Pollotta

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Copyright ©2002
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ILLEGAL ALIENS
Nick Pollotta & Phil Foglio
A publication of
Wildside Press
P.O. Box 301
Holicong, PA. 18928-0301
Copyright 1988, 2002 by Nick Pollotta & Phil Foglio
To contact: www.NickPollotta.com
To contact: www.StudioFoglio.com
All rights reserved.
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
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