Free Illegal Aliens by Nick Pollotta Page B

the air under the impact of the soft lead bullets and the ganglord brutally fired again and again, the heavy slugs from the booming Colt punching the screaming alien across the room, leaving oily smears on the white floor. Its death scream peaked into the ultra-sonic, then abruptly stopped as Drill brutally slit the monster's throat with his stiletto.
    Completely unable to help, the population of the world watched as the mangled pile of flesh that had once been Torch reached out a hand to her chief. Hammer rushed over. Kneeling by her side, he took the woman's hand in his and gently gave it a squeeze. She raised her head to speak, causing more blood to well from her hideous wounds. Hammer bent close, and she whispered something too soft for him to hear. Then her hand went stiff in his, her body trembled in a spasm, and Torch died, lying sprawled in a pool of blood and intestines.
    In unaccustomed tenderness, the ganglord closed her only intact eye and bowed his head in sorrow. Chisel turned away from the scene, ashamed of his unmanly tears. Stiffly somber, Drill walked to the Quatralyan's body, retrieved his friend's hooks and laid them next to her battered corpse. And showing great wisdom, Crowbar stayed in the background.
    For a long moment, nobody spoke.
    Then Hammer stood, his face a cold mask of fury. He had the blood of a good friend staining one hand, and a smoking .45 Army automatic in the other. The youth squeezed those scarred hands into hard fists and glared hatefully at the clean white ceiling so far, so goddamn far, out of reach.
    “NEXT!” he roared defiantly.

SEVEN
    “Magnificent! They were magnificent!” Boztwank squealed, beside himself with pleasure. The joyful mushroom flew across the control room to congratulate his Leader. “Oh, I do apologize, Idow. You were absolutely correct. These Dirtlings are wonderful. Wonderful!”
    “Yes,” Squee agreed with a toothy lizard smile. “They are very good, indeed.”
    But the starship's Leader heard neither of them. “A distance weapon,” Idow muttered, faintly echoing himself. He leaned forward in his seat, the chair automatically adjusting itself to the new position. “They have a distance weapon. Gasterphaz, why was I not informed of this?”
    “Because I did not know,” the Choron Protector replied honestly. “Metal is metal, and they’re covered with it. It's in their mouths, nose, ears, any orifice you care to name. And what is not hidden inside their clothing is holding it together. My sensors indicated no weapon grade energy sources, and so I reported them unarmed.” Gasterphaz's veneer cracked. “Sorry.”
    Magnanimous as any Leader, Idow brushed the matter aside. “Accepted, my friend. So tell me, what weapons do they have with them?”
    Deep in thought, the rocky giant drummed his fingers on his control board, rhythmically denting the metal. “Well,” he started.
    “Thin knives, thick knives, folding knives, throwing knives, round throwing knives,” Squee interjected, reading from a list that he had made during the battle. “Chains, short hooks, the projectile weapon, which by the way I want for my collection . . . sss . . . I believe that is everything they carry.”
    “One of the edged weapons is not properly a knife,” Boztwank sang, his electronic pot weaving and dipping in a ritual dance of joy. “Better list it as a cleaver.”
    In the ensuing feeling of good fellowship, Squee made the appropriate notation on his list, instead of ignoring anything the mushroom said as he normally did. Besides, to a collector there was no such thing as useless information.
    “And the small Dirtling stole a spike from one of our drones in the first test,” Gasterphaz added, trying to salvage his shattered reputation as a Protector. Though he rarely used them himself, weapons were his specialty.
    Bent over the list, Squee clamped his elongated jaw down on his forked tongue in concentration. “Did he use it against the Quatralyan?”