Illegal Aliens by Nick Pollotta Page B

to Those-Who-Command.
    * * *
    “They’re doing what? ” throated Idow, rising from his chair.
    “Attacking the cleaning robot . . .” Squee said, his voice fading away as his shipmates scrambled to their tech-stations. Oh, nobody ever listened to him.
    Magenta with anger, Leader Idow slapped the switch activating the microphone on his control board. “Hey, you waste heads! Cut that out!”
    In the test chamber the translation came as:
    * * *
    “STOP, FOOLISH ONES.”
    As always, the Deckers paid no attention to what somebody in authority told them to do. Crowbar grabbed the robot's staff and dragged the pole away, almost straining a gut in the process. Fighting to retain its balance, the mechanical reached out a hand to steady itself. Hammer easily dodged the clumsy attack, and aimed the barrel of his .45 automatic pistol right between the sightless eyes of the rapidly disintegrating janitor.
    “CEASE THESE ACTIONS. THAT IS ONLY THE CLEANING ROBOT.”
    “Bullshit!” Hammer roared rebelliously, pulling the trigger.
    With a jolt, the mechanical's head kicked back. In vain, the machine tried to stabilize its internal systems as two more steel-jacketed rounds were pumped into the sparking remains of its face. The ganglord was gambling here, for even the street punk knew that the brain could be anywhere in a robot; the chest, legs, arms, anywhere at all.
    However it had been deemed that in a cleaning robot it was judged most prudent to keep the machine's delicate brain as far away as possible from the caustic reagents and potentially destructive chemicals that it handled on a daily basis. So the brain was located in the head. For protection.
    As dead as it could possibly be, the robot stiffly pancaked onto its face, the lovely green armor peeling away from its overheating nuclear stomach like the leaves of a murdered artichoke. Fat crackling sparks crawled over the broken machine, smoke poured from its joints, and a leg fell off.
    Then in crude humor, Chisel unzipped his pants and contemptuously relieved himself on the fallen Goliath.
    * * *
    Utterly flabbergasted, the aliens couldn't believe what they had just seen. This was almost beyond their comprehension. Exactly how primitive were these guys?
    “By the Prime Builder's Waste Products,” Idow gulped, slumping backwards into his formfitting chair.
    * * *
    “Holy crap,” General Bronson gulped, slumping backwards into his padded swivel chair.
    A prude at heart, Prof. Rajavur took umbrage at the mild profanity. “Really, Wayne, your language!”
    “Is most appropriate,” Dr. Wu interrupted. The scientist was utterly flabbergasted. This was almost beyond her comprehension. “Holy crap, indeed.”
    * * *
    Chisel's base spectacle gave forth unexpected results. The smoke from the robot thickened, the sparks got fatter, and a vicious humming started. Justifiably frightened, the gang quickly retreated to safety.
    “Hey, chief,” Drill whispered, crouching low, with the rest of the gang following his lead. “You know what? I think that thing is going to . . .”
    It did. The entire starship shook as the tortured works of the broken robot whoofed into a fireball. Tendrils of smoke and shrapnel filled the air. As the force of the detonation knocked the Deckers prone, the gang gripped the floor like Moslems in Mecca. Every warning light in the starship winked on, klaxons sounded, bells clanged, powerlines snapped and the viewscreens in the control room went black.
    * * *
    Suddenly, the FCT found itself staring at the outside of the alien ship and the team cursed in six different languages.
    * * *
    As the force of the detonation dissipated, the rattled street gang got slowly to their feet.
    “Everybody okay?” Hammer asked, straightening his leather jacket and checking for damage. Nyah, the coat was fine.
    With a grunt, the dapper Drill tucked his sweaty T-shirt back into his worn denims. “Yeah. Sure. I just love getting dumped on my ass by exploding