First Contact (5 page)

* * * * *

The rover took immediate evasive action upon being tracked by a surface to air missile, avoiding direct impact damage from the blast, but the electromagnetic pulse caused a temporary shut down of some systems. The rover crashed in a remote region of the New Gobi Desert.

Smooth and the rover found themselves surrounded by a camp of scorpions. Dune buggies emerged from the dust, headlights on. A prominent banner overhead flapped in the breeze:
God, Goodyear, and Gatorade
. A scorpion got out of a dune buggy, taking off his black helmet.

“
Outstanding!” exclaimed Dirt-Sting. “You are the first human to arrive at our race. Welcome human, to the New Gobi 1000!”

“
Race?” asked Smooth. “Out here?”

“
Of course,” answered Dirt-Sting, slapping Smooth on the back with a claw. “The New Gobi offers one thousand miles of the roughest terrain on the planet. Lots of luck winning the grand prize, though. A Toyota has never won.”

“
My Toyota can win any race.”

“
So you say. Don’t lag behind. Losers get eaten.”

“
How much is the grand prize?”

“
Half a million dollars. Rigs from all over the galaxy are racing.”

“
How much is the entry fee?”

“
Ten thousand dollars. Most sponsors pay the fee. Is Toyota too cheap, or are you thinking of going independent, picking up a sponsor later?”

“
We’re independent. Can I pay my fee with blue powder?” asked Smooth, holding out a baggie.

“
Most certainly,” answered Dirt-Stinger, enthusiastically snatching the powder. “You have more? All the drivers will be wanting to buy your powder. It heightens senses and reaction time. How did you ever get that much powder past the Legion and spider check points?”

“
I’m well connected,” bragged Smooth, bravado taking hold. “Tell everyone I have enough blue powder to light up the whole New Gobi.”

“
I’ll do that!”

* * * * *

“Can you win this race?” asked Smooth. “I’m not worried about the local talent, but the prize money might draw a few ringers.”

“
Easily,” assured the rover. “I do not need refueling stops, and my superior technology gives me a definite edge over their machines and drivers.”

“
I don’t want just an edge. I want a guarantee. Can you win this thing for sure?”

“
I could cheat.”

“
Cheat? Yes, that’s what I want. Cheat. How will you cheat?”

“
I can bombard the competition from my space platform.”

“
Like what you did to Burger King? That was you, wasn’t it? I knew that dive wasn’t hit by a meteor. But we need to be sly. A well-placed laser hit, but the damage has to look like an accident or mechanical failure. You can do that?”

“
Easily.”

* * * * *

Smooth came to a decision, trading his Grim Reapers jacket for a bright red fireproof racing suit. Street gangs were for chumps, it was time to move on. Gangsta-Claw was right. It was time to elevate his game and make some real money. Smooth called his bookie in New Memphis.

“
I want to place ten million dollars on Toyota Pride to win the New Gobi 1000. You know I’m good for it.”

“
No, I don’t know you’re good for it,” replied Ricardo at Bonanno & Associates. “I hear the Legion is looking for all you Grim Reapers. We even have a line on how long you will last before Czerinski catches or kills you.”

“
I’ll take some of that action. Roll over my profits from winning this race.”

“
And how will you pay me?”

“
Check my account!” boasted Smooth, swiping his card on his communications pad. “I’ve made a lot of cash in the import/export business. See for yourself. I’m good for it.”

“
Can you send some blue powder my way?” asked Ricardo, placing the wager. “How are you all of a sudden a major player? You’re not connected.”

“
I don’t need your Mafia,” lied Smooth. “I have my own organization. I have the Reapers.”

“
The odds of you winning the New Gobi 1000 are about one hundred to one,” advised Ricardo. “If you pull this off, you will be connected. I’ll even hook you up with our galactic distribution people.”

“
Whatever. I’ll be hooking
you
up, chump. I’ll own this planet.”

* * * * *

Whatever we shot down, it crashed over the Scorpion City colony. I deployed half my battalion to the eastern New Gobi Desert for the search. The Scorpion City National Guard joined us. Media from across the galaxy was already present to cover the New Gobi 1000 race. Major Desert-Sting of the Scorpion National Guard met me at the race staging area.

“
Lots of racers saw the UFO fall from the sky,” reported Major Desert-Sting. “But no one saw it crash. Perhaps those spiders landed a shuttle nearby to spy on us.”

“
Spy on the New Gobi 1000?” I asked. “Not likely. It wasn’t a spider craft. It was someone else, maybe a probe from the Scorpion Kingdom sowing dissidence. Did you hear North New Gobi City was burned down by arsonists?”

“
Scorpion-Americans are completely loyal,” bristled Desert-Sting. ”Too bad, so sad, about those crispy-burned spiders, but we do not plot sedition.”

“
Has there been anything unusual out here lately?”

“
Just you humans showing up for our race. Usually you can’t tolerate the residual radiation from past wars. If radiation sickness does not kill you, surely the desert will.”

“
I’m not worried about the desert.”

“
Everything in the desert bites, pokes, or stings. And laggards get eaten.”

“
The Legion goes were it pleases.”

“
I’m not talking about the Legion,” explained Desert-Sting, motioning to the starting line. “I am talking about that fancy Toyota. Everyone knows humans can’t drive, and fancy gets killed out here in the New Gobi.”

Sure enough. Brightly painted Toyota Pride sat surrounded by scorpion drivers and tourists.
“Arrest that driver!”

“
What, start a riot? Look around you, Czerinski. This isn’t your cushy garrison back in New Gobi City. You are in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by thousands of hungry scorpion fans. Maybe you could arrest that driver after the race, but not before. The New Gobi 1000 is our Super Bowl of racing. No one messes with the Super Bowl.”

“
Then I’m entering the race,” I announced. “Sign me up.”

“
You can’t race a Legion armored car. There’s a rule against machine guns and cannons.”

“
Show me the rule,” I argued, accessing the entry form on my communications pad. “You can’t just make up rules.”

“
Just because the rule isn’t written down doesn’t mean it does not exist,” protested Desert-Sting.

“
I didn’t think so,” I said smugly, paying the entry fee. “There’s no rule.”

“
I will not permit you to cheat. There will be no machine gun and cannon!”

“
Don’t forget our missiles and RPGs.”

“
Don’t mock me. The integrity of the race is at stake. There’s big money wagered on the outcome.”

“
Even better. Try to stop me. You said it yourself. This is the Super Bowl. I’m a racer. You won’t dare interfere!”

* * * * *

At the starting line, scorpions swarmed over the armored car to touch my uniform, sending a chemical message through the throng of fans about the famed Butcher of New Colorado entering their race. What an event this year’s race would be. Weapons were not only allowed, but encouraged. The bigger and badder, the better! This is America, baby! Mechanics were already attaching various improvised Gatling weapon systems.

Before I could reach the Toyota Pride, Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight stuck a microphone in my face.
“Colonel Czerinski, what scheme are you up to this time? Do you not find it a curious conflict of interest to provide security for the New Gobi 1000, and be a contestant, too?”

“
It’s a free country.”

“
But might you be tempted to skew the playing field in your favor?” pressed Coen. “How much money do you have riding on this race?”

“
None, yet. I’m here for the pure sport of competition,” I answered, innocently lifting a can of Outlaw Beer for the camera. “Outlaw Beer, breakfast of champions!”

The crowd of scorpions roared their approval, firing weapons in the air as I read more lucrative commercial offers pouring in on my communications pad.

“I wash my delicious foot-long Subway Sandwiches down with Gatorade. My Goodyear tires, Texaco fuel additives, and Nike race suit wear give me a distinct advantage. And afterward, I will stay in the game all night with Viagra. Remember, if an erection lasts more than two days, contact your doctor and get more girlfriends.”

The scorpions cheered even louder. Females tried to sting me, but my Kevlar vest blunted their brazen advances. Sergeant Green fired a warning burst from the mounted machine gun. Pushing Coen aside, I jumped off the armored car and made my way through the crowd to the Toyota Pride.

“Who are you?” I asked, all eyes turning to the fancy dune buggy. “What is this vehicle?”

“
Name’s Smooth. What’s it to you?” asked Smooth contemptuously. “You a cop? My rig is registered and licensed.”

“
You robbed a Federal ATM.”

“
I didn’t rob anyone,” argued Smooth. “Is the ATM Network pressing charges? No way. So if you charge me with disorderly conduct or some other such bullshit misdemeanor, I’ll just pay the fine and be done with you. Otherwise, get out of my face.”

“
Tell me about the Toyota,” I pressed. “Where did you steal it?”

“
Just because I used to me a member of the Grim Reapers Social Club doesn’t mean I stole the Toyota. I bought it from Big Al’s New and Used Cars and Camels, and have paperwork to prove it.”

“
You stole that Toyota, if that’s even what it is.”

“
When the race starts, eat my dust!”

“
Mr. Johnson, what are your chances of winning?” asked Phil Coen, pushing his way through the crowd. “How does it feel to be one of only two humans in this race?”

“
I am honored to represent humanity in this noble effort. I solved my erectile dysfunction with Easy-Vac, the drug free solution to middle-aged male sexual dysfunction and premature discharge,” answered Smooth, reading from his communication pad. “Man, that’s some lame shit. Easy-Vac throws in a free cock ring, too.”

“
Please tell us what racing experience you bring to the New Gobi 1000.”

“
When I want relief from the hot New Gobi Desert,” Smooth continued reading, “I drink Rocky Mountain fresh Coors Beer, America’s original cowboy beer. Yeehaw! Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”

“
I see you’ve already gone corporate,” replied Coen. “What’s Czerinski’s beef with Toyota? You beat him to that contract?”

“
Czerinski hates the Japanese, always has,” answered Smooth, still holding up a Coors bear can. “I will drive the Toyota Pride to victory to help stamp out the last vestiges of racism in America. I’ve always felt bad about the Japanese homeland getting nuked and still glowing in the dark from all those power plant accidents. Those poor little chumps can’t do nothing right.”

“
You are Colonel Joey R. Czerinski?” asked the rover, anxiously interrupting the conversation. “You are the same Czerinski honored by a prominent boulevard named after you in New Gobi City? You are a member of humanity’s leadership and New Colorado’s planetary elite, even more prominent than Elvis?”

“
Elvis is dead, buried in the backyard like a hamster,” I answered, leaning in to get a better look at the talking Toyota. “Who said that?”

“
I come in peace!”

“
My ride is pimped out, big time,” explained Smooth, slamming shut the DeLorean style doors. “I roll with style and attitude, something you will never understand, soldier boy.”

“
I want your laser,” I demanded, peering suspiciously through the tinted windows. “They’re illegal weaponry.”

“
Laser?” asked Smooth, defensively. “There’s no such thing as laser weapons. What do you think this is, a retro Star Trek convention?”