Illegal Aliens by Nick Pollotta Page A

questioning eyebrow. “And he is?”
    “The police captain for Manhattan Central. He just issued arrest warrants on each gang member for carrying a concealed weapon. Apparently, the man has been trying to nail the Deckers for the past seven years. Captain Paterson is reported to have turned a cartwheel when Hammer pulled that gun in front of two billion witnesses.”
    “Indeed. Well, I wish him luck in serving it.”
    Bronson gave a half smile. “Yeah, me too.”
    * * *
    Taking their time, the Deckers went about the messy task of placing their dead friends side by side, and removing their leather jackets to covering their mutilated bodies. Afterwards, Chisel scurried about the test chamber recovering most of his knives. But that was okay. He still had that blade he’d stolen from the little robot. A secret weapon, yeah. Cool. Crowbar offered his spare chain to Drill, it was accepted, and together the two men were working the kinks from the metal lengths, getting ready for the next attack.
    Taking full advantage of the lull, Hammer dug fresh bullets from his pocket, loaded the clip and slid it into the butt of the automatic pistol where it locked into place with a satisfying click. Eight more rounds and the Colt would be useless. He had to make every shot count, even though one of the bullets was already spoken for.
    The ganglord had talked briefly to Crowbar, telling the stupid sonofabitch that if he ever disobeyed orders again, Hammer would blow the man's freaking head off. Torch was dead because of him, and the only reason Crowbar was still sucking in air was that the gang needed every stud they had to get out of this mess alive. But a single mistake and the bastard would be wearing grass for a hat.
    The hissing noise of the arena's weird door opening made the Deckers glance up from their weapons, and though they had faced death a thousand times before, today the street gang almost wet their denims. This next test was going to be a grade A, bottled and bonded, four star mother.
    Stepping away from the closing wall was a giant humanoid robot. The machine man stood twenty feet tall at least, with a shiny body made of smooth green armor. In its right hand, the awesome robot held a big metal bar, or maybe a club. But the weapon was huge, whatever it was. The thing looked like a telephone pole veined with energy cables, and there was a worn, pitted nozzle at the lower end. Nobody had to tell them that this was plainly a weapon of power.
    Without any preamble, the deadly machine began to walk straight towards them.
    “DECKERS!” Hammer yelled, and the gang rallied to the cry. Bravely, they charged their newest opponent, ready to fight to the death, because Deckers don't surrender.
    Pausing in curiosity, the cleaning robot peered down at the beings running towards it and wondered what was the problem. The test chamber was a mess, but no more so than usual.
    Crowbar and Drill reached the green giant first. They arced around the machine's legs, whipping the robot with their chains as they passed. The thin plastic armor cracked in a spiderweb pattern under the violent blows and bits sprinkled to the floor, exposing an inner framework of struts and circuitry. The gang took heart from this and bellowed their name again even louder.
    Dispassionate as a doorknob, the machine scanned the damage. The waterproof casing of its legs wasn't intact anymore. With a robotic sigh, the janitor laid aside its electronic mop and bent over to retrieve the broken pieces of itself.
    In an overhand throw, Chisel released his pride and joy, a two and a half pound stainless-steel Bowie knife. The Texas toothpick whizzed through the air and smashed into the robot's chest, lodging firmly between a circuit cube and a power cable. As a short circuit surged through its entire body, the machine flashed into overload, its control relays systematically burning out. Blind and deaf, the dizzy robot noisily crashed to its knees and sent an urgent plea for help