of vents that led to various rooms. Funny that they hadn't found any in the corridors. Each vent offered them an avenue of escape, but escape to where? The Deckers needed an exit out of this ship, access to the control room, something useful like that. But so far, they’d only come across more damn rooms similar to that last one. This place had more fancy equipment in it than a high school! Unexpectedly, Drill butted into Hammer, which made him bump into Chisel. Seriously irked, the ganglord swatted the man behind.
“Watch where you’re going, stupid!” Hammer growled.
“Wasn't my fault, chief,” Drill denied with hurt innocence in his voice. “Crowbar slammed into me.”
“You lying sack of snot. I did not.”
“Did.”
“Not.”
“DID!”
“NOT!”
With a calloused thumb, Hammer clicked off the safety of his automatic pistol and the argument came to an abrupt halt. Ahead of him, Chisel was peeking through the next grill; the light coming through the metal lattice bright enough for him to see that the kid was grinning like a pimp on payday.
“What is it this time, pinhead?” the ganglord demanded rudely. “Their bathroom?”
Almost bursting with excitement, the boy turned and blinked at the darkness of the airshaft below him. “Geez, Hammer, you won't believe what's in here!” he gushed happily. “I think it's their,” he fumbled for the word. “You know, what the army has, a gun place. It's their armory!”
In a rush of adrenaline, Hammer quickly shouldered Chisel out of his way and peeked in for himself. Sure enough, the walls of the white room on the other side of the grill were filled with racks holding swords and spears and crazy, weird things with handles and slings. Most of the weapons he couldn't recognize, but the street punk could tell what some of them were. Rifles and pistols. Futuristic rifles and pistols. His mouth watered at the prospect.
“Jackpot!” Hammer breathed, unable to believe their good luck. “Hot damn, now we’re cooking!” Briskly as possible, he crawled aside to let Drill get to work on removing the grill.
* * *
“They’re at it again,” Squee sighed.
Suddenly alert, Idow almost fell out of his chair. “What? Who? Where?”
“The United Dirtling Welcome Committee,” the lizard Communicator explained, exasperated at the native's persistence. Why didn't they just watch the broadcast? Oh, he wasn't broadcasting anymore. Oops. “This must be the Nth time they have called. On one of the higher bands of the electromagnetic spectrum, too. Actually, that's pretty impressive for primitives.”
“Answer them!” a voice of command barked.
The aliens recoiled in surprise, because it wasn't Leader Idow who had spoken, but Boztwank. Furiously, the fungi glared at his shipmates.
“Answer them!” he shrilled, gliding closer. “Let's end this charade! The tests are ruined, primitives are loose on the ship, and we’re about to lose our beloved Trell.” A fake tear welled from a lidless eye. “So let's talk to this welcome group, give them The Speech, and ruin their day too! Let's ruin everybody's day!” finished Boztwank on a slightly hysterical note.
Using only a moment to consider the idea, the rock, lizard and humanoid decided to go with the mushroom's plan. Yes, it was time to make the whole planet miserable.
Eager with impatience, Leader Idow buttoned his uniform into a more presentable appearance and fluffed his eyebrows. “Squee, are you ready to broadcast?”
The Communicator grinned from gill to gill. “On the mark, my Leader. Ready?”
* * *
“PEOPLE OF DIRT . . . ATTENTION.”
Startled by the unexpected broadcast, the FCT raised their heads to see the alien called Idow sneering down at then from the wall monitor. General Bronson removed the cigar from his mouth, Sir John put his glasses on, and Mohad exploded from the bathroom. Holding his pants closed with one hand, he leaped over the iron railing, dashed past his teammates and
“Watch where you’re going, stupid!” Hammer growled.
“Wasn't my fault, chief,” Drill denied with hurt innocence in his voice. “Crowbar slammed into me.”
“You lying sack of snot. I did not.”
“Did.”
“Not.”
“DID!”
“NOT!”
With a calloused thumb, Hammer clicked off the safety of his automatic pistol and the argument came to an abrupt halt. Ahead of him, Chisel was peeking through the next grill; the light coming through the metal lattice bright enough for him to see that the kid was grinning like a pimp on payday.
“What is it this time, pinhead?” the ganglord demanded rudely. “Their bathroom?”
Almost bursting with excitement, the boy turned and blinked at the darkness of the airshaft below him. “Geez, Hammer, you won't believe what's in here!” he gushed happily. “I think it's their,” he fumbled for the word. “You know, what the army has, a gun place. It's their armory!”
In a rush of adrenaline, Hammer quickly shouldered Chisel out of his way and peeked in for himself. Sure enough, the walls of the white room on the other side of the grill were filled with racks holding swords and spears and crazy, weird things with handles and slings. Most of the weapons he couldn't recognize, but the street punk could tell what some of them were. Rifles and pistols. Futuristic rifles and pistols. His mouth watered at the prospect.
“Jackpot!” Hammer breathed, unable to believe their good luck. “Hot damn, now we’re cooking!” Briskly as possible, he crawled aside to let Drill get to work on removing the grill.
* * *
“They’re at it again,” Squee sighed.
Suddenly alert, Idow almost fell out of his chair. “What? Who? Where?”
“The United Dirtling Welcome Committee,” the lizard Communicator explained, exasperated at the native's persistence. Why didn't they just watch the broadcast? Oh, he wasn't broadcasting anymore. Oops. “This must be the Nth time they have called. On one of the higher bands of the electromagnetic spectrum, too. Actually, that's pretty impressive for primitives.”
“Answer them!” a voice of command barked.
The aliens recoiled in surprise, because it wasn't Leader Idow who had spoken, but Boztwank. Furiously, the fungi glared at his shipmates.
“Answer them!” he shrilled, gliding closer. “Let's end this charade! The tests are ruined, primitives are loose on the ship, and we’re about to lose our beloved Trell.” A fake tear welled from a lidless eye. “So let's talk to this welcome group, give them The Speech, and ruin their day too! Let's ruin everybody's day!” finished Boztwank on a slightly hysterical note.
Using only a moment to consider the idea, the rock, lizard and humanoid decided to go with the mushroom's plan. Yes, it was time to make the whole planet miserable.
Eager with impatience, Leader Idow buttoned his uniform into a more presentable appearance and fluffed his eyebrows. “Squee, are you ready to broadcast?”
The Communicator grinned from gill to gill. “On the mark, my Leader. Ready?”
* * *
“PEOPLE OF DIRT . . . ATTENTION.”
Startled by the unexpected broadcast, the FCT raised their heads to see the alien called Idow sneering down at then from the wall monitor. General Bronson removed the cigar from his mouth, Sir John put his glasses on, and Mohad exploded from the bathroom. Holding his pants closed with one hand, he leaped over the iron railing, dashed past his teammates and
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