AMERICA’S GALACTIC FOREIGN LEGION Chapter 1

by PP

  “That is a very disturbing allegation. I know the Legion just fought a very savage battle in the North with insurgents. What were you doing up there?”

  “I told you. I was prospecting for gold. But the Legion shoots spiders on sight. To them we are all insurgents.”

  “Are you calling this a case of mistaken identity?” asked Coen, doubtfully. “It is unlikely the Legion shoots for no reason.”

  “It is a case of extermination everywhere in the North,” said G.E. “Did the Legion take prisoners at the North Highway Battle? I don’t think so. I am seeing a pattern.”

  “I was at the North Highway Battle,” advised Coen. “It was a vicious battle fought under harsh conditions. Many lives were lost on both sides.”

  “Whatever. I am just a simple miner trying to make a living like so many others,” said G.E. “The Legion jumped my mining claim when I discovered gold at Finisterra.”

  “Do you have proof?” asked Coen. “For all I know you are an insurgent or an enemy sympathizer. Why were up there in a combat zone?”

  “I told you. I was prospecting,” insisted G.E. “How can I prove anything? Finisterra is a long way from the site of the North Highway Battle. You can go to Finisterra. The Legion is still there. So is my dead crew.”

  “The Legion says they are building a bridge at Finisterra so that the North can be opened up for development,” said Coen. “Their presence is necessary to protect engineers from insurgents.”

  “Insurgents?” asked G.E. “There are no more insurgents left in the North. There are no more spiders left at all. The Legion just stole my claim because I discovered gold.”

  “That is the most outlandish claim I have ever heard,” scoffed Coen. “I have had about enough of this garbage from you. There has never been any gold found in the North. I apologize to viewers for allowing this insult of our heroic legionnaires to broadcast as long as it did.”

  “No gold in the North? What do you think this is?” asked G.E., holding out the large gold nugget. The TV camera zoomed in on the nugget. It glittered in the sunlight. “I got this gold in Finisterra. If you don’t believe me, my attorney has a few words to say.”

  A man dressed in an expensive suit stepped forward. “I am Anthony Depoli, Attorney at Law. I represent Mr. Electric. I went to the County Clerk to file a mining claim on behalf of my client. What I found was that Captain Joey R. Czerinski of the United States Galactic Foreign Legion had already filed a gold mining claim for Finisterra. Captain Czerinski had also applied to purchase the entire Finisterra riverbank. This is the same Captain Czerinski that is known to the spider community as the Butcher of New Colorado. I have filed and obtained a court-ordered temporary injunction blocking this sale to Captain Czerinski pending litigation. I have filed our own mining claim for Finisterra. I also intend to pursue a lawsuit in Federal Court for unspecified damages against the Legion and Captain Czerinski, alleging wrongful death, assault, abuse of authority under the color of the law, claim jumping, and banditry.”

  * * * * *

  The old prospector spider pulled his donkey Shaky Jake through the snow at the North Highway battlefield. He looted the bodies of over two hundred insurgents. It was a good day. Many of the insurgents carried their life savings on them. There was lots of jewelry, too. The prospector also salvaged boots and personal clothing. There were not as many heavy coats and hats as he expected. City slickers have no common sense, he thought.

  The prospector hauled his booty to a large tent he had set up by the highway. He watched all the cars pass by. This much traffic during the middle of winter was crazy. Fools. Don’t they know another storm would kill many of them? The prospector cooked some venison steaks. A carload of human pestilence stopped and talked of a gold rush in Finisterra. He sold them steaks at forty dollars a piece. Another carload stopped. The prospector upped the price to fifty dollars, and they bought them all. When the human pestilence left, the prospector put up a sign: Welcome to BATTLE CREEK CAFÉ, STORE, & HOTEL.

  A carload of young spider females stopped. They were giggling and having lots of fun. “Hello, old timer,” said Pam. “Are we there yet?”

  “That depends,” said the prospector. “If you are going to Finisterra, it is another five hundred miles up the road. It’s a rough road, and that old car of yours will never make it through the next storm.”

  “This is some hotel you have here,” said Pam, carefully looking the place over. The donkey poked its head out of the tent. “It is nothing but a big tent.”

  “It is warm even during an Arctic storm,” said the prospector. “I am putting up another tent soon. Would you like to spend the night with me?”

  “Why, you old dragon slayer, you.” Pam giggled. “Did you just proposition me?”

  “I am too old to proposition anyone,” said the prospector. “You would kill me in the sack. I just wanted to know if you would like a warm place to stay tonight.”

  “You are not that old,” said Pam, eyeing him speculatively. She yelled to her sisters in the car, “Hey Fran! This old fart is kind of feisty.”

  “He is a sweetie,” said Fran, getting out of the car. “I smell food cooking. Can we eat here? I have to pee!”

  “Do you have money?” asked the prospector. “This is a business.”

  “If we had money we would not be going to Finisterra with everything we own piled on top of the car,” said Pam. “Would you take an I.O.U?”

  “How about we do a trade?” asked Fran, giving the prospector a caress on his mandibles. Pam put a claw around his waist. The three entered the hotel together to check in.

  “I told you I am too old for pushy females,” said the prospector. “My exoskeleton is too brittle.”

  “Nonsense,” said Pam. “You are never too old. I’ll be gentle.”

  “I won’t,” said Fran.

  After negotiating all night, Pam, Fran, Sam, Bam, Jan, and the prospector became business partners. The donkey was no longer allowed to stay in the main tent. And the prospector changed his sign to: BATTLE CREEK CAFÉ, STORE, HOTEL, AND BROTHEL. NEXT STOP / FEMALES 500 MILES.

  * * * * *

  The population of Finisterra swelled to fifteen thousand in two weeks as more and more boats and vehicles arrived. Trees were chopped down and tents put up. A lumber mill started manufacturing boards. Humans and spiders worked side by side. Drunkenness and gunfights were common. Surprisingly, the first large structure built was a church. The building was also used as a community center and tavern during the week. Legion engineers finally started work on the bridge. Work had been delayed when more gold was discovered where the bridge foundation was being excavated. Also, I put the engineers to work building public restrooms and large longhouses for all the transient workers and miners. Anyone staying at a longhouse was required to shovel snow for his rent. Because I had been the Mayor of Disneyland for a short time, everyone assumed I was in charge here, too. I presided over weekly civic meetings at the community center.

  “You are the only law enforcement in Finisterra,” complained a new grocery store owner. “I expect regular Legion patrols. I have to put up shutters because my windows keep being shot out.”

  “I am not a cop,” I replied. “I don’t particularly like cops, and I don’t want to be one.”

  “Few here do,” advised the spider grocer. “The fact that you don’t want the job probably makes you the best qualified. There is a need for police in a wild frontier town like this. Otherwise, bodies start piling up.”

  “I refuse to be your police chief,” I said. “Does anyone here want the job?” No one answered.

  “We could solicit donations in gold to make the job more attractive,” said the preacher. “Then we could hire a town marshal.”

  That idea got voted down as the crowd chanted, “No taxes, no taxes, read my lips, no taxes!”

  “Because everyone is too cheap to hire a sheriff and no one wants to be sheriff, everyone is going to have to be more civic minded than usual,” I announced. “
Our first new law will be to make it mandatory for everyone to carry a firearm. Permission is granted for anyone who sees a serious crime committed in their presence to shoot the culprit on sight and dump him into the river.”

  Our first law got loud unanimous approval. One spider asked if we had just legalized lynching, but he was shouted down. There’s always a malcontent in every crowd.

  “What about garbage collection?” asked a human miner.

  “That problem again,” I said, remembering the Disneyland garbage problems. “Does anyone want that job? No? I didn’t think so. Just throw all the garbage into the river.”

  “What about whorehouses?” someone asked. “The nearest whorehouse is five hundred miles away in Battle Creek.”

  “I’ll have the engineers build a fine whorehouse right next to this building,” I said. “We will let the girls stay there rent free. I need a volunteer to go to Battle Creek to see if the owners of that whorehouse can be coaxed into moving their operations up here. I’ll provide Legion trucks to move them.”

  After that matter passed unanimously, I had no problem finding a volunteer. I also suggested we should open a casino next to the whorehouse.

  “We need paved roads,” said a spider miner. “When the snow melts, the streets will turn into four-foot deep mud.”

  “I will have the engineers pave Main Street to where it connects to the bridge,” I said.

  “I heard there is a lawyer’s office about to open,” said a human spectator way in the back.

  “Someone get a rope,” I said, to a chorus of cheers.

  “You are the Butcher of New Colorado,” accused a large spider in the front row. “How can the spider community trust you?”

  “Because it is still legal for you to carry your assault rifle. The Legion is only confiscating machine guns, RPGs, and surface to air missiles,” I said. “Firearms are the teeth of liberty. If you don’t trust me, trust Smith & Wesson. Any more stupid questions?” I looked around. Nothing. “Good. Someone open the tavern.”

  * * * * *

  Four masked spiders carrying Arthropodan assault rifles entered the New Memphis branch of the First Colonial Bank of New Colorado. They demanded large denominations of cash. Two minutes later they were out the door with two hundred thousand dollars. A getaway driver waited out front in a stolen car.

  As General Electric inspected the stolen cash, a purple dye pack exploded all over his face and hands. He cursed the human pestilence for their devious ways, then gave orders for the driver to head for the North Highway. Halfway out of town, G.E. found a GPS location transmitter bundled in the money. He threw it out the window.

  General Electric turned to crime because his lawsuit had gone all wrong. His attorney, Depoli, explained that he lost a motion for summary judgment to dismiss, filed by the Legion. The Court held that the Legion had immunity against lawsuits that originated from combat zones. Also, the judge was making inquiries about G.E.’s true identity. G.E. decided to it was time to get out of town. Legionnaires were waiting at the boat docks, so he took the North Highway. They hoped to blend in with the gold rush traffic.

  At Battle Creek, they spent the night celebrating. The girls were happy to party with them and take their money.

  “Listen up, boys,” said Pam. “Line up for inspection. This is a safety-first brothel.”

  Pam walked down the line happily inspecting the bank robbers until she got to G.E. “What happened to you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” said G.E.

  “If you want to get laid in my brothel, you are going to have to talk about it,” said Pam. “These are high-class girls. What is that purple stuff all over you?”

  “It’s nothing,” said G.E. “It’s just exploding purple dye.”

  “I have never heard of that. Is it contagious?” asked Pam. “How did you contract exploding purple dye?”

  “No, it is not contagious,” said G.E. “I got it from the human pestilence.”

  “That’s kind of kinky,” said Pam. “But I am sorry. I cannot risk catching whatever it is you have. You need to have that looked at by a doctor. No sex for you, even with protection. The rest of you boys have fun all night.”

  “But it is not a virus,” explained G.E. “It was in the money.”

  “I don’t care what it was in, it’s not getting in me,” said Pam. “It creeps me out. You need to leave. I don’t even want you on the premises.”

  G.E. went next door to the café and ordered a venison steak. The old spider cooking looked familiar. He took a closer look. The spider was wearing a floppy wide brim hat with a big feather in it, sunglasses, a full length fur coat, a gold earring, gold rings on all his digits, gold chains, and a shiny pistol with ivory grips on his belt. The gold cap on his fang was stunning.

  “Do I know you?” asked G.E. “I feel like we have met.”

  “Not likely,” replied the prospector. He remembered the Special Forces officer. “What’s with the purple creeping crud all over your face and hands?”

  “It’s just purple dye,” said G.E. “It was an accident. It won’t come off no matter how hard I scrub.”

  “Want to buy some paint?” asked the prospector. “Maybe you can cover it up.”

  “No,” said G.E. “It will wear off eventually.”

  “It’s gross is what it is,” commented the prospector as he gave G.E. his steak in a box. “I’m making your order to go because your condition is bad for business. It’s probably a health code violation to allow you to eat in the café without a mask and gloves.”

  “Health code violation?” asked G.E. “Are you kidding? You are cooking out of a tent, and I just saw a donkey stick its nasty head in the front door flap. Now I recognize you. You’re that old prospector.”

  “And you are a Special Forces marine officer,” said the prospector. “What happened? Lose the war again?”

  “It’s a long story,” said G.E. He let out a hissing sigh. “Do you have any vacancies at your hotel? I need a room big enough for five beds.”

  “Yes I do,” said the prospector. “I’ll give you a suite. It even has a heater and cable TV.”

  “Friends don’t let friends watch cable TV,” insisted G.E. “Isn’t cable TV illegal?”

  “Yes, but it’s a silly law,” said the prospector. “Don’t worry. The cable is underground. That way the Feds can’t mess with it.”

  “Aren’t you afraid the Legion might arrest you for subversive activities?” asked G.E.

  “Let them try to arrest me,” said the prospector, holding up an RPG from behind the counter. “A lot have tried, a lot have died. Cable TV is the future. Soon cable will reach all the way to Finisterra. It can’t be stopped.”

  “I’m sorry about our first meeting,” said G.E. “No hard feelings?”

  “I’m good,” lied the prospector, still upset. “You are a customer now.”

  * * * * *

  The next morning the prospector sold G.E. an old utility van that had been salvaged from the roadside. G.E. felt their stolen car might be too hot for the trip to Finisterra. Just before arriving at Finisterra, they pulled off along side the roadway for a break. G.E. took a walk in the woods for some privacy. He could hear a humming sound. G.E. thought he had heard the humming sound earlier, but dismissed it as inner ear ringing caused by the purple exploding pack. Now the humming, clearly mechanical, was distinct and real. G.E. looked about the brush but could find nothing. Then he looked up. That’s it, he thought. It must be a surveillance drone. G.E ran towards the van shouting a warning. A missile, guided by a camera on the drone, hit the van. The resulting fireball drove G.E. back into the woods just as a Legion armored car rounded the corner. A machine gun blasted the woods on both sides of the roadway as G.E. ducked for cover.

  “We got him!” shouted Lieutenant Lopez. “It’s about time something went right.”

  Private Washington carefully checked the inside of the van. “We might have a problem,” he said.

  “No one c
ould have survived a direct hit,” said Lieutenant Lopez. “I don’t have a problem with that.”

  “I see assault rifles, grenades, and lots of ammunition,” said Private Washington. “I see no equipment, tools, or TV cable.”

  “So he was traveling light. What’s the problem? It’s the right license plate,” insisted Lieutenant Lopez. “The main thing is that the Cable Guy is dead.”

  “I see four spider bodies,” said Private Washington. “The Cable Guy is human.”

  “Oops,” said Lieutenant Lopez, taking another look inside the van. “Are you sure? Maybe he got thrown from the vehicle and these are just employees.”