Illegal Aliens by Nick Pollotta

the lizard asked excitedly.
    The Choron frowned. “No, but he still has the spike on him.”
    In annoyance, Squee crossed out his last notation. Okay, maybe there was such a thing as useless information.
    Watching his own reflection, Idow toyed with the silver microphone of his viewscreen. “Boztwank, is Trell still in the reactor core?”
    “Yes, my Leader,” the fungi replied gaily. “Why? What has he done wrong now?”
    “Nothing,” the blue being mused. “But get him out of there and have him send in the cleaning robot. I want the arena immaculate for the next test.”
    Gasterphaz perked up at this. “Suitable for recording and adding to our video library?” asked the Choron shrewdly.
    Idow just smiled.
    Excellent, thought the Protector. The third test had always been his favorite to watch.
    “Then I hereby announce that the bank is closed. All bets must ride.” This announcement astonished nobody, as Chorons were notoriously dirt cheap. “And I shall prepare the warobot for immediate use. Half-speed as usual?”
    “Let's try full speed this time,” Squee suggested cold-bloodedly, the luminescent controls of his tech station brightening at their master's anticipation. “I think our Dirtlings can handle it.”
    The ship's Leader had a momentary vision of small furry creatures being dropped into an active food processor, and he shivered in pleasure.
    In total agreement, Idow nodded regally, the fringe of indigo hair around his face bobbing from the motion. “Let it be done.”
    Upon hearing this, Boztwank scooted back to his post. Wow. Full speed. They had never done this before. Eeee! This was going to more fun then watching garbage rot.
    * * *
    His laser printer finally at rest, Sir John removed his reading glasses and polished them with the handkerchief that jutted from the breast pocket of his tailored three-piece gray suit. The handkerchief was silk, monogrammed with the designer's name, and the color of the fabric perfectly matched Courtney's blue silk shirt. Then he blew his nose on the handkerchief and threw it in the wastepaper basket beside his console. These were merely his work clothes.
    “Would you like it straight, or condensed?” the millionaire Scotsman asked the room at large.
    “Would we like what, straight or condensed?” Dr. Wu asked, strips of computer paper littering the floor at her feet.
    The Chinese physicist had tied her console in with the computers at Cal Tech in an effort to discover how to crack the alien's force shield. As her printer reeled off another failed equation, she ripped the sheet free, made a note of something interesting in the formula on her clipboard, then crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it in the general direction of her wastepaper basket. So far, the score was; wastepaper basket: zero, floor: thirty-seven.
    “World reaction to the events we have just witnessed,” Sir John politely explained.
    “Condensed please, Jonathan. No lectures today,” Prof. Rajavur said, laying aside his earphones and giving Dr. Malavade the go-ahead signal.
    Enabling a never before used section of his console, the Indian linguist started diligently, tapping complex commands into a computer keyboard.
    Sir John cleared his throat. “Ahem. Hurrah for the good guys.”
    With an expression similar to a man who has discovered a live eel in his underwear, Rajavur spun about in his chair. “I beg your pardon?”
    “Well, you wanted it condensed.”
    “Elucidate,” the professor ordered in ill humor.
    “It's the street gang,” Sir John explained looking embarrassed. “The majority of the world is cheering for them. The Bloody Deckers are heroes.”
    “Heroes?” General Bronson stormed, slamming down the receiver of his hush phone so hard that the instrument rang, even though it was not equipped with a bell. “They’re loonies!”
    “Heroic loonies,” Sir John corrected. “So nobody cares.”
    “Well, Bill Paterson cares,” Bronson countered.
    Sir John raised a