America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 5: Insurgency (12 page)

“So, no hard feelings about roughing you up
in the tunnels under New Gobi?” asked Desert Claw. “I apologize for
that. I was just trying to impress the new recruits.”

“Your apology is accepted,” I said. “To be
truthful, I was hoping you were among the dead at the Miranda
homestead. But since you seem to have a knack for survival, a trait
I respect, I guess I’m stuck with you.” We shook hands and
claws.

“You aren’t serious about taking payoffs from
that cretin are you?” asked Valerie. “If so, I have sorely
overestimated your character.”

“I am drunk, out-numbered, and out-gunned,” I
explained, as we left. “I would have told Desert Claw anything he
wanted to hear, just to get out of a tight spot.”

“So you will not be bought off?” asked
Valerie. “That’s quite a relief, sweetie.”

“It’s not that simple, dear,” I said. “There
are a lot of factors to be considered. First, I have to discuss the
matter with Captain Lopez.”

I punched a button on my communications pad.
Valerie disappeared. The process reminded me of putting a genie
back into its bottle. I went outside for fresh air. The sun was
already coming up to begin a new day. I spotted a real estate
office across the street, and decided to give them my business.

“May I help you, sir?” asked an attractive
realtor, Monica Moore.

“I am interested in cemetery plots,” I said.
“How does one buy cemetery plots in volume?”

“Are you expecting another war?” asked
Monica, alarmed.

“I hope not,” I said. “War is bad for
tourists.”

“I am sorry, sir, but this is a boutique
realty,” said Monica. “We deal in high-end properties and conduct
businesses by appointment only. If you want to buy cemetery plots,
I suggest you contact a mortuary.”

“You don’t understand,” I said. “I do not
want to just buy a few plots. I want to buy whole cemeteries. I
might even buy a string of cemeteries across New Colorado and the
galaxy. But for now, I just want to buy one upscale cemetery in New
Memphis that uses the latest memorial brain imprint technology.
It’s the rage on Old Earth, and I think the technology can catch on
here on New Colorado. What would it cost to get into the cemetery
business?”

“I repeat, sir, I don’t think I can help
you,” said Monica. “What business are you in now?”

“I’m a colonel in the Legion,” I said,
placing my backpack on her desk. “And I make more money than you
can spend. This backpack contains three quarters of a million in
cash. Cash is as good as money, and I have more where that came
from. I want you to find me an upscale cemetery.”

“I’ll put your money in our safe until the
accountants can sort through it,” promised Monica, now more
friendly. “And I’ll talk to my associates. Maybe I can help you
after all. I have always felt New Colorado should upgrade its tacky
frontier cemeteries. Perhaps we can discuss this over dinner? You
can tell me more about your business plans.”

“It’s a date,” I said. “I would love to have
you for dinner. I’m staying in an executive suite atop Harrah’s
Casino Resort Hotel. You should see the view. It’s fantastic. I’ll
show you my tusks. We can order dinner and breakfast from room
service so we can discuss all my plans. You like to hot tub?”

* * * * *

“Laika Barker must die,” said Sir Babloo
Srivastava VII. He sat uncomfortably, nursing a broken arm, broken
leg, and broken ribs. “My cartel stands to lose about two hundred
million dollars if Barker lives five more months.”

“Why are you telling us your problems?” asked
Saviano Juardo. “I’m no longer into gambling. Gambling is addictive
and evil. Drugs are much better.”

“I thought you would be interested in Barker
because Barker used to be a business associate of your late Uncle
Rudy,” replied Babloo. “Rumors persist that Barker played a role in
your uncle’s death at the hands of the Legion.”

“The New Gobi Desert is a dangerous place,”
said Juardo with a sigh. “She swallows up many. I don’t hold
grudges.”

“That’s unusual for an Italian,” commented
Babloo. “Barker double-crossed your uncle. I would think that would
make it personal. I came to you because you have the only muscle in
the New Gobi that can touch Barker. I need you.”

“There will be no vendetta,” replied Juardo.
“Vendettas are old-fashioned and bad for business.”

“We have a truce with the Legion,” added
Desert Claw, not wanting to be excluded from this conversation
between human pestilence. “Even though Barker lost his rank and is
just a private, he cannot be harmed by us without violating the
truce.”

“I heard you know Barker personally,”
responded Babloo. “Does that factor into your decision not to help
me with my problem?”

“Barker is a dangerous man,” said Desert
Claw. “I would not call him a friend, but I do not have anything
against him either.”

“Who do you think set you up at the Miranda
homestead?” asked Babloo. “You walked into a trap. That’s the same
place Rudy Juardo died, too. It was all Barker’s doing.”

“I can understand your dislike for Barker,”
said Desert Claw. “I heard Barker was the one who recently dropped
a nasty surprise on your office.”

“Yes,” said Babloo. “I was talking to Barker
on the phone when it happened. He was complaining about the betting
action on his life when the Legion’s Space Weapons Platform T.
Roosevelt bombed my office building. Only luck allowed me to
survive. The blast threw me out a large plate-glass window. Now, I
hobble along in this body cast on crutches with my arm in a
sling!”

“And you want us to draw that kind of heat?”
asked Juardo. “No! It would be bad for business. I can’t go back on
my word by breaking the truce. That would be bad for business,
too.”

“I’ll pay five million dollars for Barker’s
timely death,” offered Babloo. “That’s a very generous
contract.”

“Fifteen million dollars would be more
generous,” countered Desert Claw. “We have to be compensated for
the risk.”

“Ten million dollars is as high as I can go,”
said Babloo. “Please allow me some profit.”

“Okay, I will kill Barker for ten million,”
agreed Desert Claw. “But only because you are a good friend and
business associate.”

“Wait!” said Juardo. “This is bullshit. You
are willing to incur the wrath of the Legion and jeopardize my
whole operation? No way. We have a good thing going here. Our
growth potential in the New Gobi is unlimited. I’m not risking that
for chump change.”

“Colonel Czerinski will hit us sooner or
later, anyway,” said Desert Claw. “Ten million dollars is not chump
change. Besides, I control what happens in the New Gobi. You worry
about New Memphis.”

“At least make it look like an accident,”
suggested Juardo. “You owe me that.”

“Fine,” said Desert Claw. “Maybe I will kill
Colonel Czerinski, too.”

“Just make sure you kill him on the first
attempt,” warned Juardo. “I’ve heard Czerinski has nine lives and
is very vindictive.”

“I have heard that, too,” said Desert Claw.
“Don’t worry.”

“If you draw heat on my operation, I will cut
you loose,” threatened Juardo. “Understand?”

“Whatever,” said Desert Claw. “Yadda, yadda,
yadda,” he added, trying to use hip Old Earth New York Italian
lingo.

* * * * *

Desert Claw approached the town of Redrock
with a delivery of blue powder for the local cassiterite miners.
Cassiterite was a rare derivative of tin used in electronics and
computers. The miners made good pay for incredibly boring work, and
could not buy enough blue powder for recreational use. Business was
good.

Up ahead, a lone human carrying a backpack
walked along the dusty highway. Desert Claw stopped to talk. “A
human pestilence should know better than to be walking alone out
here,” commented Desert Claw. “Are you not worried about bandits?
Or are you just crazy?”

“No one in this story would dare harm me,”
scoffed the human. He was tall, good-looking, and distinguished. “I
cannot be touched by the likes of you.”

“Who are you, to be so arrogant?” asked
Desert Claw, unslinging his assault rifle. “Do I know you?”

“My name is Walt. To you I am God.”

“If you are God, then you have nothing to
fear from my bullets,” commented Desert Claw. “Shall we try an
experiment to determine the matter?”

“With one stroke of my pen, lightning bolts
will strike you down, Mr. Claw,” threatened Walt as he scribbled on
a notepad. Thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. “Don’t you
know the pen is mightier than the sword?”

“You had better be more careful about running
your mouth,” warned Desert Claw. “I do not care for that tone of
disrespect in your human pestilence voice. I do not have a sword,
but this rifle will ruin your day just fine.”

“I liked you better as a swashbuckling
insurgent leader roaming the desert one step ahead of the Legion,”
commented Walt. “The lowlife drug dealer you have become disgusts
me. You have been painted into a corner. Go back to the rock you
crawled out from under.”

“That does it!” yelled Desert Claw, aiming
his rifle and pulling the trigger. Miraculously, all the bullets
missed.

“You won’t last long!” exclaimed Walt, as the
dust cleared. “I am going to erase you from this story quicker than
the time it takes to fire my literary agent. My only dilemma is
whether your death will be slow and painful, or fast and
painful!”

Desert Claw fumbled to slide another magazine
into his assault rifle.

Walt winked. “I’m just having a little fun
messing with you, Claw. You’re an ogre and such an easy target. Oh
– and if I ever get my novel published, I want it printed on
acid-free paper.” He shrugged. “I have no idea what that means, but
it seems important somehow.”

A sudden dust storm swept over them,
obscuring all vision past ten feet. After the dust storm passed,
the charismatic and handsome Walt was gone.

back to top

Chapter 14

Desert Claw called the spider commander of
New Gobi by phone, insisting he had vital information. Finally the
receptionist transferred the call.

“If what you have to say is so important,
feel free to come by my office in person,” suggested the spider
commander. “My door will never be closed to you.”

“And face arrest?” asked Desert Claw. “I do
not think so.”

“Stop wasting my time,” said the spider
commander. “What do you want? This had better not be another bomb
threat. I’m not evacuating any more post offices.”

“Insurgents dressed in marine uniforms are
going to use shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles to shoot down
the Royal Shuttle when the Emperor and Queen Rainbow land at the
Capital Spaceport for the Queen’s birthday celebration,” said
Desert Claw. “Insurgents will be parked in military trucks just
outside the Spaceport perimeter fence.”

“How do you know this?” asked the spider
commander.

“I planned the attack,” said Desert Claw.
“But I am getting out of the insurgency racket. I am a respected
businessman now.”

“Running drugs for the Mafia is not a
respected business,” commented the spider commander. “Stop putting
on airs.”

“I do not know about that,” said Desert Claw.
“Some of my associates may be running drugs, but not me. I am in
marketing.”

“Why are you telling me of this plot to
assassinate the Royal Couple?” asked the spider commander. “Renewed
patriotic fervor?”

“I want amnesty. I want to lead a normal life
and be free to concentrate on my import-export business.”

“We will have taken adequate precautions even
without your help. Why should you receive amnesty for revealing a
plot you are responsible for hatching?”

“Because my part in the assassination attempt
is just a small part of a much larger conspiracy,” explained Desert
Claw. “If the assassination attempt is successful, elements of your
command and of the Legion are poised to unite in mutiny in hopes of
forming a totally independent government on New Colorado. Surely
that information is worth amnesty.”

“I will submit your amnesty request to the
governor,” promised the spider commander. “We shall see.”

After his conversation with the spider
commander, Desert Claw called General Kalipetsis and gave him the
same information about the Imperial assassination plot, and about
the mutiny. Then he added a special twist to the story. “Colonel
Czerinski plans to lead the entire First Division in mutiny,” said
Desert Claw. “When Czerinski seizes command, one of his commandos,
Private Laika Barker, will assassinate you with a sniper rifle
outside your office in New Phoenix.”

“Why should I believe this outlandish tale of
lies?” asked General Kalipetsis.

“I have no reason to lie,” answered Desert
Claw. “I want amnesty. I need to tell the truth to get my
amnesty.”

“I do not believe a word of your rot,”
scoffed General Kalipetsis. “Give me proof of what you say!”

“Proof will become self-evident as the
conspiracy unfolds,” said Desert Claw. “I have already told the
Arthropodan Supreme Commander about the missile attack. Contact the
commander yourself. Better yet, arrest Laika Barker and make him
talk.”

“As a show of good faith, you will come to my
office and talk to me face to face,” suggested General Kalipetsis.
“I’ll place you in protective custody until it becomes more clear
how your tale is going to play itself out.”

“You think I am a fool?” asked Desert Claw.
“I do not want your protection. I want amnesty!”

Desert Claw hung up. He would call General
Kalipetsis back after the general had a chance to verify the
information given and contemplate more conspiracy theories.