Illegal Aliens

by Nick Pollotta

  When Jones had heard that the position of first officer on the starship was available, the astronaut had done everything in her power to get the berth. And while not on the original list of candidates for the position, the directors of NASA were so impressed by her qualifications, determination, and choice of blackmail photos, that they unanimously awarded her the post.

  Stiffly formal as always, the first officer had the jacket of her duty uniform fully buttoned over the jumpsuit and highly polished lieutenant's bars shining on both collars. Flanking the officer were a pair of Marines in powerarmor, squat assault rifles cradled in their metal arms.

  Unknown to the officers standing in front of them, the soldiers were holding a private conversation over their radios, wisely deciding that ‘The Dispos-All’ was a dumb name for the rifle, along with ‘Blast Master’ and ‘X-Caliber'.

  “Well,” Jones asked impatiently. “Did you get it?"

  “Ya, sure,” the man sighed and pulled a lump of white cloth from his uniform pocket. Gingerly, he unwrapped the layers of sterile gauze and passed the cloudy crystalline cube to the First Officer.

  Turning it about in her hand, the tall woman inspected all six sides of the crystal, only a few of the black squiggles on the cube's milky surface were intact. “Is it supposed to look like this?” she asked in concern.

  The doctor shrugged. “How should I know? First time I saw the thing it was nestled inside a man."

  “Not a man,” the lieutenant corrected curtly. “A member of The Great Golden Ones. An alien. Remember that."

  Now usually, Van Loon found the woman's xenophobia faintly amusing, indeed, many of the command personnel were starting to tell alien jokes just to tease the woman. But now he found himself filled only with exhaustion and disgust at the necessary evil. The woman had been assigned to the ship as a dissenting voice to help balance the overwhelming goodwill among the crew towards non-humans.

  Even the most highly trained of their personnel sometimes treated them like pet animals, or toys. A stupid practice that could jeopardize their entire mission, and the future freedom of Earth.

  Lt. Jones pocketed the alien artifact. “Come on, let's not keep the captain waiting."

  As they began walking along the corridor, Van Loon glanced at the two hulking soldiers and could hardly suppress a smile.

  “Expecting trouble?” he asked curiously.

  “No. But I'm prepared for it,” she replied. “This cube is much too valuable to risk."

  Hesitantly, Dr. Van Loon was forced to agree. They had certainly gone to enough trouble to get the device.

  The officers and Marines paused for a moment at an intersection, held up by a minor traffic jam of crewmembers wheeling carts of equipment over to the Ramariez.

  “It looks like you're taking everything not nailed down,” Dr. Van Loon noted.

  “Only what is needed,” Jones sighed, a trace of bitterness in her voice. No sailor of the seas, or space, liked the idea of piracy. “We are leaving payment in exchange for our acquisitions."

  Payment? “Ah, the thulium,” the doctor remarked in understanding. “Is there enough to cover the medical supplies I confiscated?"

  By way of a response, the lieutenant pointed to a Marine in powerarmor coming down the passageway carrying in a two ton steel safe in his hands.

  Jones nodded. “We're leaving two hundred galactic standard kilograms."

  That deserved a whistle, so the doctor obliged. That was almost sufficient funds to purchase the golden ship and planet it had been built on.

  To the horror of the international banking association, and most jewelers, the element thulium proved to be the base of the galactic economy, not silver or gold, and for excellent reasons. Steel was stronger, platinum prettier, aluminum lighter, silver a better conductor, and arsenic tastier. In point of fact, there wasn't a single property that the metal held which another element didn't do better, faster, or cheaper. The stuff was virtually useless, but extremely rare, which made it the prefect currency. Thulium's value was rigidly linked to its atomic weight. One galactic ounce, slightly less than a Troy ounce, was a good month's wages and the Ramariez had in its hold over 10 metric tons of the stuff; 320,000 ounces, enough to bribe the Galactic Council if necessary. A possibility that had not been overlooked under the sage advice of Hong Kong bookies and members of the US Congress.

  Upon reaching the air locks, Jones returned the guards’ salutes and the four sets of doors automatically opened in front of them and closed in their wake.

  “How is the avantor?” Van Loon asked, as they entered their home ship. “I sent a corpsman to examine her during the operation."

  “Still unconscious,” the lieutenant answered. “But resting comfortably in our brig."

  Grabbing an arm, Dr. Van loon forcibly spun the woman about to face him. “The brig? Why the hell isn't she in sickbay? Or with The 16?"

  Lt. Jones stared pointedly at the doctor's hand on her uniform, and the armed soldiers behind her stepped slightly closer. Self-consciously, the physician let go of his grip. She turned and continued on her way.

  “Avantor and The 16 will soon be reunited,” the first officer replied as if nothing had happened.

  It took the physician a moment to understand. “You're putting them both in the brig? But they're supposed to be treated like honored guests! That's why we're bringing them along, as observers."

  “I've had video monitors set up in their cell,” Jones said calmly. “They won't miss a thing that happens on the bridge."

  Van Loon gawked at the woman askance. Xenophobic or not, there were limits. “I'm going to report this to the captain!” he told her in cold fury.

  “Please do, doctor, and while you are at it, inform him that the being with the most experience regarding the Great Golden Ones, Master Technician Trell, feels that we are endangering our mission merely by allowing them within two light years of this ship. It is his considered opinion that we should drop them into the nearest sun.” She cocked her head. “I am merely attempting to strike a happy medium."

  With that statement, the starship officer and her guards walked away, leaving the good doctor standing with his mouth hanging open.

  * * * *

  When all personnel had been accounted for, the starships disengaged and the Ramariez again jumped into hyperspace, taking a slow spiraling course to nowhere, as they waited for Trell to transcribe the cube's contents to the Ramariez computer.

  Captain Keller was reviewing a manpower report when the first officer entered the bridge.

  “Well, lieutenant?” Keller asked, handing the clipboard to a rating who scurried away with the paperwork. “Were we able to retrieve the information we needed off of the HN cube?"

  “Yes and no, sir,” she sadly reported. “Unfortunately, the digestive juices of The 16 had enough time to seriously damage the device. In point of fact, as far as Trell can determine, everything but the coordinates for six star systems has been wiped from the cube."

  Pensively, the captain gnawed a lip. “I suppose it's too much to ask that any of those is the co-ordinates for the Galactic League?"

  “I'm afraid not."

  “Are they at least six useful systems?"

  “Unknown, sir, Trell is still correlating the data."

  Keller grunted. Damn. Well, his next move was obvious.

  Deftly lifting the hinged top to the right arm of his chair, he removed a tiny microphone set next to a laser pistol. Also in the cubicle was a coffee butler, a paperback novel and two buttons, the left summoned his yeoman, the right would vaporize the ship as their engines boosted to 100/100 for a brief, shining microsecond. He was very careful not to get the two confused.

  Shutting the lid, Dag Keller lifted the wireless mike to his mouth and pressed a switch on it marked with a bit of sticky tape that bore the penciled word ‘intercom'.

  “ATTENTION, YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE.” His words rang in every room of the great ship and people paused in whatever they were doing; tying
their shoes, eating a sandwich, picking a lock, to hear what the man had to say.

  “CAPTAIN TO CREW. THERE WILL BE AN IMMEDIATE MEETING IN THE WARD ROOM OF EVERY DEPARTMENT HEAD. PLEASE BRING YOUR STATUS REPORTS.” He gave them a minute to absorb that. “UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE THE SHIP IS ON YELLOW ALERT. MARINES TO REMAIN ARMED, SHIELDS ON FULL. THAT IS ALL. KELLER, OUT."

  Returning the mike to its proper position, Captain Keller turned to his waiting First Officer. “I talked to Dr. Van Loon, Lieutenant."

  “Sir?"

  “The Gee's are to be accorded every comfort and courtesy. As soon as the avantor is awake, I want to be notified of the fact."

  Jones nodded. “I understand, captain."

  “See that you do."

  A pregnant pause followed, during which each of the officers listened carefully to what the other was not saying aloud.

  Satisfied for the moment, Keller rose from his chair. “The bridge is yours, lieutenant. Try not to crash us into a moon or anything."

  She saluted. “Aye, aye, sir."

  As the doors to the turbo lift closed behind the officer, Abigail Jones took her place in the command chair with a heartfelt sigh of appreciation. Ah, at last.

  * * * *

  The turbo lift deposited Keller on the appropriate level with a minimum of fuss and Dagstrom Keller stepped out with a smile on his face. By god, he just loved these things. Elevators could only go up and down, while turbo lifts could also travel horizontal and diagonally. Increase the speed, add bells and colored lights, and the contraptions would have made a fabulous carnival ride.

  As the man strode into the Ward Room, he spotted a lone technician tightening screws on the underside of the oblong conference table. The rating began crawling out to salute, but Keller told him not to bother and the man kept on working.

  The Ward Room was hexagonal in shape for no particular reason other than esthetics. The carpet was magenta and the wood paneled walls were dotted with framed cityscapes of Geneva, Orlando and New York; an inexcusable loss of ship's efficiency, or so it appeared at first glance.

  With almost unlimited power at their command, it had been an easy matter to arrange for the function rooms to be equipped with laser holographs of wood paneling and colored carpeting that became activated only when the lights were turned on. This made for a much more relaxed atmosphere to work in and only the ultra-delicate speedometer on the Navigation console could detect the minute loss of velocity. Of course, in combat situations the walls and carpet reverted to white.

  Strolling about, Captain Keller noted something wrong with the room and turned to address the rating who was climbing out from under the table.

  “Excuse me, sailor."

  “Hassan, sir,” the youth said, with a flash of gleaming white teeth. The Arabic teenager stood, dusted himself off and then hastily saluted. “Abduhl Benny Hassan, sir. Spacer First Class. Engineering Division."

  “Yes. Fine. Thank you. Where are the chairs?"

  Hesitantly, the technician pointed to a pile of flat cardboard boxes leaning against the wall near the door, their edges indenting the wood panel holograph. “That's them, captain. I thought I should do the table first, in case you wanted to establish a preliminary psychological zone of authority about yourself for the meeting."

  Keller could only stare at the boy.

  “Just trying to help, sir,” Hassan smiled.

  “Appreciated,” the starship captain said. “Carry on."

  While the youth went busily to work with pliers and screwdriver, Captain Keller reminded himself that his crew was the best Earth possessed. Instances such as this were sure to become commonplace. God help him.

  While waiting for his staff to arrive, Keller leaned against the edge of the table and began to toy with the good luck piece he kept in his shirt pocket; a silvery metal coin about the size of a Swiss franc, or an American half-dollar. The front bore the emblem of the United Nations of Earth, the reverse had a six pointed star with a circle in its center, the universal symbol for 100% Pure Thulium, Honest! It was the first such coin minted, and just prior to lift off, the remaining members of the FCT had scratched their initials on the disk wishing him luck. Keller appreciated the gift, although the Swiss astronaut knew that when numismatists heard about this event, purists among the coin collectors would curse their names forever.

  The door to the Ward Room swung open and in walked Lt. Sakadea. The Marine was dressed in a tan duty uniform with a holstered laser pistol, his black hair still damp from a shower. Keller forgave the man for that minor breech of military etiquette, as he knew exactly how sweaty you could get working inside a powersuit. Dag Keller had endured long training sessions in them himself.

  Next came Prof. Rajavur in a three-piece, charcoal gray suit and holding a mug of that drain cleaner he had the audacity to call coffee. The diplomat was closely followed by Dr. Van Loon in proper ship's uniform and finally Trell, who scowled when he saw there were no chairs.

  “Somebody put you in slow motion, Abduhl?” the little alien chastised.

  “Hey chief, I only got two hands,” Hassan complained from inside a jungle gym of chair legs, struts and seat backs.

  At that announcement, Trell puckered his face and burst into laughter. Ha! Two hands. Just wait till he tried that joke on an Oolian!

  Captain Keller cleared his throat. “Okay, gentlemen, take your ... ah, assume your places."

  As the officers and civilian positioned themselves about the table, it occurred to Dag that his ship was a true cross selection of every racial sub-species that the planet Earth had to offer. With the notable and understandable exception of Greece.

  “Here's your seat, sir,” Hassan said, wheeling the chair over.

  Keller thanked the man, and after adjusting the spring tension, sat down at the head of the table. “Let's have your report, Master Technician,” he directed.

  “Our initial plan has failed,” Trell told them sadly. “Due to the amazing throat capacity of The 16, the HN cube was damaged and can not be repaired."

  Shocked murmurs greeted that news.

  “So the raid was a bust?” Lt. Sakadea asked, removing his cap and stuffing it into a pants pocket.

  “Female milk glands were not involved,” the alien denied. “However, we did manage to transfer all useful information in the Gee's cube to our own blank."

  “And?” Captain Keller prompted.

  Trell made a face. “We received only six complete set of navigational coordinates. There were hundreds of partial coordinates, but I decided to filter those out as they were worse than useless."

  “How so?” Van Loon inquired.

  “We might jump out of hyperspace and land on the planet we aimed for. At ten thousand kilometers a second. Or worse, arrive inside the world."

  The Dutch physician was forced to agree that either set of circumstances would seriously hinder their mission.

  “Couldn't we finish the partial integers ourselves?” Prof. Rajavur asked, taking a sip from his new cup which bore the legend: ‘I HELPED DEFEND THE EARTH FROM ALIEN INVADERS, AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY COFFEE MUG'.

  Amazingly, Trell told them yes. Dirt, ah, Earth, no, Terra (the official name) had excellent calculating machines. The computers aboard the starship were some of best he had ever seen, considering their lack of sentience. Working together they won't take more than a lunar rotation for each coordinate.

  “A month we can not afford to waste,” Keller said sternly. “Okay. We have six places to try and find a HN cube. That doesn't sound too bad."

  Trell waved his hands in a pattern of negation. “Its worse, sir. Two are possibilities, one is an unknown, and the rest are totally undesirable."

  “What are the three we can't use?” Van Loon asked curiously, when a hooting siren split the air.

  Frantically, everybody tried to recall their training sessions and identify the noise. Fire? Flood? Vacuum? Engine overheating? Breach in the hull?

  “Jailbreak!” Lt. Sakadea cu
rsed, as he tumbled backwards over a half-built chair, rolled along the floor and dashed out the door in a single motion.

  * * * *

  Shouting a bold war cry, the avantor kicked aside the remains of the door to her cell with a clang, and stepped through the opening. The durasteel lock was still hissing faintly, reduced to molten scrap with a single psychokinetic blast by a trick that her grandma had taught her.

  With a snort of contempt, the Gee ripped off her paper hospital gown and proceeded naked down the hallway searching for The 16.

  Momentarily, her attention was caught by the sounds of frantic movement in a nearby cell. But when the guardian of the galaxy looked in through the grill, she saw that it was only some humans cowering behind the cell's sparse furnishings. Timidly, they waved hello. The avantor's eyes narrowed to slits as recognition hit her and they ducked back down out of sight. Oh, them. She moved on.

  Through the grill of the next door, Avantor spied a room full of equipment stolen from her ship. No uniforms or weapons though, mostly it appeared to be medical supplies. How odd.

  The following cell yielded her goal, but the Gee's delight turned to horror as she saw her primary assistant lying unconscious on a bed. The mystery of the medical supplies solved.

  Disposing of the door took only a moment and she rushed across the room. The 16 lay peacefully sleeping on a waveless waterbed, covered to his neck in white sheets; the contrast lending a bit of color to his cheeks. On a small table nearby was a RDP monitor, and a blood plant whose leafy vines reached under the covers.

  Softly calling his name, the avantor knelt on the floor and touched his hand. His pulse was strong, breathing steady, but telepathically the woman felt the disorientation in his mind and the soreness in his stomach.

  Her facial features burning with shame, Avantor remembered that she had done this to him with her fumbling words, and realized that he had almost died. Ingesting a HN cube would kill a professional Choron weightlifter.

  Dimly in her mind, she could feel his disjointed memories of the operation, dominated by images of the bald human doctor struggling to remove the cube. But the golden female felt no gratitude for the act. The Dirtlings had been more interested in getting the cube then in saving a life.