ILLEGAL ALIENS

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Wisps of purple gas floated past Hammer, clinging hungrily to his visor and obscuring his view of the control room. Annoyed, he tried to wipe the deadly moisture away, but his metal glove only succeeded in smearing the faceplate.

"Is that it?" he demanded the adrenaline still pounding through his veins. "Is that the lot of them?"

Trell squeaked a confirmation. All of their enemies were dead.

Muffled hurrahs came from his gang, and one voice in particular triggered a response in the ganglord.

"Not quite," Hammer growled as he met Drill's gaze.

With a nod, the two men attacked. Spinning about, the locksmith kicked the laser out of the hand of the startled Crowbar. The weapon hit the wall and discharged, its bolt of polychromatic fire vaporizing a chunk of the floor. Then Hammer ducked beneath the big man's roundhouse swing, and punched him hard in the stomach. Next, Chisel blindsided the biker, tackling from the rear. Crowbar stumbled from the impact, but did not fall, and he backhanded the boy away. Chisel arced through the air and hit the wall, his helmet ringing from the hard blow. That was when Hammer and Drill moved in for the kill. Remembering their lessons in the airlock, the youths jabbed the spacesuit with their fingers, triggering the opening sequence and the front of the suit split apart, exposing the man inside to the deadly mist.

With a bitter curse, Crowbar stabbed out with his knife, determined to take somebody with him to hell. But the act was never finished. As silent as a prayer, his suddenly vacant suit crumpled to the floor like so much dirty laundry.

Contemptuously, Drill snapped his fingers at the empty spacesuit and Chisel spat at it, momentarily forgetting that he still had his helmet on. Bleh!

"Now all of our enemies are dead," Hammer stated dryly, exchanging the thumbs-up sign of victory with his friends.

Nervously, Trell swallowed a small intestinal organ that had unexpectedly risen into his throat during the slaughter. It was starkly obvious that Prying-Metal-Bar must have outlived his usefulness to the gang, and so...PFT! Well, by the Prime Builder, Trell-desamo-Trell-ika-Trell-forzua, Jr. wasn't going to outlive his!

"I will disperse the Omega Gas now, sir, if I may," the little alien asked, submissively lowering his head.

Impatient to get out of the spacesuit, Hammer waved a gloved hand. "Absolutely dude, go earn your keep."

My intention exactly, thought the Technician as he crossed the room to punch the appropriate commands into Gasterphaz's control panel.

Imperceptibly at first, the swirling purple fog took on a new pattern, slowly returning to the vents. Stratifying in the air like a lake mist, the layers of heavy gas dropped lower and lower in the room until, hugging the floor, the last traces of Omega Gas flowed back into the hall. The air appeared clear. Checking an environmental monitor, Trell indicated that it was safe for the Bloody Deckers to leave their spacesuits.

"You first," Hammer said brusquely, a hand resting on the stolen laser rifle.

A slightly paler shade of green than was normal for his race, the Technician undid the seals on his helmet, lifted the crystal dome just a bit and gingerly sniffed. When he didn't drop dead, the little alien relaxed and began removing the rest of his suit. Judiciously at first, the surviving Bloody Deckers did likewise, and then took Trell's suggestion of storing the space suits and extra rifles in a wall closet.

Freeing himself from the armored suit, Drill gratefully stretched.