. “Produce his remains immediately,” the female alien ordered. The unspoken words ‘or else', clearly heard by everybody present.
The FCT exchanged a round of glances as Nicholi muttered something to the military aide standing beside him. The UN soldier nodded, saluted, and spoke briefly into his helmet microphone. In less than a minute later, the civilian crowd parted and through the NATO barricade rolled a military ambulance. The aliens strode over to the white car as armed UN guards opened the rear doors. On the rubber matting of the floor was a styrofoam container, and nestled inside a foggy bed of dry ice was an ordinary tin janitor's bucket with a snap-on plastic lid.
The Gees stared at the pail, each other, the pail again, and then The 17 gingerly lifted the lid. In frank dismay, they saw that the bucket was filled to the brim with a thick green mush the consistency of overcooked pea soup.
“Trell?” the 17 squeaked, as if half expecting an answer from the emerald puree. Swirling about, Avantor angrily opened her mouth to speak when Yuki interrupted her.
“I said total dissection,” Dr. Wu explained, her hands neatly hidden in the flowing angel sleeves of her heavily embroidered red and black formal Chinese robe.
The avantor closed her mouth with a snap. So they had.
Impeccable in a cream color Nehru jacket and matching turban, Dr. Malavade noted that accidents will happen.
“Chalk it up to scientific fervor,” Sir John said, dressed in an incongruous, but historically accurate, tam-o'-shanter, weskit, family tartan kilt, knickers and silver buckle shoes. Only alien beings, or other Scotsmen, would think his outfit dapper.
Studying the human faces, Avantor briefly wondered if something was decaying on the planet of cheese makers. “Verify that it is him, 17,” she commanded her assistant.
As ordered, the golden male stuck a finger into the warm glop and put it in his mouth. Hmm, not bad actually. Modified vegetable fiber, slightly radioactive, enriched with elemental beryllium and benzene. Check, that was the physiology of Trell's species, all right.
“It's him, my liege,” he reported erroneously.
Satisfied, the avantor wheeled about and marched into the ship, The 17 following close at her heels with the covered bucket. Seconds later, the door to the loading bay closed behind them.
Almost immediately, a harsh buzzing sound filled the air and the white ship lifted up, as easy as a child's balloon, compressed dirt falling from the bottom of the sphere as it floated into the nighttime sky. Heedful of the Earth people below, Avantor kept the engines at 10/10, barely sufficient to lift the enormous vessel, until they were well away from the planetary surface. Then The 17 boosted the reactor to 20/20. With an explosion of power, the ship vanished into the starry black of space.
Shortly thereafter, NASA signaled Dr. Malavade on his cell phone that the alien craft had shunted into hyperspace, and he happily announced the fact to his compatriots.
“Well, well,” Nicholi smirked, feeling very pleased with himself and the world in general. “We did it."
Dr. Wu took off her ceremonial robe and folded it over an arm, exposing the floral print dress she'd been wearing earlier this day. “Yes, it does appear that way,” she said in agreement.
“How long do you think it will take them to realize that they've been tricked?” Bronson asked, as a night breeze tugged on the lighter flame he applied to his latest cigar.
Prof. Rajavur shrugged. “With any luck, never. But we're planning on lift off in a month."
Ignoring his buzzing pager, General Bronson exhaled a stream of smoke. “Is that possible? To build a starship from scratch in 30 days?"
“With the resources of the entire world behind us?” Rajavur asked, removing his red sash and tucking it into his silk hat. “Most certainly."
“What was in that bucket anyway?” Mohad asked, as he unraveled his turban. Silly things turbans, but women seemed to like them. Made him appear taller, at least.
Yuki gave him a tired grin. “Minced asparagus, bombarded with gamma radiation, laced with powered beryllium and a dash of cleaning solution. I based the formula on what Trell had asked for lunch."
“I am so glad this worked,” Sir John said, doffing his tam-o'-shanter and stroking his moustache. “But just in case, I had a duplicate of Trell waiting in the wings, so to speak. I based on that scenario we played out four years ago, in the event it became necessary to disguise humans as aliens. I even had duplicates of Avantor, Idow, the Bloody Deckers and us."
In the act of checking his cell phone for any messages, General Nicholi raised an eyebrow. Another Yuki? Impossible.
Dr. Wu frowned. Another Nicholi? No thank you.
Deep in thought, the six members of the defunct First Contact Team turned away from the crumbling edge of the colossal hole in the ground. Taking their time, they strolled back to a waiting limousine and the fantastic task ahead of them.
“Where is Trell anyway?” Dr. Wu asked, after a while.
Rajavur smiled. “Right now? Aboard a B17 stealth jet, en route to Kennedy Space Center, telling us everything he knows about starship engines, force shields, proton cannons, hyperdrive, and galactic politics.” Then odd sullenly, the diplomat kicked at a clod of dirt in his way. “Bit of a pity, though."
“What is?” Nicholi asked, genuinely surprised. “Our plan seems to have come off flawlessly."
Prof. Rajavur stuck his hands in his pants pockets. “Almost. You see, Trell claims to know absolutely nothing about Deflector Plating."
Dr. Malavade stopped walking then and lifted his head to look at the twinkling points of light above the city, stars that were no longer so distant, or unreachable. “As you say, a pity."
SEVENTEEN
Just like a yo-yo on a string, the Cape Kennedy technician hung suspended from a steel cable and body harness rig high in the air alongside a nearly completed starship.
Grimly, the woman concentrated on her welding, as the fate of Earth might well rest on the quality of her work. Warm sea breezes gently tugged the woman's hair free from her cap. Visibly annoyed, she tucked it into the collar of her sweat stained uniform. There had been little time for food and rest, and none for laundry if she was to stay on her rigid work schedule.
On the distant horizon, across a thousand flat acres of ferroconcrete, the towering space shuttle assemble buildings appeared like doll houses, and yet they seemed to look fatherly at the starship taking form before them. Pride of accomplishment overwhelming any negative feelings about the NASA state-of-the-art technology becoming obsolete virtually overnight.
Wary of pinching her fingers, the woman judiciously lowered the last armored section of the starship's hull into place and activated her hand tool. Very carefully, the technician guided a molecular softening beam along the joining line of the metallic plates, causing their atomic structures to intermingle and form a single unbroken mass. The entire hull of the colossal starship had been formed this way, out of thousands of curved adamantine sheets that not even a nuclear laser could have heat welded.
With her right hand, the woman artfully cold fused the pieces together, while her gainfully employed left hand held the internal components of the alien tool in place. The hastily assembled device had been built under Trell's adroit direction, with no consideration given for unnecessary items like a case, handle or convenience.
Over the last thirty days, backed by the money and power of the United Nations, NASA had completely retooled its Florida base. They slapped together devices and machines with unheard of abilities as fast as they could. Time was paramount. Every second saved was more precious than gold, a word that left a sour taste in everybody's mouth these days.
Also in the past month, the First Contact Team had abdicated from its position of power and returned the world to autonomy. The United Nations politely thanked
them for a job well done, awarded the team a wheelbarrow full of medals, then disbanded the unit and reassigned its members to new, top priority duties. Then when nobody was looking, the UN Security Council took swift steps to assure that such an incredible usurpation of authority would never happen again. Among other things, they set fire to the FCT's mainframe Cray supercomputer, filled the Command Bunker with concrete and welded the door shut.
Meanwhile, thanks to their improved scanning devices, (courtesy of Trell, again), Earth knew precisely when the Great Golden Ones started moving in their mobile space forts to form a blockade around the planet. Subsequently, the final countdown for launch had been advanced. Spaceworthiness was the top priority, the internal work could be finished once the ship was in flight.
With a satisfied nod, the technician tucked her hand tool away and turned on the air tank of her scuba outfit. Under constant visual observation, this act told her superiors that the work was completed. They immediately cut her support cable.
Down through the air the woman dropped, expertly angling her fall to swan dive into a huge vat of thermal jelly that had been waiting six stories below her. With a loud clang, thick steel shutters slammed into place and sealed off the top of the vat just in time. Second later, huge gouts of searing green flame washed over the launch site, cracking the ferroconcrete apron and melting every unprotected item. Smooth and majestic, humanity's first starship lifted into the clear azure sky.
But after a kilometer or so, the ion drive of the vessel began to sputter and cough, causing the interstellar craft to wobble about erratically. Extending for hundreds of meters about the ship, its poorly tuned anti-gravity field started liberating countless volumes of turbulent air, which quickly formed a hurricane about the comically bobbing globe. This only made the huge, ungainly starship doubly visible from space. Immediately on the alert, the Great Golden Ones dispatched a sleek war cube to intercept the sluggish escapee.
* * * *
Illegal Aliens Page 18
