Read Online Illegal Aliens by Nick Pollotta - Free Book Online
Authors: Nick Pollotta
Tags: FIC028000
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translation error. The hairy Dirtling definitely said the word game, my Leader.”
The ever garrulous Boztwank was sprayed with pink just then, so it was Gasterphaz who got to rumble in amazement, “But how . . . how did they know?”
SIX
“A test?” Dr. Wu demanded, her voice peaking on the last syllable. The scientist's almond eyes flashed in anger, and she radiated such violent moral outrage that the printed flowers on her white, cotton dress almost wilted. “What the hell kind of a test was that?”
Dr. Malavade undertook to answer the woman's clamorous question. Calmly, the linguist postulated that it might have been a test of us, not to us.
Yuki had to think about that. “So you believe the drones would not have attacked? That this was merely a test to see what humans would do when threatened?”
He shrugged. “You must admit, that is a possibility.”
Dr. Wu frowned. A possibility? Yes, but not one that the scientist would readily accept. For it would mean that these ludicrous tests were in earnest, and that Earth was in serious trouble. Of course, the only reverse corollary was even more unthinkable.
With a gentle whine, Sir John's laser printer started duplicating copies of the latest news bulletins on the world's reaction to this unforeseen development. Swiftly using a gold pen, the sociologist began writing notes in his personal style of shorthand as the computer paper unfolded from his console with ever increasing speed.
Sitting with his chin resting in the palm of his left hand, Prof. Rajavur blankly stared at the picture of the strutting street gang. Lost in rumination, his keen mind absorbed everything the screen displayed, but drew no useful conclusions. Insufficient data. What was it Sherlock Holmes had said about that? Oh yes. “Data, Watson, data! I can not make bricks without clay!” How true. Thought, then action, was the formula for success. Generally at least. General.
“Who are they?” he asked Bronson, coming out of his reverie and returning to business.
The general frowned. “The gang? Just a second.” The security officer of the FCT retrieved his clipboard from under a code book. Bronson had been busy accessing the data files on the gang from the New York police computers and found the work hard going. His console could take in information a hundred times faster than theirs could disgorge, and some complex maneuvering had been necessary to interface the two systems. “Here we are, Hammer, Whipsaw, Crowbar, Drill, Chisel and Torch.”
“Those are their names?” Rajavur asked, in a stunned voice.
Waving the clipboard, Bronson nodded. “The only ones they’ll answer to.”
Prof. Rajavur scowled. “Identify them, please.”
Delicately palming the controls, General Bronson fiddled his console until a green circle appeared on the monitor. He moved the marker about until he had targeted the face of the tall man in the center of the milling gang. “That hairy fellow there is Hammer,” he said loudly for everybody's benefit. “The leader of this rat pack. His rap sheet reads like the encyclopedia of crime, with no convictions. A real smart operator. The police consider him dangerous with a capital D.”
With the turn of a dial, he moved the marker a bit. “The big guy next to him is Whipsaw. Also considered dangerous. The guy's a nut case. A homicidal maniac, who is totally under Hammer's control. Whipsaw is loyal to the street gang only because Hammer is in charge.”
“Interesting. And how does the ganglord perpetuate this control?”
“He feeds him.”
“Drugs? Sweets?”
“Innocent bystanders.”
There was a pause. “Oh.”
Proceeding onward, the marker came to a devilishly handsome man and the general continued. “Smiley over there is Drill. He's the locksmith for the gang. Gets them into places so they can steal everything not nailed down. Supposed to be pretty good at it too. Apartment doors, car trunks, store gates. They say he goes through them
The ever garrulous Boztwank was sprayed with pink just then, so it was Gasterphaz who got to rumble in amazement, “But how . . . how did they know?”
SIX
“A test?” Dr. Wu demanded, her voice peaking on the last syllable. The scientist's almond eyes flashed in anger, and she radiated such violent moral outrage that the printed flowers on her white, cotton dress almost wilted. “What the hell kind of a test was that?”
Dr. Malavade undertook to answer the woman's clamorous question. Calmly, the linguist postulated that it might have been a test of us, not to us.
Yuki had to think about that. “So you believe the drones would not have attacked? That this was merely a test to see what humans would do when threatened?”
He shrugged. “You must admit, that is a possibility.”
Dr. Wu frowned. A possibility? Yes, but not one that the scientist would readily accept. For it would mean that these ludicrous tests were in earnest, and that Earth was in serious trouble. Of course, the only reverse corollary was even more unthinkable.
With a gentle whine, Sir John's laser printer started duplicating copies of the latest news bulletins on the world's reaction to this unforeseen development. Swiftly using a gold pen, the sociologist began writing notes in his personal style of shorthand as the computer paper unfolded from his console with ever increasing speed.
Sitting with his chin resting in the palm of his left hand, Prof. Rajavur blankly stared at the picture of the strutting street gang. Lost in rumination, his keen mind absorbed everything the screen displayed, but drew no useful conclusions. Insufficient data. What was it Sherlock Holmes had said about that? Oh yes. “Data, Watson, data! I can not make bricks without clay!” How true. Thought, then action, was the formula for success. Generally at least. General.
“Who are they?” he asked Bronson, coming out of his reverie and returning to business.
The general frowned. “The gang? Just a second.” The security officer of the FCT retrieved his clipboard from under a code book. Bronson had been busy accessing the data files on the gang from the New York police computers and found the work hard going. His console could take in information a hundred times faster than theirs could disgorge, and some complex maneuvering had been necessary to interface the two systems. “Here we are, Hammer, Whipsaw, Crowbar, Drill, Chisel and Torch.”
“Those are their names?” Rajavur asked, in a stunned voice.
Waving the clipboard, Bronson nodded. “The only ones they’ll answer to.”
Prof. Rajavur scowled. “Identify them, please.”
Delicately palming the controls, General Bronson fiddled his console until a green circle appeared on the monitor. He moved the marker about until he had targeted the face of the tall man in the center of the milling gang. “That hairy fellow there is Hammer,” he said loudly for everybody's benefit. “The leader of this rat pack. His rap sheet reads like the encyclopedia of crime, with no convictions. A real smart operator. The police consider him dangerous with a capital D.”
With the turn of a dial, he moved the marker a bit. “The big guy next to him is Whipsaw. Also considered dangerous. The guy's a nut case. A homicidal maniac, who is totally under Hammer's control. Whipsaw is loyal to the street gang only because Hammer is in charge.”
“Interesting. And how does the ganglord perpetuate this control?”
“He feeds him.”
“Drugs? Sweets?”
“Innocent bystanders.”
There was a pause. “Oh.”
Proceeding onward, the marker came to a devilishly handsome man and the general continued. “Smiley over there is Drill. He's the locksmith for the gang. Gets them into places so they can steal everything not nailed down. Supposed to be pretty good at it too. Apartment doors, car trunks, store gates. They say he goes through them
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