Atm (5 page)

Signing pathetically, the hand exclaimed, defeated, ‘
I will give you the ATM access codes! Please, no more. I will cooperate.’

“
You give up so easily, weak human pestilence hand,” replied the Intelligentsia officer, triumphantly sliding a single sheet of paper across the table. “First you will confess to being a Yankee dog imperialist spy, and to countless atrocities against innocent citizens of the Empire.”

‘
What atrocities?’ the hand signed.

“
Lots of atrocities and other bad stuff, including trespassing across the border,” answered the Intelligentsia officer, slapping the hand. “I’ll fill in the blanks later, you insolent wart-laden toad. Admit your guilt!”

‘
Yes, I did lots of bad stuff!’ signed the hand desperately. ‘I confess.’

“
I tire of your shameless sniveling,” advised the Intelligentsia offer, taking a break. “I’ll be back. When I return, I’ll have your full confession in writing. Stupid hand.”

* * * * *

Left alone, the hand scribbled a note on the sheet of paper. ‘Up yours. I’ll kill you all.’ He folded the paper into a long flat stick, then wedged the tip between the handcuff’s ratchet teeth and the lever spring inside the bar. The bar easily swung open. The hand climbed to a barred window, then up through an air shaft to freedom.
Stupid spiders. They will pay.

In stealth mode outside, the fugitive hand
hitched a ride, hanging onto the mangy underside of Hargundu, a self-employed postal camel. Thanks to previous connection with the vast ATM Network, the hand was knowledgeable about many subjects. Once a week, postal spiders loaded Hargundu with mail and care packages destined for the mountainous Autonomous Tribal District, known as the Roof of the World.

Primitive aboriginal spiders inhabited the high mountain plateau, evicted from their homeland on Arthropoda by the Empire to make way for a massive hydroelectric project.
To this day tribal members shunned production and use of electricity in protest of the injustice.

The
‘Wild Ones’ lived a primitive Stone Age life, and it cost them. Though they may be a throwback of the spider race, the tribe would not tolerate being thrown away. Wild Ones preserved their culture, and for that were admired by spider society. Studied by anthropologists and protected by treaty, they lived a simple life in mud huts. Naked to the world, they hunted with rock-tipped spears and walked bare-clawed. Tourists were prohibited from trespassing on the plateau, for fear of contaminating their egalitarian utopia.

* * * * *

At Taholah, the first stop on Hargundu’s route, villagers rushed get mail from the beloved camel. Chief Stone-Claw passed out junk mail and welfare checks. A box of cell phones was eagerly distributed. There was no cell phone service, but the primitive spiders greatly enjoyed taking pictures and listening to music. He released a sack of cats, discarded from the recent pet cat fad in New Gobi City. Wild Ones scrambled wildly in all directions, chasing and clubbing cats for dinner.

The hand emerged from the saddle bag.
Startled, Chief Stone-Claw drew his battle ax. He wearily circled the monstrous aberration, fearing attack. The hand moved subtly with the chief, giving him the one-fingered salute. Fascinated villagers returned the one-fingered salute, recognizing its phallic significance as an obvious sign of good luck. They knelt down in respect, hoping to get lucky tonight.

Chief
Stone-Claw knelt too, not wanting to be voted out of office by the fickle rabble so early in his first term. This odd alien visitor required study and deliberation before he risked bucking public opinion. Surely there was a reason the Empire sent this creature with the mail. He’d kill it later.

* * * * *

The hand clicked its fingers, its way of ‘seeing’ by echo location, similar to a bat’s radar. The crowd imitated the clicking, swaying back and forth in unison to the rhythm. Hoping to communicate, and possibly obtain greater inner meaning and world peace, spiders adjusted their translation software devices for sign language.

* * * * *

Hargundu, jealous that the hand was getting more attention than him, spit on the ground.

Ingrates!
After all the truffles and mushrooms I’ve sniffed out of the snow. Don’t they know this thing is just a discarded hand, refuse on the trash heap of humanity?

Nobody was even brushing Hargundu
’s fur free of flees, lice, and hairballs. He lunged at the hand, teeth bared.

Chief
Stone-Claw, apparently fearing confrontation, adroitly snatched the hand, stuffing it into a pouch for safekeeping. The hand struggled, but resistance was futile.

* * * * *

General Daly called me, again waking me from a nap. “Colonel, I want you to rescue Private Atm’s hand,” he ordered.

Really?

“By now, you know Private Atm carries embedded prototype micro chips. It’s a CIA project assigned to Major Lopez.”

“Why wasn’t I informed of this?” I objected.

“Sorry, it was need-to-know, and you had no need to know. When Private Atm lost his arm to terrorists, it created a security breach. We cannot let that chip technology fall into the Empire’s claws. You will rescue that arm or destroy it.”

“
How do you suggest that be done?” I asked. “The terrorists fled north across the border.”

“
Per treaty, the spider governor has agreed to allow your battalion to pursue the bandits. GPS tracking will lead you to the hand. All you have to do is pretend you are trying to locate a kidnapped legionnaire, and grab the hand. Understand?”

“
Yes, sir.”

* * * * *

The spider commander chose to not inform the Governor of the North Territory that a captured human pestilence cyborg hand had escaped. When the governor ordered cooperation with the Americans in finding an abducted legionnaire, it provided the perfect cover for setting things right. The commander would get the escaped hand back before anyone found out. Obviously the Legion intended to follow signals from an embedded tracking device. He would follow the legionnaires and seize the human pestilence hand for himself.

Already
, a column of Czerinski’s armored cars had arrogantly crossed the border at New Gobi City. Veering sharply east, they drove straight for the forbidden mountains and the Autonomous Tribal District, a provocation that could not be allowed, no matter what the governor ordered. Arthropodan marines raced to catch up, tasked with escorting the Legion safely through the Badlands.

Oddly,
the Legion column stopped at the remote native village of Taholah. The village was nothing more than a string of mud huts. Its name, roughly translated from native tongue, was ‘Land of Fish Molesters.’ The spider commander adjusted his translation device, checking database information on fish molester cults. No data found. Possibly the name had been garbled by antiquity, or it meant spider-fisher, or fish poacher. Whatever, it was another reason to not eat fish.

Chapter 7

Wild Ones greeted the first Legion armored car by pelting it with a hailstorm of small round rocks.
A nuisance, the rocks pinged harmlessly off the plating. I ordered legionnaires to hold fire, still hoping to get cooperation. The GPS indicated Private Atm’s hand was close ... at hand.
Yes, I really said that.

An Arthropodan marine armored car raced to the head of the column, inter
jecting itself between us and the natives. The spider commander popped out of the hatch, a claw raised, obviously hoping to avoid bloodshed.

“
They mean no physical harm,” he explained. “They are merely showing you Legion human pestilence utmost disrespect, as is their right and patriotic duty as citizens of the Empire.”

“
Make them stop,” I ordered. “Take me to their leader.”

“
Wait a few minutes. Let them have their fun.”

The rocks, stained by an unknown oily substance, had a putrid odor.
The substance stuck to my fingers. “What’s this?” I asked, sniffing a small rock.

“
The Wild Ones don’t use toilet paper,” explained the spider commander, amused. “You’ve been shit-rocked, a fate befitting all you human pestilence.”

I dropped down, sealing the hatch, wiping oil off my vest.
Sick!
I fired a single cannon round into the first mud hut. The shit-rocking stopped immediately. The spider commander was furious, but I ignored his rant. Chief Stone-Claw approached hurriedly with a spider delegation, waving a white flag.

“
Welcome to most beautiful and peaceful Taholah, the center of the world, place of love and family,” greeted Chief Stone-Claw, warmly giving me a hug and dangling a magic friendship charm in my face. “May the Forces of Evil become confused on the way to your domicile.”

Other Wild Ones jumped up on the turrets
, trying to hug legionnaires, almost getting shot for their effort. Legionnaires don’t hug aliens, or anyone else. It’s a law. Don’t ask. Chief Stone-Claw presented me with the Ceremonial Ax to the City as villagers took pictures. Some wore tinfoil caps for protection against microwaves. Others just clicked their claws at us humans. Odd habit.

“
Thank you,” I replied. “We are searching for a missing legionnaire, abducted by aliens. Have you seen any other humans pass this way, or their body parts?”

“
You are the first human pestilence visitors, ever. I have heard of you human pestilence, and seen pictures, but had no idea you were so ugly in person.”

“
Ditto, Fred Flintstone. Where’s Barney Rebel?”

“
I have not seen Barney, either.”

I could sense the
chief was lying, but had to tread lightly. The spider commander was upset about the damaged mud hut. My GPS indicated we were right on top of Atm’s hand, but where was it? A mural on the wall of one of the mud huts depicted a human hand, missing one pinky finger, giving the one fingered salute. I pointed to drawing. “Care to explain that?”

“
It’s just graffiti,” explained Chief Stone-Claw, fidgeting nervously with his pouch. “Young punks today are into rap science fiction. They have no respect for the traditional ways. Someone wash that rubbish off!”

“
What’s in the bag?” I asked.

“
Nothing!” answered Stone-Claw, backing away.

“
What’s the matter with you? What are you hiding?”

“
He’s stoned,” advised medic Ceausescu. “Check it out. All eight eyes are dilated.”

“
She’s right,” added Corporal Tonelli. “I just traded some weed for a baggie of magic mushrooms. They’re all stoners, big time. They can’t get enough weed.”

“
That would explain the infernal clicking. Shut that noise up!”

The crowd went silent.
A whiff of weed floated gently on the breeze. Old spider, young spider, feeling right, on cold New Gobi Night. I got more angry.

Sensing a confrontation, the spider commander held up a claw.
“By treaty, this village is quarantined from the many ills of human pestilence contamination. All interrogations will be done by a trained Intelligentsia officer sensitive to native ways. Do not fret. We will find your lost legionnaire soon enough.”

An ugly
, mangy camel made a high pitched bleat. He seemed to be mocking us. I looked more closely and recognized him. “Torture that camel!” I ordered, pointing at Hargundu. “I can tell by his smirk that he knows something!”

Legionnaires and spider marines pummeled Hargundu, dragging him off to be tethered to an armored car bumper.
Hargundu resisted, kicking and spitting, but resistance was futile.

“
Search every hut. I want this dump turned upside down until we find our lost legionnaire!”

* * * * *

“I don’t see what the big deal is,” complained Private Atm as they kicked in another door to a mud hut. “I don’t care about my old hand. One hand is as good as another. It’s just spare parts.”

“
You’re an odd duck,” replied Private Krueger, covering Atm’s advance through the open doorway. “It’s our job to kill terrorists. Keep an eye out!”

“
There are no terrorists here. This dump is so remote, there isn’t even database reception.”

“
I know. I’m already having withdrawal symptoms. I got the shakes.”

“
There’s not even an ATM,” lamented Private Atm, longing for family. “We’ve dropped off the end of the world.”

“
ATMs are way overrated,” groused Corporal Tonelli. “They’re always muscling in on my business. I say whack them all.”