America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War (10 page)

The sight of blood and smell of burning bone was sickening, even to a seasoned combat veteran such as the spider commander. Something was terribly wrong. The Intelligentsia officer examined the X-ray again, discovering it had been upside down. “Oops, wrong side!” he exclaimed contritely. He poured vodka over the wound and sealed it with duct tape before boring earnestly into the back of Coen’s scalp.

“Is the human pestilence going to be okay?” asked the spider commander, alarmed at the amount of blood spilled on his ruined desk. “I might need Coen for another mission.”

“Research shows damaged human pestilence brain tissue grows back. He’ll be okay after a few beers, when the pain stops.”

* * * * *

As Coen staggered from Marine Headquarters, wearing a Nike cap to obscure two large scars. He drank from a vodka bottle gifted by the spider commander to dull the pain of his splitting headache. Coen didn’t drive far when he plowed into the back of a slowing car. Almost immediately, Arthropodan police were on the scene to investigate.

“Sir, have you been drinking?” asked the spider police officer suspiciously. “The Empire has a no tolerance policy about drinking and driving.”

“Only one vodka,” slurred Coen. “And maybe morphine. Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Sir, suspected drunk drivers are required to blow into a portable breathalyzer pad,” advised the spider police officer, put off by that part about ‘Do you have any idea who I am?’ “It’s the law.”

“If I don’t? I’m an American citizen on an important diplomatic mission, with lots of immunity. I’ll have your job if I’m accosted in the slightest.”

“Blow,” ordered the spider police officer, handing Coen the pad. “Do it now.”

“Fine!” Coen took a deep breath and blew. The reading showed three times the legal limit allowed for human pestilence. Toxicology data and incriminating video was immediately emailed to traffic court. A red light on the pad flashed.

“Sir, the Court has found you guilty of being a human pestilence driving while intoxicated.”

“On what evidence?” protested Coen.

“Sir, it’s technical. Do you wish to appeal?”

“Hell yes, you damn bug. Get your filthy claws off me!”

“Appeals cost fifty thousand credits. Swipe your card on the pad if you wish to file an appeal.”

Coen swiped his card. This time a loud buzzer sounded along with the flashing red light. “I’m sorry sir, but you lost your appeal,” advised the spider police officer.

“Call your military commander!” shouted Coen, losing patience with buzzers and flashing lights. “Your commander is a personal friend...”

The spider police officer drew his pistol and summarily executed Coen, shooting him in the head, in accordance with Imperial law and local traffic codes. Coen died immediately. A tow truck crushed his car into a compact metal square with Coen still in it, and hauled it to the border checkpoint where it was deposited along with other drunk-driving human pestilence tourists in their compacted vehicles.

Chapter 14

The football game played to a packed stadium. Outlaw Beer flowed freely. Exuberant fans and guards fired pistols into the air. A chain-link fence topped with concertina wire surrounded the playing field. There would be no escapes today.

I played tight-end, and was one of the captains lined up in a circle at mid-field on the flying Pyro-Pigs emblem for the traditional game-starting coin flip. Bubba Jones Junior, the spitting image of his long deceased dad, cordially shook hands. Bubba Junior gave no hint of recognizing me, though he wore the same gold chains that Bubba Senior stole from me so many years ago on Mars.

Inmate Coles started the game, kicking off to the guards. Quarterback Tebow handed the ball off on the first play from scrimmage, then surprised everyone on the next play by faking the hand off and running seventy-eight yards for a touchdown. He broke numerous tackles along the way. Bubba Junior, playing middle linebacker, missed an easy tackle. He became more animated as the game went on.

The debut of Blue-Claw as running back, featured in the I-formation, created quite a stir. Unstoppable, the inmates continued to run sweep plays. With four feet on the ground, Blue-Claw cut corners sharper than was humanly possible, running for big gains. Blue-Claw’s stiff arms made it look easy, using his claw and three hands to toss human players aside. Quickly the score was tied 7-7.

Tebow’s tricky running and Blue-Claws quickness made for a high scoring tight game, 28-35, inmates leading late in the fourth quarter. The Pyro-Pigs rallied, driving to the five yard line with a minute left. Tebow ran the ball to the one yard line. Coach McCoy called a pass, but Tebow rejected the play, running the ball himself for the touchdown.

The Pyro-Pigs went for the two point conversion. Private Higuera was brought in to block at full-back. The line angled their blocks in. Tebow faked the run up the middle, giving the ball to me on an end-around. I ran wide, only Bubba Junior between me and victory. As Bubba Junior came up to make the tackle, he pulled a shank from his sock. “This one’s for Dad, punk!” he shouted, lunging for the kill.

Major Lopez, high in the pig’s nest covering the game with a sniper’s rifle, shot Bubba Junior in the head. The 50-cal round exploded Junior’s helmet into a red mist of brains and plastic. I side-stepped the gore, untouched into the end zone, leaping backwards across the goal line, grabbing my crotch Seahawks style.
We won!
The play went viral on the Galactic Database.

Fans pressed the fence in celebration. Gunfire echoed off stadium walls. Unnoticed in the confusion, the eye of the Pyro-Pig emblem at mid-field gave ground from a collapsed tunnel dug by the Polish Cartel. Blue-Claw and Charles Coles dropped down the spider hole to freedom, but not before giving the one-fingered salute to crowd. “See you in Hell, bitches!” Caught on Sports Center instant replay, Blue-Claw’s defiant gesture also went viral.

* * * * *

It was a race to get to Star Pawn in North Gobi City before Blue-Claw. CIA Agent Casey stayed with me to safeguard the anti-gravity device – it can’t be put down. To create cover for the Legion commando raid, I activated the alien artifact by turning the knob to full throttle, whipping up a deadly dust tornado that blanketed all of North New Gobi City. I personally led an armored car full of legionnaires through the dust storm. Arthropodan soldiers and armor were swept away like toys in our wake. At Star Pawn I rolled over an Old Earth 66 Chrysler Imperial while crashing the front door. The spider owner, Old-Claw, his son Big-Claw, and his grandson Little-Claw, were not happy about the break-in or the car.

“I want all your alien artifacts,” I demanded, pointing my assault rifle menacingly. “Blue-Claw gave you up, so don’t try to play me. I want it all!”

“Or what?” asked Old-Claw. “You will shoot me? Go ahead. I’m too old to care!”

“I’ll shoot your family.”

“Those idiots? Go ahead, make my day.”

“I don’t suppose torture will work?” I asked, lowering my weapon and motioning legionnaires to search the shop. “I’ll burn you out.”

“No matter,” sneered Old-Claw. “There’s too much junk for your soldiers to sniff through, even if they knew what to look for, which they don’t.”

“You either come to terms with me, or with Blue-Claw,” I argued reasonably. “Blue-Claw won’t be so generous. Give me what I want.”

“Give? I scoff in your general direction.”

“Uncle Sam has deep pockets,” interjected Agent Casey. “The CIA is authorized to pay a million dollars for the lot.”

“Twenty million,” countered Old-Claw, knowing a sucker when he saw one. “And I want Colonel Czerinski’s corpse.”

“You have a deal,” replied Agent Casey, drawing his pistol.

I pointed my rifle at Casey. Old-Claw produced an antique shotgun from under the counter. Legionnaires pointed weapons at everyone. Little-Claw found a grenade. Big-Claw ran when his idiot son pulled the pin.

“Wait!” I ordered. “No one gets my corpse.”

“Not now, you idiots!” explained Old-Claw, setting the shotgun down. “I knew who you were the second you crashed in the door. You’re Colonel Joey R. Czerinski, Hero of the Legion, Butcher of New Colorado, Butcher of the Web, and galactic porn star extraordinaire. Your work is sic. When you die, I want to display your corpse under glass as a roadside curiosity, like the big spool of twine or the Thing. It will draw tourists and increase ratings for my reality TV show,
Star Pawns
. It’s about to go into syndication. That’s where the big money is. Do we have a deal? It’s not like you’ll need your corpse after you die.”

“Sounds reasonable,” added Agent Casey, holstering his pistol.

“Can’t you use a wax dummy or something?” I suggested.

“No, it’s not the same. We’re going for the morbid human pestilence horror market. They’re real picky.”

“I want a kickback on some of that twenty million dollars,” I bargained, always the tough negotiator. I’ve dealt with spiders before.

“I’ll pay you three million if you throw in the corpse of world-famous science fiction writer Walter Knight,” offered Old-Claw, this not his first human pestilence rodeo. “I also want an autographed copy of Knight’s latest book, Time Machine.”

“Five million, and don’t tell Private Knight about rights to his corpse. Knight enlisted for the duration, which means his ass and royalties belong to the Legion after he dies, no matter what Penumbra Publishing says.”

“We have a deal,” agreed Old-Claw, shaking hands and claws. Old-Claw swiped his ATM card on Agent Casey’s communications pad.

Excited, Little-Claw dropped his grenade, further confirming his family’s suspicion that there was no way he hatched from the same nest. The grenade slowly rolled across the floor as Little-Claw stared. Legionnaires dove for cover. The explosion rocked the store.

“Idiot!” exclaimed Old-Claw. “Is the fool hurt?”

“Sergeant Green held up a few body parts. “He’s banged up a bit, but he’ll be okay when the pain stops. You spiders grow back your legs, right?”

“
You spiders?
”

Medic Ceausescu rushed to perform emergency first aid, using duct tape and super glue to patch Little-Claw back together. He still looked like puzzle parts. “You’re a human pestilence angel of mercy,” gushed Little-Claw, falling into morphine induced love with Ceausescu.

“Shut up,” snapped Ceausescu, trying to apply duct tape to his lips. “Duct tape can’t fix stupid, but it sure can muffle the sound.”

“How will I wipe my poop-chute when I have to go?” cried Little-Claw, lamenting his taped claws. “Dad? Granddad?”

“Shut up, son. It won’t be me.”

“But we’re family!”

“I’m getting DNA tested. You cannot possibly be sired from my loins.”

Disgusted, Old-Claw led me to a backroom safe. He removed a multi-jeweled necklace, a gold cup, and some metal tablets engraved with alien scribble. I expected more.

“The tablets are an instruction manual for your storm maker,” explained Old-Claw. “The cup is solid gold, and the bling is bad-ass. What, you want more?”

“For twenty million? Hell, yes.”

“I will take it back if you want,” offered Old-Claw. “I am sure the Empire would be interested in deciphering the tablets.”

“We’ll keep the artifacts,” interjected Agent Casey. “I do want more. Where did the alien artifacts come from?”

“A prospector wondered in on a camel and pawned the stuff cheap. Didn’t leave a name.”

“Human or spider?” I pressed, doubtful of the story.

“Spider.”

“Anything unusual about the camel? Maybe a Legion brand?”

“Funny you mentioned that. The camel always seemed to be smirking, like it was up to something ... perverted.”

“I see. I think I know that camel.”

* * * * *

Our negotiations with Old-Claw were secretly broadcast live on Arthropodan Cable TV as the next episode of
Star Pawns
. Ratings soared. The spider commander and his Intelligentsia officer listened in on our plans. Soon Arthropodan marines surrounded the pawn shop. I pointed the anti-gravity device at the spider troops, but its battery went dead.
Murphy’s law strikes again. Damn unlucky Irish.

“Do you have more batteries?” I asked Old-Claw frantically. “I have no power!”

“More alien batteries?” scoffed Old-Claw, peering out the window at the Arthropodan armor. “Get real. It sucks to be you.”

“I won’t die alone,” I threatened, pressing my rifle against his mandibles. “Do you have a tunnel under your shop? A spider hole?”

“How did you know?” asked Old-Claw, pointing to the stairs.

“Czerinski, you are under arrest for committing an act of war against the Empire!” blared the spider commander’s voice over a loud speaker. “If you care not for your own malevolent life, think of your insignificant legionnaires! Surrender, and they will be afforded treaty protections granted to all human pestilence terrorists during time of war.”