Nick Pollotta - Illegal Aliens

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ILLEGAL ALIENS

Nick Pollotta & Phil Foglio

A publication of

Wildside Press

P.O. Box 301

Holicong, PA. 18928-0301

To contact: www.NickPollotta.com

To contact: www.StudioFoglio.com

Cover by Phil Foglio

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means electronic or otherwise, without first obtaining

the written consent of the authors.

DEDICATION

To radio plays, common interests, mutual respect

and a twenty-five-year friendship going on forever.

Yeah, what the hell.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

THE UNITED NATIONS FIRST CONTACT TEAM

Prof. Sigerson Rajavur—Icelandic diplomat in charge of the FCT.

Brigadier General Wayne Bronson—American soldier assigned to defend the UN team.

Dr. Yuki Wu—Chinese physicist, scientific advisor to the FCT.

Dr. Mohad Malavade—India's top philologist, and an expert in interspecies communication.

Sir Jonathan Courtney—Scottish sociologist, self-made millionaire.

General Nicholi Nicholi—Russian soldier in charge of the Earth Defense Forces.

THE ALIENS

Idow—Leader

Gasterphaz—Protector

Boztwank—Engineer

Squee—Communicator

Trell—Technician

THE BLOODY DECKERS

Hammer—lord of the New York City street gang.

Drill—his lieutenant.

Whipsaw—legbreaker.

Crowbar—ex-biker.

Chisel—knife expert.

Torch—alley mugger.

THE GREAT GOLDEN ONES

Avantor—the guardian of Sol III.

The 17—her primary assistant.

THE REST

Amanda Jackson—lieutenant, New York Police SWAT.

Robert Weis—colonel, NATO forces.

Delores Bolivar—receptionist.

Francis McDougherty—Accounting Dept. manager.

Hector Ramariez—an accountant.

William Peterson—Chief of Police, Manhattan Central, NYPD.

Emile Valois—Secretary-General of the United Nations.

NATO—North Atlantic Treaty Organization.

Agent Taurus—a living nuclear weapon.

Agent Virgo—a nuclear counter-agent.

FAMOUS EARTH SAYING:

Speak softly, but carry a big stick.

FAMOUS GALACTIC SAYING:

Hail the Prime Builder, and activate the Proton Cannon.

UNIVERSAL TRUTH:

Innocence is no protection.

BOOK ONE: ON EARTH

PROLOGUE

CRACK!The rocketing softball dwindled into the blue New York sky as the grinning batter dropped his

stick on home plate and took off for first base like a man with his pants on fire.

“I ... I got it!” Hector Ramariez gamely cried, his skinny legs backpedaling him furiously into the weedy

grass of center field.

His teammates relaxing over by the trees that edged the Central Park ballfield, stridently voiced their

differing opinions on this matter. Hector was the pariah of their team, a well meaning, but ineffective

weenie.

Like a leather radar dish, the cost accountant's never-before-used softball mitt tracked the white ball

until it became lost in the glare of the August sun. Filled with remorse, Ramariez swallowed what little

hope he had of emerging from this game with his precious dignity intact. This was the last game in the

summer play-offs between the different departments of the Gunderson Corporation; and to everyone's

unmitigated surprise, the Accounting Department (Hector's team) was in the lead, with the score at 2 to

0, the bases loaded, two outs, bottom of the ninth. The Accounting team captain, Francis ‘Scrooge’

McDougherty, had been so sure of a victory that the old skinflint had already phoned in an order for their

victory pizzas using his own quarter.

Then disaster struck in the form of a pop fly ball to Hector.

With a feeling of impending doom, Ramariez licked salty sweat from his lips and scanned the empty sky

above him. Somehow, he could feel McDougherty's piggy eyes burning into him like twin lasers beams. It

made the poor accountant's stomach churn with nervous acid. If Hector made this catch, his team won. If

he didn't, they lost. It was that simple, and Ramariez knew just how badly his boss wanted that company

trophy. With his own arthritic hands, McDougherty had retrieved a wooden display case from the

dungeon-like basement of their office building, and painstakingly scrubbed, painted and polished the box

back into its original pristine condition. Gleaming like an oiled jewel, the wooden case now sat in front of

McDougherty's office, eagerly awaiting the company's silver loving cup to be placed into its velvet

innards.

Oh, my goodness gracious,Ramariez thought in genuine panic.Mr. McDougherty will blame me

personally for this disaster and there is no telling what he might do. Why, he might even send me

back to ... Payroll! The accountant felt himself grow faint. The Payroll Department, a fate worse then

death.

Dancing frantically about in the dry weeds, Hector hopelessly tried to align himself under a falling ball

that he couldn't even see. Where was the gosh darn thing anyway? With painful clarity, he could hear the

raucous laughter of his rude co-workers at his blatant incompetence, but what was there to do? The ball

had vanished. It was nowhere in sight.

A monumentally shy man, Ramariez had never been under such unrelenting pressure to perform before in

his life. Not since his mother had given him 24 hours in which to learn to dress himself before he left for

college.

In his vivid imagination, Hector could feel the tension in the air as if it was a static electric charge. He half

expected sparks to start crackling off him. Blood pounded in his temples and an agonizing knot formed in

his chest. Then he ruefully smiled. Weren't those the symptoms of a heart attack? Perfect! Death before

dishonor! Anything, rather than incur the wrath of Mr. McDougherty, and be the fool in front of Ms.

Bolivar.

Delores Bolivar, the beautiful receptionist for the Gunderson Corporation, had actually agreed to have a

drink with the timid accountant after the game. But would the sultry Ms. Bolivar still wish to share a soda

with the bumbling fool who dropped the game winning catch and brought shame and disgrace upon the

Accounting Department? Hector seriously thought not.

The annoying catcalls from his fellow employees got noticeably louder. Heroically trying to ignore them,

Hector prayed for salvation ... and there was the ball, plummeting towards him from the sun! Hastily

scrambling, the accountant got into position, his stiff leather glove raised for the game winning catch.

Watch this world! A hero at last! Hector Ramariez saves the day. Ticker tape parades, lunch with the

mayor, a date with Delores, nothing was too good for—

But suddenly, the impolite noises from his co-workers changed into raw-throated screams of terror, and

hurriedly both teams began fleeing the park like roaches from bug spray. Quite puzzled, Hector squinted

skyward at the source of their dismay. There in the air above him, ever expanding in size, was the missing

softball. He blinked, and the ball swelled to the size of a stove ... a truck ... a house! A harsh buzzing

sound filled the air. The pale hair on his skinny arms stiffly rose. Then darkness enveloped the man as the

impossible sphere eclipsed the sun.

Ramariez glanced down and found that he was standing dead center in an ever-widening pool of black

shadow. Quickly, he performed the short algebra equation (v x d x N = Y are you still here?) and then

began running for his life, sprinting for that thin line which separated merely contemplating Heaven from

finding out about it in person. All thoughts of the game, his job, and even Delores were totally replaced

by the primordial urge for self-preservation and the overwhelming desire not to be crushed to death by a

giant flying softball in Central Park, New York.

Unaccustomed to physical exertion, Ramariez was soon gasping for breath as he raced for the shadow's

boundary, but it eluded him with nightmarish speed. In raw desperation, he cast his glove away and

dashed forward in a last frantic burst of speed. But it was too little, too late.

Larger than the fist of God, the titanic white globe slammed directly onto the pitcher's mound, displacing

tons of dirt in an earthy tidal wave that swept the screaming accountant off his feet and hurtled him

through the air, tumbling debts over assets, to jarringly crash into the top of an old elm tree more than

four blocks away.

Bruised, battered, and broken in spirit, Ramariez awoke dangling from a branch. Howling like an animal,

the crazed accountant clawed his way through the crushed foliage and fell sprawling to the still trembling

ground. Without a moment's hesitation, Hector Ramariez dashed pell-mell down one of the park's

numerous bike paths, made it to the traffic filled streets, and disappeared into the concrete canyons of

New York City, never to be seen or heard from again by the civilized world.

* * * *

Resembling a white Ping-Pong ball sitting in the grass, the gargantuan sphere towered over the tall

Central Park trees, completely filling the space allocated to the recreational field. The highly polished hull

of the ship glistening with pearlesence in the bright afternoon sun. There it sat, this strange white invader,

and did absolutely nothing for thirty terrestrial minutes. Ever so slowly, a crowd began to form about the

base of the staggeringly immense globe, the brave and the foolish leading the way.

Ironically enough, it was Delores Bolivar who first discovered the invisible force shield encircling the

alien craft. She did this empirically, by bouncing her face off of the barrier. Tears flowed unchecked past

her bruised nose, and comfort was offered to her by sympathetic members of the crowd. Sympathy that

rapidly changed to moral outrage when they realized what she was pointing to on the other side of the

transparent barrier; a mangled baseball mitt that lay, pitifully half-buried in the rubble beneath the

monstrous ball.

The force shield had the feel of lightly padded steel, and proved to be quite invulnerable to the delicate

fists of Delores, the pounding baseball bats of Hector's teammates and the .38 bullet fired from a rookie

patrolman's service revolver. Yes, New York's finest had at last arrived, after some unsung genius dialed

911 and reported a very illegally parked vehicle.

Soon the police swarmed in by the dozens, valiantly trying to control a crowd that poured in by the

thousands. SWAT team helicopters battled with TV news choppers for air space supremacy above the

killer spaceship. Forcibly the multitude was pushed back and a safety perimeter established around the

ship, to the great annoyance of the unauthorized onlookers. The crowd started to turn ugly and shouting

matches began. But then the street venders arrived and quickly restored a semblance of order to the

gathering with their overpriced hot dogs, ice cream and “I SAW THE ALIEN SPACESHIP” T-shirts.

* * * *

Meanwhile, deep within the bowels of the mountainous craft, weird machines of crystal and silver began

to stir. Hot power poured through molecular cables, complex circuit cubes instantly relayed multiple

commands, unnamable alien devices did unnamable alien things, and finally a robot sensor awoke to

focus its attention on the tumultuous assemblage outside. A translucent energy ray lanced out from the top

of the starship, and the alien machine proceeded to scan that emotional human sea much the same way

that a lighthouse fans the ocean with its beacon of light.

Unseen and unfelt, the ethereal sensor probed the nearest humans; paying scant attention to the sobbing

Delores, the grim police, the aghast pizza delivery boy, the shocked, the frightened, and the astonished.

Implacably steady, the beam extended its zone of inquiry, testing hundreds after hundreds of human

beings, but all were found wanting. Until at last, the probe came to a group of six individuals who viewed

the great ship dispassionately, and apparently without fear. They were a small island of calm in the

bubbling emotional soup. Dutifully, the machine paused on them, allowing its beam to seep into their living

minds and read their secret innermost thoughts. When it was satisfied, the alien machine withdrew the

unfelt probe and sent a priority message to its masters who had been impatiently waiting for a report.

“These?” the robot asked Those-Who-Command.

A conversation was held.

A question asked.

A decision made.

“Yes,” came the answer. “Them."

Instantly, the six humans were bombarded with space-twisting forces, compared to which a nuclear

explosion would be a candle to the sun, and they vanished in a burst of light that seared ghostly

after-images into the retinas of everybody near them.

Most of the distant crowd mistook the flash to be a reporter's camera, but those closer knew better, and

Central Park became a madhouse as thousands tried to flee at the exact same time. Clothes were ripped.

Women cursed. Strong men fainted. Fistfights broke out left and right. The park degenerated into a

madhouse, a riot. Pandemonium ruled!

Serenely indifferent to the screaming hordes just outside its force shield, the starship began to broadcast

a message on every frequency of the electromagnetic spectrum. A signal of such tremendous strength that

it was received by television and radio sets even if they were not turned on. A message so startling, so

fantastic, that most of the listening world began to chuckle, believing this to be a juvenile rehash of an old

classic science fiction radio program.

But then the incredible broadcast began to endlessly repeat over and over...

ONE

In imposing silence, the committee sat around the heavy oak table reviewing plastic coated documents of

extreme importance.

At the head of the table was a scholarly gentleman, a gray-haired diplomat from Iceland in a neat navy

blue suit, the permanent leader of this special task force. To his left was an American general, splendid in

his decorated uniform, with only a hint of ash on his right lapel, deposited there from his ever present

cigar. Across from him was his Russian counterpart, possessing the solid body of a peasant heritage and

a brilliant military mind that had earned him this position on the council. Next to him was a Scotsman,

impeccably dressed in a tailored, three piece gray suit that fit his bearing as a self-made millionaire and

prominent sociologist.

Adorning the end of the table was a beautiful Chinese physicist in a soft summer dress decorated with a

floral design, her long black hair worn loose about her shoulders. It was she who spoke first, breaking

their somber concentration.

“Gimme two."

“Nothing for me."

“I fold."

“Pass."

General Nicholi G. Nicholi sneaked a peek at his fellow players from behind his cards. Their attention

was where it should be, on their poker cards and not him. The three of them were calmly sitting there

waiting for Nicholi to bid.

Cool as summer ice, the Russian general pretended to rearrange his cards while he studied their faces.

Had they guessed? Did anyone know, that he, Nicholi Nicholi, had the ultimate in poker hands? A royal

flush!

Always a cautious player, Prof. Rajavur had already folded from this game and was over by the kitchen

unit of the command bunker making himself a cup of the bitter Icelandic coffee he loved so much. Nicholi

grimaced. And some people complained about Russian food!

The lovely Dr. Wu though, was smiling contentedly at her cards. That meant Yuki was going to bluff

again. Nicholi knew her tricks. Brigadier General Wayne Bronson was, as usual, unreadable, and Sir

John Courtney was contentedly stroking that ridiculous little moustache of his. A bad sign that. The

Scotsman must have an excellent hand indeed for him to be so complacent.

Then Nicholi grinned secretly. What matter? His royal flush was unbeatable. He held the winning hand

for this round of cards, his friends just didn't know it yet, seasoned poker veterans though they were.

The final member of their group, Dr. Mohad Malavade, a noted linguist from India who seemed to dress

purely as a matter of convention, was on duty right now in the Operations Room, and thus unavailable to

partake in the game they knew so well. For these six, Nicholi, Rajavur, Bronson, Wu, Courtney and

Malavade, were the United Nations First Contact Team: that august group of people designated to be

Earth's official representatives when, if, or ever, alien beings from another star system came to our fair

green orb.

Their fortified Command Bunker was located 20 stories below the furnace room of the United Nations

building in Manhattan, New York. Despite its somewhat undignified position, the underground complex

had a strong spacecraft feel to it, with cool metal walls, indirect lighting and softly humming life support

machinery. This wasn't very surprising since NASA had designed and built the place, using its proposed

Lunar base as a role model.

Theoretically hydrogen-bomb proof, the subterranean bunker was divided into three basic sections: a

storage room fronted by a central corridor with private sleep rooms on each side, a full kitchen with a

dining/recreation area, and beyond an iron-pipe railing, down a short flight of steps, was the Operations

Room, with a TV monitor the size of a movie screen spanning the front wall. Grouped before the monitor

were five desk-like control consoles, the center console twice as large as the others. Over in the distant

corner, far outside the range of the wall monitor's video cameras, sat a lone sixth console that jarringly

faced back into the room. Almost as if it had been placed there as an afterthought, or as if the console

had a radically different function from the others.

Spacious and homey, the underground complex was equipped with everything the FCT needed to

remain constantly on their saucer watch. Which they did, on a 3-out-of-4-week rotating schedule, with a

floating pool of replacement personnel to cover whomever was absent. But today, the six original team

members were present.

The bunker had cost $40 million to build, and the FCT had twice the national income of Belgium

invested in themselves via training, training, and more training. They were deemed fully capable of

handling any possible situation; from the crash landing of an alien lifeboat atop Mt. Everest with its crew

in dire need of medical assistance, to the invasion of Earth by radioactive mutant Chihuahuas. Nothing

was considered too far fetched. The FCT was over trained to handle it. Yes sir.

But in the last fifteen years since the team's founding, despite countless sightings of UFOs, the First

Contact Team consistently never found anyone to contact. They were fast becoming like the first-aid kit

you carry in the trunk of your car: as good as ever, but starting to gather a little dust, and sometimes you

just plain forget it existed. The team found they needed something to keep its members from going

crazy(ier), and that something was poker. Straight, stud, draw, anaconda and 137 other versions that

they had invented over the years.

In point of fact, the FCT held the Guinness Book of World Records entry for the longest running

non-stop poker game: eight straight years, easily beating the 4 year long crap shoot of the Buckingham

Palace Cleaning Staff, and dwarfing into insignificance the 18-month-old baccarat game of the Hong

Kong Freelance Bodyguard & Assassins Union.

Nicholi tucked his cards together to hide them from any stray glances. “Twenty dollars,” the Russian

said, confidently betting the maximum.

Suspiciously, General Bronson glared at the Russian general across the table from him and shifted the

position of the unlit cigar in his mouth. Twenty, eh? Now what did that crafty Red bastard have up his

sleeve? Sigerson was on the sidelines brewing coffee, Yuki was going to bluff, and Courtney had nothing,

so this hand was solely between the two of them. But Nicholi was indecipherable, his craggy Russian

face never showing anything he didn't want it to. Bronson thoughtfully chewed on the end of his panatela.

What the hell, he decided, time to separate the men from the boys.

“Okay by me,” the American drawled. “And another twenty.” Ha! That'll teach Comrade showoff who's

in charge here.

“Fold,” Dr. Wu said, putting down her cards. The scientist had been planning to bluff again, but Yuki

could see that her two generals were working up a head of steam, so she let discretion be the better part

of valor and got out of the way of their forthcoming collision. Saved herself 4,000 yen in the bargain, too.

Besides, there was always the next hand.

Just then the tantalizing smell of coffee tickled her nose and Wu glanced at the kitchen behind her. Nattily

dressed in a two-piece blue suit and crisp white shirt, Prof. Rajavur was at the bunker's electric stove

brewing a pot of his outrageously potent coffee. Before joining the FCT and engaging in their 24-hour

poker fests, Wu had only thought of caffeine as an inferior medical stimulant. Now it was like the staff of

life.

“Care for some?” Rajavur said, gesturing carefully with his brimming cup, an extra large tan ceramic mug

marked: ‘TAKE ME TO YOUR LITER.’ When the Secretary General of the UN had last visited them

on his yearly inspection tour, Sigerson had been forced to explain the joke to the pompous Frenchman.

The woman smiled gratefully. “Thank you, yes."

Formally polite, the physicist excused herself from the table and left for the ladies’ room before joining

the professor in a cup of his acidic brew. In private, Prof. Rajavur thought it a sin that Yuki added milk

and sugar to the coffee; but since no other member of his team would even go near it, he forgave her that

tiny perversion of Icelandic cuisine for the sake of camaraderie.

“Twenty is fine,” Sir John said, only a faint Scottish burr rounding his words. “And I raise you twenty

more."

A millionaire even before he had inherited his uncle's estate, high stakes meant nothing to Sir John; but

taking these soldier boys down a peg or two did. The sociologist had a blockbuster of a hand, 4 nines,

and he was highly doubtful that either of his associates could beat that. In Highlander confidence, he

pulled crisp bills from a money clip bearing his family crest and added them to the growing pile of cash on

the dining/poker table.

Recreational space was at a premium down here and almost everything had to serve two functions. Even

the precious poker cards themselves often became twirling spaceships that invaded somebody's inverted

hat during an impromptu strategy meeting.

Blatantly, the Scotsman left his money clip there on the table, signifying that he was in for the duration.

Bronson ignored the bit of bravado, and Nicholi tried to do the same, but failed miserably. Sir John saw

the Russian struggle with inner turmoil and incorrectly read the emotion as fear. Had he treed the old bear

at last?

“Well, my friend?” Sir John grinned, positive that he smelled a kill.

Struggling to maintain a poker face, Nicholi pretended to think about the bet, while internally he was

cackling with glee. Czar's Blood, they thought he was bluffing. Him! Bluffing! He could probably squeeze

one more raise out of them before lowering the boom, but this had to be done carefully. No amateurs,

these.

Radiating innocence, General Nicholi shuffled his cards around and loosened his Army-issue necktie. It

was a good thing that he was here in the United States with these cards; back in the Motherland this hand

would have had him sweating blood. Three times before Nicholi had possessed a royal flush, and each

had ended in disaster.

The first time was as a private, new to army life, but old in the way of cards. As he drew the card he

needed to complete his winning hand his entire platoon had been ordered out to build a stupid, useless

wall. Nicholi had hated Berlin ever since. Next was as a lieutenant playing poker with his men over a

combat lantern, when the winning cards had been shot out of his hands by enemy fire. He escaped that

night physically unscathed, though his soul was deeply wounded. The last time had been in Moscow,

where, as a major waiting for notification of his promotion to colonel, he had been unceremoniously

busted back to a lieutenant for playing cards on duty. His royal flush had been confiscated for evidence.

Ah, but here it would be different. Nothing could stop him. At last, sweet victory would be his, and

Nicholi Gagarin Nicholi would finally get to show someone his perfect poker hand. This was it!

“Da, Jonathan,” he happily agreed, unconsciously humming Wagner's ‘Ride of the Valkyrie'. “And I

raise you another."

Courtney and Bronson exchanged anguished glances. Ambushed! They should have known better then

to trust a Muscovite.

“Sir?” a voice addressed the room.

Everybody chorused yes.

Down in the Operations Room, visually bisected by the iron pipe railing, a swarthy man in a badly fitting

suit duly pointed at Prof. Rajavur.

“What is it, Mohad?” the Icelandic diplomat asked, taking a sip from his coffee mug.

“I have been receiving some very unusual radio transmissions on the New York police channel,” Dr.

Malavade said, holding a tiny wireless earphone to his head. “Oh yes, most unusual."

Winter ice formed on Nicholi's spine and his crewcut hair threatened to leave his scalp. Oh no! The only

thing in the world that could interrupt this game was ... Czar's Blood, did they have to landtoday?

“Quiet, please!” the Russian barked, his left hand fumbling in his uniform pocket. “Do not interrupt game.

Sir John, I meet that and bet another twenty.” Hurriedly he slapped the money down, raising his own

raise.

“Interesting,” Bronson muttered, the strange double bet not going unnoticed. “Well, I'll see that. How

about you Courtney?"

Nick Pollotta - Illegal Aliens

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